Space and the Production of Cultural Difference among the Akha Prior to Globalization: Channeling the Flow of Life 9789048514380

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Space and the Production of Cultural Difference Among the Akha Prior to Globalization

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General Editor Paul van der Velde Publications Officer Martina van den Haak Editorial Board Wim Boot (Leiden University); Jennifer Holdaway (Social Science Research Council); Christopher A. Reed (The Ohio State University); Anand A. Yang (Director of the Henry M. Jackson School of International Studies and Chair of International Studies at the University of Washington); Guobin Yang (Barnard College, Columbia University). The ICAS Publications Series consists of Monographs and Edited Volumes. The Series takes a multidisciplinary approach to issues of inter-regional and multilateral importance for Asia in a global context. The Series aims to stimulate dialogue amongst scholars and civil society groups at the local, regional and international levels. The International Convention of Asia Scholars (ICAS) was founded in 1997. Its main goals are to transcend the boundaries between disciplines, between nations studied, and between the geographic origins of the Asia scholars involved. ICAS has grown into the largest biennial Asia studies event covering all subjects of Asia studies. So far seven editions of ICAS have been held respectively in Leiden (1998), Berlin (2001), Singapore (2003), Shanghai (2005), Kuala Lumpur (2007), Daejeon, South Korea (2009) and Honolulu, Hawai’i (2011). In 2001 the ICAS secretariat was founded which guarantees the continuity of the ICAS process. In 2004 the ICAS Book Prize (IBP) was established in order to create by way of a global competition both an international focus for publications on Asia while at the same time increasing their visibility worldwide. Also in 2005 the ICAS Publications Series were established. For more information: www.icassecretariat.org

Space and the Production of Cultural Difference Among the Akha Prior to Globalization Channeling the Flow of Life Deborah E. Tooker

Publications Series

Monographs 6

Cover design: JB&A raster grafisch ontwerp, Westland Layout: The DocWorkers, Almere ISBN e-ISBN e-ISBN NUR

978 90 8964 325 4 978 90 4851 438 0 (pdf) 978 90 4851 576 9 (ePub) 761

© Deborah E. Tooker / Amsterdam University Press, Amsterdam 2012 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the author of the book.

This book is dedicated to the villagers of Bear Mountain.

Figure 0.1 Frontispiece: constructing the village gates

Table of Contents

List of Maps, Tables, Figures and Illustrations

11

Preface

13

Acknowledgments

15

Note on Akha Transcription, Akha Pronunciation Guide, and CAW Comparison chart

17

1

Bearings Overview of topic Theoretical bearings Ethnographic background on the Akha Akha zán as practice Akha imagined totalities and holistic conceptions of culture Material on which this book is based How this book proceeds

21 21 24 28 37 38 41 42

2

Moving Through History The historical production of a cultural complex History of the Akha in a regional context Identity formation in an interethnic context and the role of spatial practices History of Bear Mountain Village Settlers: the main sublineages of Bear Mountain Village Summary

47 47 48 52 56 60 63

3

Space and the Flow of Life Space and the notion of totality Akha socio-spatial domains

65 68 69

4

Spatializing the Upland Village Polity and its Alter, the Lowland Muang Upland-lowland relations

73 73

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SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

Constructions of insiders and outsiders and changing modes of political relations The ‘village’ as a social construct Village as microcosmic totality The dzø̀ma as village ‘owner’ The diarchic nature of rule Village orientational schemes: level/sloped, upper/middle/ lower, and the ‘middle way’ Two axes and the notion of totality Village orientational schemes: center-periphery The ‘inside’-‘outside’ distinction Spatialization as a political technology: some analytic concepts A Hierarchy as encompassment B Aggregation of power C Dispersal of power D Boundary creation: outside the realm E Spatialization of the cosmos, potency, and Akha ‘space-time’ F Disruptions in the flow of potency and processes of exclusion Summary 5

6

75 77 79 86 88 90 95 98 103 104 104 106 107 109 111 113 115

Space and Fertility in House and Field Introduction The Akha household Household fields Household ‘owners’: ancestors and the household heads Ancestral section and continuity Household ‘owners’ and lineal continuity The spatial construction of the Akha house: level/sloped, upper/middle/lower, and the ‘middle way’ Center-periphery, interior/exterior and household hierarchy Household ‘owners’ and spatialization as political process Cosmos From a raised center: the irrigation system as a concrete image for the flow of potency Disruptions in the flow of potency and processes of exclusion Summary

117 117 117 121 127 127 131

Chanting to Produce the Inside and Outside Introduction Inside and outside forces and ‘potency’ Introduction to spirit chanting of the inside and outside ‘Inside’ and ‘outside’ spirits

157 157 158 162 164

133 137 143 147 148 151 153

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Framework of an inside chanting Skeletal framework of an outside chanting Categories of outside chanting and the meaning of khɛ̀, ‘opening’ The pragmatic construction of the ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ 1 Spatialization 2 Temporalization 3 Referencing social entities 4 Exchange goods/ritual paraphernalia 5 Sacrificial animals 6 Other ritual procedures 7 Textual structure, speaking to inside and outside spirits The coding of potency: the pragmatic construction of the ‘household’ and ‘village’ Conclusion 7

8

9

166 167 170 171 172 174 175 176 186 190 194 207 211

Rethinking the Cosmic Polity Parallels in upland and lowland spatial coding of political domains, and alternative usages The village periphery and the reversal of lowland hierarchies Reversals of village hierarchies The form of ‘cosmic polity’ models Discussion and analysis: Critique of evolutionist approaches Critique of encompassment models of hierarchy Critique of semantic totalization: towards a pragmatic approach to ideology

217 225 226 228 232 233

Space, Life, and Identity

239

Appendix A: Spirit Chanting of the Inside: Types of Ceremonies Appendix B: Spirit Chanting of the Outside: Types of Ceremonies

215

235

245 249

Akha Glossary

271

Notes

281

List of References

311

English Language Index Akha Language Index

321 335

Biographical Note about the Author

339

List of Maps, Tables, Figures and Illustrations

Maps Map 1.1 Map 2.1 Map 4.1

Geographic area in which the Akha are found and area of field research Areas of village expansion over 3 years Sketch map of Bear Mountain Akha Village – 1982

30 57 80

Akha Character Chart and Guide to Pronunciation CAW Writing System Comparison Inside offerings

18 19 177

Tables Table 0.1 Table 0.2 Table 6.1

Figures and Illustrations Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure

0.1 1.1 1.2 1.3 2.1 2.2 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5

Figure 4.6 Figure 4.7 Figure 4.8 Figure 4.9 Figure 5.1

Frontispiece: constructing the village gates Mountains of Northern Thailand Rice planting in swidden fields Phami and Loimi headdress types Jábjàngù sublineage Ghø̀zǝ̀gù sublineage Bear Mountain Village Village swing and gates Meal of respect to dzø̀ma Leveled ground for the dɛkhàn Representation of the three paths in afterlife from funeral ritual Swinging Post similar to one for village founding (here used for field marking) Chasing out the spirits ceremony Village sacred water source Equal meat distribution among households

5 28 31 36 61 62 73 81 85 92 94 97 98 101 108 119

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SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure Figure

5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5 5.6 5.7 5.8 5.9 5.10 5.11 5.12 6.1 6.2 6.3 6.4 6.5 6.6 6.7 6.8 6.9 7.1 7.2 7.3 7.4

Field marking and rotation Field spirit hut Threshing rice on mat – no outsiders allowed Játè diagram Ancestral shrine and main house post Dead GF next to central partition House diagram A House diagram B Boulder Uncovered porch Dog skin at gate Bride receiving blessing from elder Shooting a gun to chase spirits An inside chanting An outside chanting at level of household An outside chanting at level of village Inside offerings Cooking outside meat on the ground outside Gate with airplane Gate with rifle Mt. Meru replica Thai lowland First Plowing Ceremony Tribute to Thai king Soul calling ritual

123 124 125 126 128 133 135 139 140 142 155 159 161 167 168 169 177 192 212 212 219 223 224 226

Note:

All figures and illustrations are by the author except for Figures 7.2 and 7.3 (Khao Sod newspaper).

Preface

I can’t tell you why I have been intrigued by Akha usages of space since I first began to work among the Akha people, but they have not only provided me with fertile ground for reconsidering analytic and theoretical concepts within anthropology, they have also provided me with a means to understand the position of the Akha in the interethnic context of the Southeast Asian borderlands, an area recently termed ‘Zomia’ (Scott 2009 after Van Schendel). I also must confess to an aesthetic pleasure arising from being in sheer awe of the beauty and complexity of these practices. This book has been a long time in the works. Many will be surprised, even disappointed, that although I have continued fieldwork among the Akha (as recently as 2010), I have decided to restrict the material in this book mainly to that collected during my first intensive period of fieldwork 1982-1985. I did this for several reasons: 1) I saw the beginnings of serious structural discontinuities in the society I studied around the time I was leaving the field in 1985. Those continued and became exacerbated each time I returned to the community of research; 2) I thought that there were significant theoretical, conceptual, and comparative questions about this earlier time period that were worth pursuing and that could be considered in light of more recent discussions within anthropology; 3) Including changes after 1985 would have made the book an unreasonable length; and 4) I have elsewhere (Tooker 2004) addressed the structural changes that I saw post-1985 and their effects on collective identity. The recent and active discussions about the region of ‘Zomia’1, which in Scott’s work (2009) are based on communities prior to full nation-state integration, makes this work relevant at this time. I do apologize for places where I use the present tense. However, the reader should keep in mind that the ‘ethnographic present’ is 1982-1985. While three chapters of this book are drawn from ethnographic material in my original Ph.D. dissertation (Tooker 1988), they have been rethought and reframed in relation to both theories and concepts in anthropology that have developed since that time. Perhaps the most important influence has been the historicizing of ‘culture’, reflected mainly, but not only, in Chapter 2. Other important influences include

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SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

developments in critical approaches to space, deconstructions of the ‘culture’ and ‘tradition’ concepts and cultural holism/boundedness, practice theory, and the relationships between culture and power. Deborah E. Tooker Manlius, New York, 18 August 2011

Acknowledgments

None of this work would have been possible without the hospitality of the family of the man I call Ámɛ́ and his wife whom I call Àtsu. I thank them and the many uplanders and lowlanders of Northern Thailand with whom I have interacted periodically over almost three decades. I especially want to thank the combined Lisu/Akha communities of Bear Mountain Village (pseudonym), its original official Lisu headman, Phɔɔ Luang and his wife Mae Luang, the Akha dzø̀ma (village ritual founder/ leader), and the main spirit priest, whom I here call Lɔ̀ɛ́. I have benefited from stimulating conversations with several Akha, including Ayoe Wang, Aje Jabjangu, Ahui Jabjangu, Deuleu Jupoh, and Aju Jupoh. I thank the National Research Council of Thailand for giving permission to conduct the original field research among the Akha. My sponsors in Thailand at that time were Sumitr Pitiphat, then of the Anthropology Department at Thammasat University, the then Tribal Research Centre in Chiang Mai, and the Department of Sociology and Anthropology at Chiang Mai University. The original fieldwork was funded by the Sheldon Traveling Fellowship (Harvard University), the Peter Livingston fund (Harvard Medical School), the Department of Anthropology at Harvard University, the Fulbright-Hays Program, the Institute for Intercultural Studies, and the Charlotte Newcombe program. I thank Stanley Tambiah for his ongoing support of my work. Since that time, I have received help (both funding and/or intellectual support) on various pieces of this book at different times over the years from the International Institute for Asian Studies (Netherlands), the Southeast Asia Program at Cornell University, the National Endowment for the Humanities, the Le Moyne College Faculty Research and Development Committee, the International Centre for Ethnic Studies, Colombo, Sri Lanka, the Committee on Scholarly Communication with the People’s Republic of China (National Academy of Sciences), the American Council of Learned Societies, and Chiang Mai University (RCSD). I have benefited from intellectual discussions with (in no particular order) Chuck Lindholm, Micah Morton, the late Leo Alting von Geusau, Inga-Lill Hansson, Otome Klein Hutheesing, Paul Lewis, Guido Sprenger, Cornelia Kammerer, Laurie Hart, Wen-Chin Chang, Michael Herzfeld, and the anonymous reviewers of this manuscript, as well as of my

16

SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

Anthropological Quarterly article. I have also benefited from the comments of Paul Lewis, Ayoe Wang, Abby Cohn and Victor Manfredi on my transcription system. Many thanks go to Paul van der Velde, the editor of this series, for his support of this work and his able Publications Officer, Martina van den Haak. I also would like to thank other colleagues for their faith in me even if they were not directly familiar with my work. This would include Wim Stokhof of the International Institute of Asian Studies (Netherlands), Doug Egerton of the Le Moyne College Department of History, and Brian Rieger of Upstate University Hospital, Syracuse, NY. Jennie Crate, Faculty Secretary at Le Moyne College helped to make my illustrations more presentable and two undergraduates at Le Moyne College, Cynthia Dowsland and Emily Powers, made the final details of the book go much more smoothly with their competent help with source checking, copy-editing, transcription standardization, and other tasks that needed to be done. Of course any errors are my own responsibility.

Note on Akha Transcription

There are a number of systems for writing Akha, which is mainly an oral language. The types of systems are missionary-based, linguistically (IPA)-based, and more recently, indigenously-based as a number of Akha have organized themselves to create a writing system to be used by Akha in four different countries, called CAW, ‘Common Akha Writing’. The latter does use Roman characters. The system I use here is somewhat of a hybrid (see table). I use a phonemic system (Table 0.1). However, I do have a note on allophonic variation in the chart. Most of the consonants are the same as those in CAW, except for y, c, j, and x. I use the IPA ‘j’ for the English ‘y’ sound whereas CAW uses ‘y’. I use ‘y’ for one of the vowels so it could not be used as a consonant. I also do not use ‘c’ and instead use the IPA ‘tj’. For ‘j’, I use the IPA ‘dj’ and for ‘x’ I use ‘sj’. I prefer to see the patterning of the English ‘y’ (in my ‘j’) and so do not use separate consonants (as CAW does) that do not indicate that pattern. Since Akha is a tonal language with three tones, I decided to indicate tone with diacritics above the vowel. CAW uses consonants to indicate tone but I wanted to separate the symbols for consonants and vowels from those for tone. Because of diacritics above the vowels, I needed to use single character vowels. CAW uses some double character vowels so my vowel system does differ significantly from CAW. I also differ from CAW in that I indicate vowel glottalization and vowel nasalization through superscripts. I have included both a pronunciation guide (Table 0.1) and a chart to compare my own system with that of CAW (Table 0.2).

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SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

Table 0.1

Akha Character Chart and Guide to Pronunciation Note: The following consonants are aspirated when followed by an oral vowel and unaspirated when followed by a glottalized vowel: p, pj, t, k, ts, tj, kh. As this is allophonic variation, I have not given separate symbols here. All consonants are single phonemes even though some are written using two symbols.

Consonants

Pronunciation

Vowels

Pronunciation

Other Symbols

b

as in ‘bat’

a

as in ‘father’

bj d dj dz g

as as as as as

e i o u

gh h k kh l m mj n ng nj p pj s sj t ts tj j z

fricative ‘g’ as in ‘hat’ as in ‘kitten’ as in ‘Bach’ as in ‘law’ as in ‘man’ as in ‘mew’ as in ‘noon’ as in ‘song’ as in ‘canyon’ as in ‘pat’ as in ‘pew’ as in ‘sat’ as in ‘shoe’ as in ‘tale’ as in ‘its’ as in ‘chat’ as in ‘yet’ as in ‘zoo’

as in ‘fate’ as in ‘feet’ as in ‘home’ as in ‘boot’ between English ‘book’ and ‘the’ as in ‘hmm’ as in ‘let’ nasalized ‘a’ as in ‘fought’ French ‘pur’ French ‘peu’

superscript ‘q’ means a glottalized vowel a´ = high tone a` = low tone a = mid tone

in ‘beauty’ in ‘dog’ in ‘jam’ in ‘adze’ in ‘go’

ǝ

m ɛ

an ɔ

y ø

19

NOTE ON AKHA TRANSCRIPTION

Table 0.2

CAW Writing System Comparison

ConsonantsDT

ConsonantsCAW

VowelsDT

VowelsCAW

Other symbolsDT

Other symbolsCAW

b

b

a

a

a`

bj

by

e

ei

a

d

d

i

i

a´

dj

j

o

o

a`q

dz

dz

u

u

aq

g

g

ə

e

a´q

q = low tone, oral vowel a = mid-tone, oral vowel (no mark) r = high tone, oral vowel vq = low tone, glottalized vowel v = mid-tone, glottalized vowel vr = high tone, glottalized vowel

gh h k kh l m mj n ng nj p pj s sj t ts tj j z

gh h k kh l m my n ng ny p py s x t ts c y z

m

m ae an aw ee oe

ɛ

an ɔ

y ø

1

Bearings

... it seems clear that through their ways of using space our various Tai groups are expressing a ‘dialect’ no less telling than that of their speech. But, we must try to listen and decipher this ‘dialect of space’ with the same care we give to deciphering their languages. (Kirsch 1990: 74) Such is the unity of all history that anyone who endeavors to tell a piece of it must feel that his first sentence tears a seamless web. (Pollock & Maitland 1898, vol. 1: 1 as cited in Thornton 1988)

Overview of topic This book investigates the meaning of spatial practices in a non-state society, and their significance in the formation of a distinctive collective identity that developed in a regional context. The society is that of the Akha (phon. Àkà), a minority upland group found in Northern Thailand and surrounding countries with whom I have conducted long-term, participant-observational fieldwork between the years 1982 and 2010. This book, however, focuses on the time period 1982-1985. I discuss this case study in relation to three interpretive frameworks: 1) the cultural meaning of space in Akha society during the time period studied (and how it differs from western conceptions); 2) the relationship of that meaning to regional meaning systems and regional politicaleconomic and historical contexts, including those of majority, more powerful groups; and 3) larger comparative and theoretical discussions about the meaning of space in relation to economic and political contexts in general and in relation to identity construction. By considering a non-modern and non-western context, this study expands the conversation on the relationships among space, power, and the politics of identity, a conversation that has mainly focused on western modern and post-modern contexts. The reader will find that, throughout these chapters, these three frameworks are interwoven and ethnographic material that relates to one framework can also be interpreted in relation to another.

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Just as with the Tai peoples that Kirsch refers to above, space was not only significant in Akha society, its significance was pervasive. To cite just one example, I remember the time of a Thai army raid on the village of my fieldwork. The Thai mercenary soldiers (Thai: thahaan phraan) struck fear in the hearts of nearly all villagers, including myself. Upon hearing of their presence, many villagers simply fled to the forest. One married woman carried her young baby with her and shortly after the raid, the baby took sick and died. Later discussions in the village among the elder women revealed that the reason the baby died was because it was brought beyond the village gates (i.e. outside the boundaries of the village) when it was still too ‘soft’ (jɔ nàn) to handle such dangerous spaces. The unspoken connection to the ‘cause’ of the fleeing was not lost on me. Not only was space significant to the Akha, it was political. It is not a passive setting but rather an active, creative force in the production of identity and cultural difference. I focus especially on the political usages of space and their usages in identity construction. I place the implications of my findings from the Akha case squarely within regional debates about center and periphery construction in Southeast Asia. A main factor in the emergence of the unique complex of spatial practices that served to construct Akha identity is the historical and political positioning of the Akha in a migratory multi-ethnic context, especially in their relationships with outside, more powerful groups. I argue that their spatial practices served to position themselves as ‘central’, fending off outside powers and allowing them a degree of autonomy. This argument is consistent with that made by James Scott in his recent book on this region, The Art of Not Being Governed, on the creative resistance abilities of ‘state-less’ societies. This book, however, focuses not just on political and economic practices but on other important social realms of ritual, ritualized spatial practices, cosmology, and social arrangements that are involved in the construction of a differentiated collective identity. I also agree with Lieberman (2010) that the relationship to outside states was not the sole factor in the construction of collective identities in this region. If we think of space in general we see that it is communicative but in more than just cognitive ways. As one of the first dimensions of the world we experience sensually, space is a powerful emotional signifier in the socialization/enculturation process. It is precisely its implicit, embodied nature with its unspoken meanings that make it particularly effective as a political device, a device that can evoke responses about one’s identity, the relationship between ‘self’ and ‘other’, and the psychological associations with particular places and social positions in one’s world. Because of their nonverbal and nondiscursive form, ‘rules about the uses of space provide, in all cultures, a potentially powerful means of encoding aspects of social relationships, and causing them to

BEARINGS

23

be ‘‘lived’’ at a tacit or sub-conscious level by the actors themselves’ (Waterson 1991: 167). This would explain, for example, why during my fieldwork I almost unconsciously became uncomfortable sleeping in a certain direction, or sitting in a certain area of an Akha house. Space, as part of the practical, orientational dimensions of the world, is lived as embodied knowledge that not only the native actors but also the anthropologist cannot help but take on. Much recent literature in social theory, critical geography, philosophy, anthropology, and other social sciences is concerned with how space is affected by globalization, nationalism, and advanced capitalism. But these discussions are often based on modern Western assumptions. This case – that of a society prior to disruptions brought about by the full penetration of the forces of the nation-state, capitalism, and other pervasive influences of modernity and globalization – can problematize these assumptions.1 By considering a non-modern, non-western, and non-state context, a context that is rapidly disappearing from the face of the earth, this study expands and clarifies relationships among space, power, and the politics of identity.2 I realize that using the term ‘modern’ has inherent pitfalls and risks misunderstanding because it has multiple meanings and can refer to a discourse and rhetoric that valorizes the West (or a superior ethnic group) and places the non-West in an inferior position as ‘traditional’. However, I am using the term in a specific manner here to refer to the political-economic changes, happening on a global scale, that come with the expansion of nation-state control and a capitalist economy (see also Tooker 2004). I in no way mean to imply that, prior to 1985, the Akha had an unchanging timeless ‘tradition’ that was unaffected by historical and political-economic circumstances. In fact, I address those circumstances in Chapter 2.3 I realize that others have used the terms ‘modern’ and ‘globalization’ in other ways but the reader should keep in mind my very specific usage of those terms. Space cannot be extracted from numerous webs of meaningful association in Akha socio-historical reality, the dilemma posed in the second introductory quote. Yet, to some extent, I do that here. I hope to do it in a way that makes Akha concepts, through a focus on spatial practices, both accessible to non-Akha readers and accessible to comparative theoretical frameworks for understanding how concepts of space take an active role in identity construction under different historical and politicaleconomic circumstances. In the latter process, the ‘seamless web’ will inevitably be torn.

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SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

Theoretical bearings One of the earliest (and continuing) anthropological approaches to space is the approach to space as a background ‘setting’. As Low and Lawrence-Zuniga state: ‘Studies of tribal and village societies customarily included descriptions of natural landscape and material conditions of everyday life, … Increasingly, however, anthropologists have begun to shift their perspective to foregrounding spatial dimensions of culture rather than treating them as background …’ (2003: 1).4 The approach to space I take in this book follows recent discussions that have focused on how space is not a passive, neutral receptacle but is actively produced by social agents5 (see also Bourdieu 1977, Gupta & Ferguson 1997a: 6). I foreground the identity-producing dimensions of Akha spatial practices. My analysis of space in Akha society follows semiotic and sociolinguistic models for the analysis of communication, with an awareness that the communicative signs I am talking about are non-linguistic signs, i.e. the spatial signs (and therefore embodied signs). Non-linguistic signs can serve the same sign functions (symbolic, iconic, indexical, etc.) that linguistic signs can, and I believe have the same generative capacity that has been proposed for language (see Jackendoff 1983). These signs have culturally conventional meanings with their attendant conventional and non-conventional implicatures (see Tambiah 1979: 154 on Gricean concepts of implicature). All these dimensions of communication can be viewed as constitutive of social contexts and situations, following the insights of Austin et al. (see Gal 1989: 347). A main focus of this book is the cultural meaning of Akha spatial practices in context. Meaning is not elaborated in a structuralist way, as a reflection of an underlying code or social structure, but rather as part of the ongoing production of social difference through Akha practices. In this interpretive endeavor, I pay attention to the distinctiveness and complexities of another cultural coding of meaning in action. Akha conceptions (and indeed other Southeast Asian conceptions) of space contrast significantly with western conceptions, especially in relation to the dynamic nature of space, and are closely tied to concepts of collective identity. For example, space is used to access the life force the Akha call gỳlàn (and I have defined as ‘potency’) through a connection to Akha origins. This connection and the access the Akha believe it provides to a cosmic energy maintain and create social hierarchies both within Akha society and between the Akha and other ethnic groups. I also recognize the limitations of the key unit of sociolinguistic discussions- the ‘speech community’, since this unit tends to isolate populations, not to mention cultures. Indeed, I claim in this study that the communicative devices I am discussing can only be understood in

BEARINGS

25

terms of the interaction of groups (both inter-societal and intra-societal) and are constituted through that interaction. Just as the study of linguistic practices must mediate between ‘the (micro) study of face-to-face discourse strategies, and studies of macrohistorical processes’ (Gal 1989: 349), so must the study of communication using non-linguistic signs consider larger intergroup processes. Thus, I claim that the spatial practices that are the topic of this book can only be understood as communicative devices operating within an intergroup context. As parts of larger systems of inter-group inequality, they involve discourses of cultural hegemony and resistance. The Akha have lived for centuries in areas surrounded by multiple ethnic groups. Therefore, even though I am discussing the time period prior to nation-state penetration, it is inappropriate to view their culture in isolation (see Gupta & Ferguson 1997b). There has always been a local/supralocal context within which the Akha formed their identity. Thus, I view both Akha spatial practices and their meaning in an intersocietal context, both reflecting and producing that context. In this book, I claim that Akha spatial practices in fact serve as a kind of defensive mechanism and protective device against outside, more powerful groups. I agree with Hayami (2003: 145) that hill communities have been aware of outsiders’ political systems and have seen their own polities and autonomy as contested. Spatial practices that the Akha carry out, integrated in both formal ritual and everyday behavior, are an important contributor to the production and reproduction of the upland/lowland identity divide as they concern the separation of what is inside Akha society from what is outside it and seek to maintain distance between the two. How do notions of interior and exterior, center and periphery, upper and lower, constitute a sense of self? The spatial practices I describe are involved in indexing spatial dimensions as the self and the ‘other’ (lowlander, spirit, forest). They orient the self in a powerful, unconscious or semi-conscious way that is internalized in the socialization process. The latter is thus a political-economic-spatial-identity context that is socially produced. Not only must we consider the intergroup context of identity, but we also need to take into account historical dimensions of those intergroup relations. Thus, in this book I place Akha spatial practices in the historical context of the uplands (see Chapter 2), and the production (both ecological, economic, political and social) of upland/lowland social identities prior to 1985. The ability of the Akha to carry out the spatial practices described in this book and their relevance is both created and constrained by the larger political-economic context, which is socially produced and thus can change. It did change dramatically post-1985 (and for some uplanders even earlier) and included a lowlands that was

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SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

affected more directly by global forces. Thus, Akha spatial practices that I describe in this book relate to specific historical conditions. While I agree it is not appropriate to view the Akha as a bounded culture, they have attempted to view themselves that way, as a holistic culture. Thus, an additional focus of this book is to point out that recent criticisms of holistic approaches to culture need to take into account indigenous attempts to ‘imagine’ their cultures as holistic (see discussion below). Although the concept of space has been a topic of interest in anthropology for some time, we must also take into account recent, burgeoning discussions both within anthropology and in other disciplines on the concepts of ‘space’ and ‘place’. The recent salience of this topic can be tied to the emergence of discussions of the ‘breakdown’ of ‘traditional’ conceptions of space (and time) in the global, transnational context of late capitalism, discussions that appeared first in other fields such as critical geography (Harvey 1990). Low and Lawrence-Zuniga, for example, discuss three ways in which space has been transformed under the economy of late capitalism: 1) the global economy has produced ‘homogenized, deterritorialized spaces’; 2) the global economy has created transnational spaces: and 3) globalization has created translocal spaces with, for example, electronic media (2003: 25). The latter is related to a ‘breakdown in the isomorphism of space, place, and culture.’ (2003: 25) Note that the latter perspective, which numerous authors take, whether explicitly or implicitly, implies a conception of pre-global relationships between space, place, and culture. The relevance of these discussions for anthropological interpretation and their relationship to previous anthropological discussions of space have not been fully developed. There are numerous inconsistencies and confusions in the usages of these new concepts. For example, while Low and LawrenceZuniga refer to the breakdown of the isomorphism mentioned above (which presumably existed), they also later critique anthropologists who have assumed an ‘isomorphism of space, place, and culture’ (28). They refer to the work of Appadurai who also criticizes the assumed isomorphism yet asserts a ‘rupture in modern subjectivity’ produced by global electronic mediation and mass migration in the last two decades (Appadurai 1996). If the modern or at least the era of late capitalism and globalization are different from the nonmodern, non-globalized in some respects, we ought to at least clarify what the relationships between ‘space, place and culture’ are in the supposedly ‘unruptured’ pre-global context. The Akha case will show that there was no given isomorphism of space, place, and culture in their nonmodern, ‘traditional’, context. Instead, this isomorphism was culturally recreated and repro-

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duced in Akha migrations throughout the Southwest China borderlands in reaction to ruptures produced by unequal power relations. Another area that needs clarification is the fact that real politicaleconomic and social transformations in the spatial dimensions of human life have themselves engendered these discussions of new methodologies and theoretical approaches to space, discussions which often criticize previous anthropological methodologies and theoretical approaches (see especially Gupta & Ferguson 1997b). However, previous anthropological work was addressing a different social reality, a reality outside of the context of late capitalism. And so historical reality and social science methodologies have become inextricably entangled. Another side to this confusion is that some of these concepts and methodologies are supposedly relevant only to the modern era. For example, the Foucauldian-derived concept of ‘spatial tactics’ tends to be associated with ‘modern’ disciplines. However, ‘spatial tactics’ seem relevant in this nonmodern case as we will see in several chapters. Taking the regional historical and political-economic contexts of the production and reproduction of spatial practices into account (as mentioned above) does not clarify the mechanisms of reproduction and of social and political control such as ‘spatial tactics’ and ‘spatial disciplines’ (see also Lawrence & Low 1990: 485). Spatial practices are tacitly learned as embodied knowledge, they seem to be inherently connected to social status and thus power distinctions almost universally. Therefore, they are political (see also Kuper 1972, Lawrence & Low 1990). Spatial practices can thus be ‘spatial tactics’ in a Foucauldian sense and linked to processes of domination (see Low & Lawrence-Zuniga 2003), and the Foucauldian spatial ‘disciplines’ are not necessarily tied to modernity. Recent approaches in critical geography have made us only more aware of this relationship between space and power (Smith & David 1995, Ferguson & Gupta 1997b, etc.). In this study, I point out how spatial practices can be used as a social and political technology in a nonmodern context. It is not only nation-states that have availed themselves of complex political technologies to establish identities and assert domination and power. The link between space and power includes both aspects of domination through spatial tactics as well as resistance. Chapters 4 and 7 look at an Akha usage of spatial practices that reverses lowland hierarchies. This is resistance between societies but there are also other indicators (in practices) of tensions between different domains and actors within Akha society, creating spaces in tension with each other. Akha spatial practices support certain authority structures. However, they do not support a single authoritative order as they index different forms of authority in different contexts (see chapters 4, 5, 6 and 7 and Tooker 1988). So a simple dominance/resistance model is not appropriate. This book

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thus also contributes to discussions of contextualized shifts in authority structures and the possibility of invoking alternative structures depending on the circumstances.

Ethnographic background on the Akha At the time of my initial fieldwork (1982-1985), neither capitalism nor the nation-state system, both dimensions of global processes, had fully penetrated the isolated area and difficult terrain of Bear Mountain, and the degree of control that the Thai state exerted was weakly tributary, at times akin to what previous rulers called for when they asked for tribute (extraction of crops or livestock) or corvee (extraction of human labor).6 The relative isolation of Bear Mountain at this time, and what lowlanders perceived to be an uncomfortable (Thai: may saduak) and unproductive space (i.e. marginal land in the hills), kept these unwelcome interactions to a minimum through a mutual self-distancing. Conditions that we associate with the modern nation-state and the notions of sovereignty that it implies, such as taxes, land titles, and bureaucratic/administrative systems, did not fully obtain in Bear Mountain at that time. Thailand’s relative lateness in controlling the border areas of its nation-state is related to complex geo-political factors. Thailand allowed ethnic insurgent armies to control border areas as a buffer between it-

Figure 1.1 Mountains of Northern Thailand

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self and Burma. KMT factions were allowed in this area as a buffer against Communist China. According to Lang (1997: 9), this also served in the past to sever ties between the Communist Party of Thailand and the Communist Party of Burma. ‘This buffer role began to diminish in the 1980s, first with the end of the internal communist threat in Thailand and later with the development of official businessoriented diplomacy between the Thai and Burmese authorities. In August this year, Burma and Thailand signed an accord to technically demarcate the boundary for the first time in their history. The geo-politics of the Burmese borderlands has undergone a massive transformation in favour of the central authorities.’ (Lang 1997: 9) Of special note is the fact that Thailand was never formally colonized by a western power. Thus, under conditions of semi-autonomy the Bear Mountain Akha were able to produce their own spaces in the hills, including the establishment of a village, households, fields, and other intrasocietal hierarchies, all of which rely on the carrying out of Akha ancestral practices (zán) that simultaneously reflect and constitute Akha identity. This was constructed in complex ways as a comprehensive form of identity that protected an internal sphere of Akha society from a dangerous outside sphere and thus relationships with outside groups were an inherent factor in its historical constitution. There have been structural discontinuities in Akha society and the societies of the uplands developing since then, mainly due to capitalist and nation-state penetration since 1985, but I do not address them in this book (see for example, Tooker 2004, Toyota 1998, Jonsson 1996, 2001b, Kammerer 1988, Hutheesing 1990, Renard 1996). Thus, my description below takes as the ‘ethnographic present’ the time period of the early 1980s. The Akha are found in the mountainous border regions of Yunnan province of China, the Shan states of Burma, Northern Laos, Northern Vietnam and most recently, Northern Thailand (See Map 1.1.). This region, containing within it the area known as the ‘Golden Triangle’, has a wide variety of ethnic groups, including the Akha, Hmong, Lisu, Lahu, Karen, Haw Chinese, Mien and several varieties of Tai-speaking peoples, with villages interspersed. ‘Tribal’ identity of the Akha is not linked to a unified, continuous territory beyond that produced in village establishment. Although one of the more isolated of the upland tribal groups, the Akha have lived for centuries in areas where the dominant lowland group was ethnically Tai. 7 The Akha are closely related to the more sedentary Hani of China (and many would include them in the same ethnic group), and in the P.R.C. are considered members of the Hani minority nationality. Both groups total around two million population (see Wang n.d.), although

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Map 1.1 Geographic area in which the Akha are found and area of field research

adapted from www.hani-akha.net with permission from Southeast Asian Mountain Peoples’ Culture and Development Project (MPCD-SEAMP)

self-designated Akha are estimated to number some half million people (Alting 1983: 246). Historical sources are virtually non-existent for the Akha. As a society with an oral tradition,8 there are no self-recorded written histories. As a

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group that has been on the extreme periphery of centralized political systems, they rarely if ever appear in historic chronicles and are even absent from most colonial records. They do appear in some missionary records from Burma, but again not in any great detail. In post-1949 Chinese reconstructive histories, Akha society replays the socialist evolutionary-historical trajectories from slavery to feudalism to liberation with little empirical information. There have been some recent attempts using Chinese historical records to reconstruct Akha history (see Wang n.d.). The most reliable sources, perhaps, are the Akha’s own oral tradition. Lewis and Lewis (1984: 204) assume that the Akha originated in southern China, an assumption that corresponds with their own origin myths (see Chapter 2 for a full discussion of Akha history). At the time of my initial field work, the Akha in Northern Thailand were migratory subsistence farmers, planting mostly swidden fields. In a few areas, one found terraced fields. Dry rice was the staple crop, a staple in some cases supplemented by opium. For the Akha, shifting rice agriculture seems to be a mode adopted when, for ecological or political reasons, they do not have access to areas where irrigated mountain terrace rice is feasible. Thus it serves as an adaptive part of their repertoire of agricultural modes of subsistence reverted to when conditions require, and is not a permanent feature of their identity as it has been portrayed in some of the literature on the Akha. Indeed, as I discuss later in this book, the images of irrigation systems and their fertility are linked to numerous Akha practices (see also Tooker 1996a). Figure 1.2

Rice planting in swidden fields

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As shifting cultivators, old villages are abandoned and new villages are established, although migration is by the autonomous household unit (that is, whole villages do not pick up and move at once), which is the basic production unit. Thus, the developmental cycle of a village is different from that of a household. A village moves from an early stage in which land is plentiful to a late stage when the area is no longer viable for even a small number of households. In between, households move in and out (but stay throughout a growing season) and have differential access to land depending upon when they arrived in the cycle. The Akha have a patrilineal, virilocal society of segmentary lineages with a variant of an asymmetric alliance system (with terminology for wife-giver and wife-taker relationships9). Lineages (gù) are named and unranked, but are not necessarily exogamous. The exogamous unit is the unnamed pà, which is usually smaller than the lineage, but may be coterminous with it if the lineage has not split. Throughout, I call this unit the sublineage. The largest political unit of the Akha in Thailand and Burma in the time period this book covers was the village, and the basic economic/ ritual unit was the household (see also Tooker 1988: 12). Villages ordinarily range from 10 to 100 households. As far as we know, the Akha polity has always been relatively ‘egalitarian’. That is, lineages are unranked, and inter-village relationships are egalitarian, with each village ‘ruler’ (dzø̀ma - see Chapter 4) setting his own terms. Inter-household relationships are also egalitarian. There is no permanent status hierarchy among villagers. Ritual specialists and ‘big men’ attain a higher status than other villagers in certain contexts. All of the people who fill these roles, however, are expected to be full-time subsistence farmers. Inter-village relationships are also egalitarian. There seems to be an incipient status hierarchy developing among Akha sub-tribes, however (Tooker 1995). These units tend to be endogamous (see my discussion of them below.). There are supralocal kinship ties in Akha society, but whether or not those constitute a supralocal political order is a question of definition. The place where I see an inherent potential for Akha supra-village political organization is in a territorially-based village cluster similar to a small Thai muang (town or kingdom). This point is supported by the similarities between Thai and Akha center-oriented schemes of political incorporation that I discuss in this book. There is thus the potential for the Akha scheme to achieve political incorporation at the level of muang (see Wang n.d for a suggestion that the Akha did once have a ‘state’). In the recent present in Thailand and Burma, however, just as with Leach’s Kachin, this level of organization is anathema to Akha notions of self-identity, as we will see through my discussion. From my own fieldwork, I found that if ever an Akha became ‘like a sànpà [Tai for

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‘prince’- See below.]’, he also became ‘like a Shan’ or ‘like a Chinese’ or ‘like a Northern Thai’. He might also actually become one of these, not just become like them (See Tooker 1992 on ethnic identity switching). Thus, an Akha would become a non-Akha by taking on the trappings of a more hierarchical political order. Given the difficult terrain, polities larger than the village level would probably be administratively unfeasible anyway. It is also possible that a village level polity was less threatening to larger outside polities and this factor may have shaped its present formation.10 Thus the institutional forms of Akha society were influenced by the intersocietal context. Although Akha supra-local political units like city-states are mentioned in Akha ritual texts and myths, such as found by myself, Alting (1983) and Roux and Tran (1954), whether or not they actually existed is an open question.11 The only case I am aware of in which a supravillage political organization was indicated to exist among the Akha is that described by Roux and Tran (1954) in Laos in the 1920s, and the information available on this case is thin. Roux was a French commandant of the 5e Territoire at Phong-Saly. He claims that the Nu Quây Akha (as far as I can tell, what I have called a ‘headdress subgroup’), who lived close to Phong-Saly, had a supra-village head called sam-p’a [Loimi = sànpà] who operated separately from the French and Laotian administrative systems. Serious offenses that could not be decided at the level of village by the cho-ma [dzø̀ma] or village council of elders were brought to him. In addition, he collected corvée and taxes, and could call a meeting of cho-ma [dzø̀ma] from different villages. He also apparently appointed the cho-ma [dzø̀ma] with the consent of the villagers. There was a separate figure at the village level called nang-o who dealt with the French or Laotian administration. The latter sounds like the headman (bùsɛ́) of Loimi villages (see below). Many feel that the term sam-p’a cited by Roux and Tran comes from the term for Shan princes (saohpa-See Leach 1954: 34) and is related to the Thai terms cao (‘lord’) and caofa (‘lord of the sky’). See Lehman (1967: 99): ‘The sawbwa [i.e. sànpà in Akha] system is a Shan political system, which derived its jural authority mainly from the old Burmese kingdoms.’ The term sànpà was applied by the Akha to many levels, for example, from the Lisu headman in the Lisu Bear Mountain Village to the district level to the provincial level, all the way to the king of Thailand. See Moerman: Northern Thai chronicles and oral histories are difficult to follow because all supra-village units, of whatever size, strength, or level of sociopolitical integration are given the same term: muang, a term also used for capitals of such units ... Whereas a Westerner might speak of sub-infeudation from the kingdom of Thailand to

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the principality of Nan to the petty princedom of Sip Song Panna to the district of Phong, the Northern Thai use the word muang for each unit and its capital and the word caw [i.e. cao] for each ruler. (1965: 1223-1224) See also Tambiah (1976: 111-112) on the notion of muang in Thai kingdoms. Thus, the use of a Tai-derived term for this Akha supralocal leader makes us question whether or not this was a truly indigenous organization (but see also Wang n.d.12). The Akha tend to think of social groupings either in terms of place (especially village) names or in terms of kinship groupings, the largest being the named lineage. Thus, there is no accurate indigenous term for ‘subtribes’. This accounts for the inconsistency in the terms applied to them by the Akha. Subtribes are distinguished by clothing styles, although they also vary in customs and language. A single village tends to be of a single subtribe and the subtribes are, for the most part, endogamous,13 although there is no prescription for this. The language difference is not so strong as to be even a dialect difference. There are consonants that are regularly switched according to subtribe and also some idiomatic differences, but speech is mutually intelligible. A preliminary examination of genealogies reveals that subtribes are not strictly descent groups or lineage clusters (as Feingold 1976 claims), although certain lineages tend to be found more in one subtribe than the other. Neither are they ‘dialect groups’ (as according to Lewis 1968: viii, Alting 1983: 246 and Kammerer 1988: 267). The group I worked with called themselves Loimi Akha14. The name ‘Loimi’ is the name of a large mountain in the Shan state of Kengtung in Burma. The name is Tai-derived, as one can tell from the oi vowel sound which is absent in Akha. This area was described to me as between the Chinese border (from which it is one day’s walk) and the city of Kengtung (from which it is also one day’s walk). There are no towns nearby and at least some of the Loimi Akha worked hill terraced rice fields with water buffalo, supplemented by opium and possibly swidden fields. Villagers could remember at least four generations that had worked the land before they were forced to migrate because of the presence of warring factions in the area (see Map 1.1). The name ‘Loimi’ literally means ‘Bear Mountain’ and indeed the Akha of my village attested to the presence of bears in that area. One well-respected elder (Jɛ́tjìq)15 was the survivor of a bear attack and had the scars to prove it. Because of their subtribe name, I have decided to use the pseudonym ‘Bear Mountain Village’ for the village of my fieldwork. At the beginning of my fieldwork, the people of my village sometimes called the majority group in Thailand Djə̀djɔ́ (also Àdjɔ́)16, a name

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found in certain Akha genealogies, in fact the brother of Djə̀ghø̀, a name found in almost every Loimi genealogy I collected in Bear Mountain Village. Kammerer (1988) and Feingold (1976: 90) both state that the groups they studied called themselves Djə̀ghø̀, as opposed to Djə̀djɔ́. Feingold states that the term is used to reference a patrisib (lineage) cluster, while Kammerer says it references a dialect group. Lewis (1968: viii) also uses the term as the name of a dialect. However, most of the genealogies of this group show that they, as well as the Loimi, are descendants of Djə̀ghø̀. It is interesting to note that by the end of my first period of fieldwork, the Loimi called the other group by a name that characterized their headdress, perhaps because they themselves found out that the genealogical term was inaccurate. They called them Ùló (ù being the syllable for head). Paul Lewis (personal communication) told me that Ùló is actually a term referring to a type of pointed headdress found among Akha in Burma. This headdress is slightly different from that of the major subgroup in Thailand, but its pointed shape is similar to it and so probably was used for this reason. Lewis and Lewis also state that the ‘attire’ of the Ùló Akha ‘resembles that of the A Jaw Akha in Burma’. (1984: 206). So this is thus the explanation as to why the Loimi, newly arrived from Burma, called the Ùló Akha by the term Djə̀djɔ́ or Àdjɔ́. I also heard Loimi Akha calling the other subgroup Tsɔ́ǿ Akha, the ‘former or older’ Akha, referring to the fact that the Ùló preceded them into Thailand. Other Akha sometimes called the Loimi Ùbjàq, a term referring to the flat silver panels on the headdresses they wear. The Loimi referred to a third, smaller subgroup in Thailand, which is located around the villages of Phami and Phahi in the Mae Sai area and whose headdresses resemble a Dutch hat, as the Ùtjǿtjǿ ma Akha. The latter term simply means ‘headdress’, but in this case it referred to a particular type of headdress, that of the (also known as) Phami Akha. One example of naming inconsistency came up when I asked Àbɔ́hỳ17 whether or not his son’s minor wife was originally Loimi Akha. He responded by saying that she was not Loimi Akha, but was Lɔló Akha. The latter was a place name referring to villages in the area of that of Saen Chai (Lɔló) village near the government nikhom (settlement) in Chiang Rai province. She, in fact, had come from Samakhii Mai village, a short distance from Saen Chai. Thus, while I was referring to a subtribe designation, he referred to an areal designation, perhaps because the term ‘Loimi’ itself had a possible double reference in being both an areal and a subtribe designation. Nevertheless, subtribes can etically be clearly distinguished. Because of the Akha naming system and the fact that the subgroups are not strictly descent groups, I suggest that they be called ‘headdress sub-

36 Figure 1.3

SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

Phami and Loimi headdress types

groups’ but not ‘headdress subtribes’.18 From here on, I will use this term. At the time of my initial fieldwork, previous anthropological fieldwork among the Akha was scanty. Before conducting my own fieldwork, the main sources were Lewis (1969, 1970) which is a four-volume set of ethnographic notes based on his study of Akha in Kengtung State, Burma, where he served as a missionary from 1947 to 1966, Bernatzik (1970) which is a trait-list account and comparison of Akha and Hmong society by a German who traveled in the 1930s throughout ‘Farther India’ (primarily what is presently Northern Thailand), and Feingold (1976) who conducted anthropological fieldwork in Chiang Rai province of Northern Thailand in the late 1960s. As I started my fieldwork, two anthropologists (Leo Alting von Geusau19 and Cornelia Kammerer) were each just finishing their own fieldwork in Chiang Rai province, Northern Thailand and have since published on the Akha. Around the same time, a Swedish linguist (Hansson) and a German area specialist (Scholz) were working on the Akha language and translations of ritual texts. The reader may be interested in consulting the work of these other Akha specialists. Apart from Lewis, their works concern the Ùló20 subgroup of Akha. My own fieldwork was conducted among the Loimi (also Ùbjàq) subgroup of Akha, and thus is the first in-depth study of that society in Thailand. Such a study was made possible by the fact that the Loimi

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had recently migrated into Thailand from Burma. Even at the time of my fieldwork, however, the Ùló Akha were the most populous group, constituting perhaps some 80-90 percent of all Akha in Thailand. Further migrations of the Loimi Akha into Thailand have shifted this balance somewhat. Since my initial fieldwork, I have conducted additional fieldwork among the Akha of both Thailand and China through 2010 (see for example Tooker 1995 and Tooker 2004). There also have been other researchers working among the Akha since then; for example, Sturgeon on cross-border comparisons (China and Thailand), Toyota on urban and transnational Akha, Morton on ethnic revivalism and Wang on Akha history. There is also a large volume of material that has emerged from the establishment of the International Conferences on Hani-Akha Studies that started in 1993 and are held every three years at different venues. Contributed papers include those written by Chinese, Japanese, western and Hani scholars themselves. The reader may want to consult some of these works on other topics.

Akha za´n as practice The Akha attempt to codify orally a set of practices that can best be translated as ‘ancestral tradition’ (zán).21 The Akha claim that the practices of zán are passed down from ancestral times and that they ensure a good life. I have characterized zán as an ‘orthopractic system’ (see Tooker 1992). As a set of lived practices, zán is non-discursive and embodied. Behavior may be ‘correct’ (zán tsà-ǝ) or incorrect (zán mà tsà-ǝ), in relation to zán. The ‘correctness’ of behavior relates to the lining up of speech and practice to an ideal zán. Thus, if one does the proper procedures with the proper speech attached in the proper circumstances with the proper participants etc., one is ‘lining up’ with zán. However, there were frequent discussions and disagreements about zán, for example, over how to carry out rituals properly, over the ritual objects that were necessary, and discussions about how many gifts a lineage gave to a recently deceased elder, or about how much of a fine a man should pay for hitting his father-in-law, and so forth. Thus zán was not absolutely fixed or standardized in this oral context and, despite the fact that everyone agreed that alignment with zán was necessary, the Akha seemed to revel in this lack of fixity. There are actions clearly specified by zán that one should not do, such as, for example, the urinating in bed by an adult, a wife hitting her husband, or the commission of sexual intercourse inside the house of another. These are not zán mà tsà-ǝ but are called zán bàn-ǝ, ‘to violate zán’, ‘to go against zán’, expressing an attitude not of ‘incorrectness’ but of

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‘evil’, or even impurity, that must be expelled through rites (further zán) or other punishment. While the alignment of one’s practices with proper zán produced desired (good) effects, connected to the accessing of a protective cosmic potency, non-alignment or violation of zán could result in the withdrawal of that potency from the participants involved, placing them in a vulnerable and dangerous position. The Akha expressed ethno-religious identity in terms of zán (see Tooker 1992), each ethno-religious group (tribe, subgroup, etc.) being defined behaviorally by the set of practices it followed. Thus there were mental models of distinct ethno-religious identities, each with its own distinct set of practices. Since zán is not innate, the behavioral basis of ethno-religious identity allowed for the switching of ethnic identity through behavioral changes that were not considered inauthentic. These behavioral models, however, were comprehensive in the sense that each included a comprehensive set of practices to be followed. An Akha switching to a Lisu identity, for example, would need to wear Lisu clothes, speak Lisu, have a Lisu ancestral altar in his home, move into the Lisu practical ‘web’, so to speak. Zán, during my first period of fieldwork (1982-1985), both reflected and created identity through such allencompassing sets of practices. While there are Akha knowledge specialists, it is often said that ‘no one knows all of zán’, although every villager knows some of it, thus giving zán a transcendent quality. In any interpretation of it, each piece of zán is connected in a myriad of ways with other pieces of it, forming a dense web of seemingly endless associated practices. This feature produces a transcendent effect in that the system remains beyond the grasp of any individual, or even particular Akha subgroups. New zán connections could be made to this web of associations. For example, a man who had a stroke made the connection that his stroke was caused by not offering the correctly colored chicken at his ancestral offerings. Spatial practices are a part of this web, and many of the ‘procedures’ of zán have to do with space: for example, in what order one is to walk, how one is to lay out spirit offerings, how one is to construct a house, lay out a village, where one is to place women’s clothing, etc.

Akha imagined totalities and holistic conceptions of culture Holistic forms of culture, even the concept of culture itself, have come under epistemological criticism in anthropology (see Gupta & Ferguson 1997b and Merry 2003 for a recent overview of these discussions). In these latter discussions, a holistic concept of culture is viewed as an imposition of the anthropologist who is accused of either: 1) being too functionalist; 2) following a romantic Germanic notion of culture; 3) fol-

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lowing a discipline-based rhetoric of holism in text construction (see Thornton 1988); 4) biologizing culture by viewing it as organic; 5) imposing a coherent notion of culture that does not allow for contradictions and inconsistencies; 6) naturalizing culture and ignoring the fact that it must be socially produced; 7) exoticizing the other by placing them out of time and space; 8) reinforcing indigenous systems of power inequalities by silencing alternative viewpoints (sometimes in collusion with colonialist interests); or 9) isolating indigenous cultures from historical forces and larger regional systems of power inequalities. While I agree with these critiques and actually incorporate them into my work, we need also to consider that indigenous constructions of culture may be holistic. That is, that a holistic form of culture may, and I believe has been, historically produced by numerous groups and may relate to particular political-economic formations. The rhetoric of holism may not be just that of the anthropologist. This may explain some, but not all, of the anthropological representations of culture as bounded and holistic, and, I would suggest, certainly had an influence on them. Thus, we should not confuse these two levels of construction. Of course, holistic conceptions of culture themselves need to be denaturalized and historicized. They need to be critically examined, their historical production needs to be problematized, the influence of intergroup relations - especially relations of power in their production - needs to be looked at, contestations of their construction and reproduction need to be examined, and they should be critically examined for contradictions and inconsistencies. My claim here is that the Akha did use a holistic schema, both a rhetoric and set of practices, for the construction of their collective identity prior to 1985, and for some, even after. Although framed as being handed down by the Akha ancestors, variants of this system of signification are both shared by other nearby groups and are used to index alternative status systems (see Tooker 1996a). The Akha have put the system of significations together in a unique way, however, forming patterns that are distinctly Akha (thus producing the sense of a holistic, ‘bounded’ culture) and that are contrastive with other ethnic groups in the region.22 In this schema, multiple social domains and contexts, such as agricultural practices, kinship relations, gender roles, etc. were interlinked with each other in the constitution of group (Akha) identity and in lived experience.23 Akha ancestral practices were complex and intertwined and a domain of ‘ritual’ could not always or easily be separated out from everyday practices. Thus, ritual as a domain was not fully autonomous in this nonmodern context.24 The complex intertwining of multiple dimensions of Akha life as signifying dimensions produced the effect of a holistic system and created local (village community-level) inte-

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gration and resistance to supra-local influence. A direct relationship between the local group and the cosmos (to obtain the life force, gỳlàn) was established through this set of mediating practices, the ancestral tradition (zán), thus bypassing supralocal intervention. That is why I claim that zán (ancestral practices) under nonmodern contexts was a particularly powerful political technology. This holistic/integrating effect (and its psychological dimensions) made it difficult to ‘step outside the system’, and in that sense naturalized a comprehensive Akha identity, not as a quality innate to the individual but as a quality the individual carried with him/her across contexts in daily life, permeating multiple social domains. The only way to escape the system, so to speak, was to take on another holistic non-Akha identity which, in some circumstances was required according to zán itself, and often occurred temporarily.25 This holistic/integrated form was historically produced in the context of both autonomous village life and unequal power relations with outside groups over many centuries and served both as a protective device and a mode of social integration under conditions of diaspora and orality.26 Because this form arose at least partially as a response to intergroup relations, as we will see, it contains traces of those relations within them, despite the fact that it tries to set the Akha apart from other groups in the process of boundary construction. The cultural totality of zán is also hierarchical in nature, producing unequal relations between both the Akha and outside groups (as a response to external inequalities) as well as within Akha society (as part of the creation of an Akha ‘whole’). Sometimes it includes its own responses to unequal power relations within Akha society (for example, a wife’s ability to appeal to her natal sublineage if her husband becomes abusive). The first set of inequalities (between the Akha and outside groups) is directly addressed in this book. The second set (and questions of resistance within Akha society) is addressed only partially (for example in tensions between household and village ‘rulers’). This comprehensive form of identity contrasts with a form in which the expression of ‘ethnic’ identity is contextually delimited. With increasing nation-state technologies of control, this form of collective identity can lose its viability as the links between social domains that constitute Akha identity become disentangled (see Tooker 2004). In this book, I focus especially on how space creates integrative and totalizing effects in different social contexts. The larger cultural totality represented by zán also includes non-spatial elements, but they are not a focus of this book.

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Material on which this book is based I conducted my first fieldwork among the Akha between 1982 and 1985 in Mae Suai District of Chiang Rai province of Northern Thailand in a village where all households but two (which moved in towards the end of my first period of fieldwork) were of the Loimi subgroup of Akha (see Map 1.1 for area of field research). The type of fieldwork was participant-observation with both structured and unstructured interviewing. It was conducted from July 1982 (after a number of months of a field survey of various Akha villages in Chiang Rai and Chiang Saen provinces and Akha language training in the town of Chiang Mai starting in December 1981) to July 1985. I also spent some time in the Northern Thai cities (muang) of Chiang Mai and Chiang Rai during this period and thus with lowland Thai as well. When I first moved into the village, only two villagers could speak Thai (and none English). Therefore, I learned Akha as well and as quickly as possible, and conducted my research in it. In the first five months, I lived with a family, that of Ámɛ́. Then, I had a separate hut built near that family’s household and continued to take my meals with them. I made this move in order to broaden my contact with other families, although to a great extent I was identified with that initial family throughout the whole period of fieldwork. Throughout the book, I refer to ‘the Akha’ and what they do and how they live. While I do bring in material from other studies on the Akha both for supportive and contrastive purposes, the reader should keep in mind that most of my evidence comes from fieldwork in a single village. Through villagers’ and visitors’ statements, and through the occasional visit to another Akha village, I did gain a sense of cross-village continuities and variations and have mentioned them where relevant. Since 1985, I have made several short-term follow-up trips both to Bear Mountain Village and to the provinces of Chiang Rai and Chiang Mai more generally. They took place in 1990, 1996, 1997-1998, 2008, and 2010. I have also been able to visit both Akha and Hani villages in the P.R.C. in 1990 and 1993 respectively, visits that have given me a broader comparative perspective on Akha society (see Tooker 1995) that I incorporate in this book when appropriate. Although I do not continuously refer to it as such, all ethnographic material presented in this book derives from my own fieldwork, except where otherwise noted. The ‘ethnographic present’ for the material I use in this book derives from the earliest period of fieldwork, 1982-1985. Prior to my fieldwork, there had been no extensive ethnographic work conducted among the Loimi subgroup of Akha in Thailand (although fieldwork among other subgroups had been conducted). These Akha had recently migrated into Thailand from Burma. This is a period prior to nation-state and capital-

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ist penetration in the Bear Mountain community where I worked, as Thailand had not yet asserted full nation-state control over the border areas of Chiang Rai province in which the Akha (and other ethnic groups) were living. Spatial practices took a particular form that related to the construction of group identity under semi-autonomous conditions. Those conditions changed after 1985, but those changes are not included in this book. Wherever I use the present tense, it refers to the time period 1982-85. For a discussion of changes since 1985, I refer the reader to Tooker 2004.

How this book proceeds In Chapter 2, by reviewing the Akha case, we can see that a complex of spatial practices that created a distinctive cultural identity developed historically in a political-economic context of uneven power relations. In this process, the less powerful, ‘peripheral’ group reconstitutes itself as ‘central’. This embodied spatial complex seems to be both integrative for a people dispersed in mountainous terrain under conditions of orality as well as defensive against external, more politically dominant groups with whom the Akha have struggled. Nevertheless, these latter groups were not able to exercise the degree of control of modern states.27 Akha spatial practices affirm an independent access to a form of power: the life force (gỳlàn), an affirmation that maintains, and indeed serves, to construct ‘Akha’ as an autonomous identity. Also in this chapter I discuss the specific history and conditions of the village of my fieldwork: Bear Mountain Village. In Chapter 3, I explicate the dynamic and qualitative nature of Akha concepts of space, a nature that contrasts with modern western conceptions of space, especially in the movement or flow of a cosmic life force (gỳlàn) through space, the loss of that life force through opposing draining forces, and in the significance of directional orientation. Complementary directional forces can unite in a cosmic alignment to generate the life force or potency. The ability to access potency independently is significant for the cultural autonomy of a ‘minority’ group. In Chapter 4, by focusing on how the Akha construct their largest territorially based social unit, the village, we see how a less powerful group can reconstitute itself as central through an ‘imagined community’ that is constructed to be a microcosm of the fully human world. This community is extracted (and thus produced), through spatial and ritual practices (some implicit), from the chaotic and life-draining wild realms of nature, evil spirits and outside, more powerful human groups, especially their most important alter: the lowlands and its muang (Thai for town or kingdom), pronounced mǝ̀ by the Akha. In this chapter, I look

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at various nondiscursive orientational and hierarchical schemes at the level of the village: orientations of level and sloped ground, upper-middle-lower, middle way, center-periphery, interior-exterior, etc. These orientational schemes involve the collection of spatial opposites or complements to produce a potency generating habitation, and thus create independent access to potency for this group. I also look at the use of ‘spatial tactics’ to construct both hierarchical relationships with the outside world as well as internal hierarchies such as those in relation to the village ruler (dzø̀ma). These tactics involve the usage of precedence and encompassment in power relations, and both aggregation and dispersion of power. Also considered are disruptions in the flow of potency and the draining of the life force by the lowlands. The latter serves as a type of resistance to incorporation into a lowland hierarchical order and cultural identity as it reverses the hierarchical power structures of the lowland states, which put the hill societies on the bottom rung of ‘civilization’. In Chapter 5, we see the spatial practices and patterns from the village chapter with parallels in the construction of fields and households. Thus, spatial practices are used to construct these social domains as well. By allowing the household (and its fields) to have an independent access to potency (through its ancestral line) apart from that obtained through the village, the Akha give the household a degree of autonomy that articulates with an egalitarian ethos. The hierarchical position of the household shifts contextually as sometimes it must follow the ‘rule’ of the village ‘ruler’ and other times it is able to generate its own potency. At some moments, even village forces that are ‘Akha’, can be draining of the household’s life force. This tension between household and village shows the household’s resistance to full incorporation into the village. Thus, ‘spatial tactics’ are not monolithic (and are not only based on state resistance), and are actively used in different contexts to produce different social domains and their associated identities and hierarchies. In Chapter 6, I look at a complex set of rituals (called rituals of the ‘inside’ and ‘outside’) that pragmatically constructs inside and outside social domains in elaborate non-discursive ways. I argue that essentially this is a construction that again makes a ‘peripheral’ group ‘central’ by giving it access to forces of life (potency) and the ability to ward off evil outside draining influences. Thus it developed in an intergroup context. One of the chapter’s main purposes is to illustrate the degree of complexity involved in Akha nondiscursive indexing of the ‘inside’ and the ‘outside’, and thus the level of creative energy, time, commitment, and significance that Akha society has given over centuries to the creation of such a distinction. This distinction in essence creates an Akha world, the world of the inside. In turn, these rituals provide a model for deal-

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ing with outsiders through affective dimensions of powerful, nondiscursive and embodied cues. In these rites, the terms ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ refer to inside and outside spirits/forces that affect the flow of cosmic potency. In general, inside spirits/forces provide access to the life force and must be called in, and outside spirits/forces take it away, and must be pushed out. There are interesting devices used which put evil spirits and more powerful lowland groups in similar structural and sometimes even existential positions. These rites have both village and household versions. Once again distinctions and tensions between the household and village can be seen as well, thus showing the shifting use of spatialization as power relations shift. Ceremonies in Chapter 6 enact inside and outside distinctions in the intimate family realm, often in situations of bodily illness or imbalance, as some of the examples discussed illustrate. In Chapter 7, I move from embodied, nondiscursive intimacy in which inside and outside distinctions are created to their resonances at the level of Akha society as a whole. I relate this construction to regional debates on the ‘cosmic polity’ in Southeast Asia. Akha spatial practices have remarkable similarities with spatial practices that have been described for lowland, complexly organized, Hindu-Buddhist Southeast Asian polities that practice wet rice agriculture.28 As a shorthand, I will call these descriptions of a ‘cosmic polity’. Both spatial coding and the relationship between coding and ‘power or potency’ hierarchies are similar to those in the lowlands. The discovery of such inter-societal continuities is significant in light of the facts that upland (‘tribal’) and lowland (‘state’) societies in Southeast Asia have been viewed as culturally distinct,29 and that, in approaching upland tribal societies, there is a tendency to use what Sharp has called the ‘cookie-cutter concept of culture’.30 This is not to say that there are not important economic and social organizational differences between upland and lowland societies, as Leach (1954, 1960-1961) had so aptly pointed out some time ago. However, on the level of cultural signifiers, there are important continuities, continuities which I believe implicate inter-societal relationships of hegemony and resistance. Such practices as they appear in premodern Southeast Asian polities have been discussed, for example, by Tambiah (who coined the term ‘galactic polities’ for them) and Geertz in his well-known book, Negara, among others. Tambiah states: ‘The polities were what I have elsewhere called ‘‘galactic’’ in organization: that is, a loose formation composed of a central domain surrounded by vassal states and, at the outer rim, by tributary states, which are all reproductions on a smaller scale of the dominant center ...’ (1984: 240). And also: ‘It is the concept of mandala that prompted me to coin the label ‘‘galactic polity’’. According to a

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common Indo-Tibetan tradition, mandala is composed of two elements – a core (manda) and a container or enclosing element (la) ... All these examples share the basic format of a central image and surrounding entities, the simplest being quinary grouping31 ... There is for Southeast Asia a rich and extensive literature on the geometrical and topographical ‘‘formulas’’ (mandala) usually fused with cosmological principles, which provided the design for the constitution of communities ...’ (1976: 102). Waterson has stated the issue in simpler terms: ‘The theme of the powerful centre which stands in complementary opposition to the periphery is a typically South-East Asian example of what LéviStrauss ... has termed ‘‘concentric dualism’’. This hierarchical representation of space is used as an expression of political relations as well as giving shape to the world view of the people concerned’ (1991: 95). Akha spatial practices call us to critically reassess these dominant models of premodern Southeast Asian state formation that I have called the ‘cosmic polity’ models. In Chapter 7, I claim that these models can be seen as being influenced by an elite or ‘nationalistic’ frame and can be seen as ‘gatekeeping’ concepts (Appadurai). I claim that previous approaches to the mandala32 polity have within them a nested, encompassment form that implicitly defines the polity from the perspective of dominant political groups, and thus are top-down or center-out models. I claim that this implicit model draws attention away from alternative enactments of the mandala that may be occurring at the periphery, or the supposedly encompassed areas/social groups. As a result, theorists have inadvertently reified this perspective in a set of analytical concepts that reaffirm existing power structures. As such, they have skewed our understandings of the mandala away from that of a socially enacted set of spatial codes that communicate and index hierarchical status between individuals and groups. Through my analysis, I present an alternative perspective on Southeast Asian premodern political formation. I argue that these models look very different from the ‘peripheral’, local angle of the Akha, and that these differences expose flawed methodological and theoretical assumptions in previous approaches to the ‘cosmic polity’. My findings from among the Akha indicate that the mandala as an enacted set of spatial signs is used differently in different contexts, and can represent contextual shifts in hierarchical status, status that is indexed through the spatial codes. These contextual shifts are related to different indigenous political domains and structural relations between political domains. In this book, I focus on the three domains of muang (an external, supra-local political unit), village polity, and household and notions of ‘rulership’ for all three domains. For these domains, in different contexts, the mandala and its power hierarchies take alternative forms, even to the point where the mandala can be used to deny incorporation in muang or state-level polities and assert an alternative village polity.

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Thus, Akha enactments of the mandala are not a lower level replication of what happens at the center. This conclusion supports Scott’s points that dominant hegemonies are never totally controlling (1985), and that there are forms of state resistance that are characteristic of this border region (2009), although the mechanisms I discuss are different from those he describes.33 Previous approaches focused largely on the semantic components of the mandala, for example, on the semantic referents of the spatial pattern, such as the cosmic design that the king/palace at the center attempted to reproduce, and not on their indexical dimensions, such as the indexing of status relations among actors and social groups. Linguists acknowledge that spatial signs are quintessentially indexical. Since these indexical or pragmatic dimensions of signs are not acknowledged, semantically-based approaches end up reflecting the pragmatic frame of elite power centers, and reproduce a totalizing approach to the meaning of signs in social-cultural practice. In this totalizing approach, structural tensions and contradictions between levels of political domains are denied. In the final chapter, I take a step back and look at the comparative and theoretical issues raised by this case of spatial practices in a nonmodern social context, a context in which space had been assumed to be background setting that was precultural or ‘natural’, integrated, and politically neutral. Such assumptions define space as a passive dimension of human life and elide the active role that space plays in identity formation.

2 Moving Through History

In thinking about area studies, we need to recognize that histories produce geographies and not vice versa. We must get away from the notion that there is some kind of spatial landscape against which time writes its story. Instead, it is historical agents, institutions, actors, powers that make the geography. (Appadurai 2010: 9)

The historical production of a cultural complex The point of this chapter is to look at how the set of spatial practices discussed in this book is part of what I call a ‘nonmodern cultural complex’ that developed historically and in a multi-ethnic context of uneven power relationships. I use the term of a ‘nonmodern cultural complex’ both because this complex has a remarkable distribution across Akha groups and because it seems to have had a long history of continuity, possibly over six or seven centuries. The history of the Akha prior to this century is not well known and future findings may indicate that I am only projecting a continuity.1 However, I need to go on existing evidence, evidence which does seem to indicate a long history of continuity. This is not to say that there have been no variations in this complex over time.2 In line with recent discussions (see Gupta & Ferguson 1997a) questioning the naturalization of the ‘culture’ concept, we need to problematize this continuity and see it as arising historically and being reproduced over time. So how did this cultural complex come about? The literature concerning the differential definitions of ‘minorities’, ‘ethnic groups’, etc. in different historical and intergroup contexts (Lehman, Jonsson, O’Connor) must be taken into account. Jonsson (2001a), for example, calls for an historical periodization of upland/lowland relations and changes in the politics of difference (and thus ethnic identity) over time in the Southeast Asian mainland, in order to illustrate that ethnic identities are not fixed over time. The periods he constructs (along with their differential identity politics for uplands and lowlands) are: pre-colonial/tributary, colonial, and nation-state. To this I would

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add a later ‘national’ period (see Tooker 2004), more influenced by global discourses on the politics of difference which contrasts with the initial nationalist period. Note that Jonsson does not periodize within the pre-colonial/tributary era (and thus there is an assumed continuity within this period). Wang (n.d.) has suggested some earlier periodizations but is in basic agreement with me on a cultural continuity over roughly the last seven centuries. In my initial fieldwork, which is the topic of this book, conditions were more akin to the pre-colonial/tributary mode (which I claim involved a degree of autonomy for the Akha) than anything else.3,4 The construction of the cultural complex itself, despite its integrative features, cannot be viewed as developing in isolation (see also Gupta & Ferguson 1997a and Tooker 1996b). This complex relies on the reproduction of a certain premodern regional political-economic context and on a particular form of inter-ethnic relations and upland/lowland (state) relations. Thus, it implicates the groups with which the Akha were interacting, especially the dominant Tai. The integrative features of this complex, such as spatial practices, made it eminently reproducible. Akha society (and thus Akha identity) actively protected itself from the onslaught of historical contingencies (many of which involved unequal relations with outside groups) through these features.

History of the Akha in a regional context Turton (2000a: 20) rightly observes that different hill groups in this region can be differentiated in terms of their political pretensions. The Akha are a group that historically has had few or no military pretensions or claims to rulership.5 Wang (n.d.) believes that the Akha did have claims to rulership in the past, in the 13th century, when they established a ‘state’ named Jadae. However, this state collapsed and there is no evidence that I am aware of an Akha state after that. Nevertheless, certain cultural traits of the Akha could have developed as a result of diaspora after the collapse of an ancient state. For example, they do have a strong egalitarian ideology that seems to have kept them from the stratification necessary for small polities. This can be viewed as a political strategy, the Akha positioning themselves at a distance from more powerful groups and presenting themselves as non-threatening. In fact, this strategy may be a key to their centuries-old survival in the midst of struggles with more powerful groups.6 Related (and probably ancestral) Yi/Lolo groups had been in the Yunnan area since Ch'in times (221-207 B.C.) (Alting 2000: 128). Ancestral groups of the Akha may have originated in northern Yunnan where some related (Hani) groups can still be found (Sturgeon 2000: 91).7

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The rest of the Akha and Hani groups have over the centuries been pushed southward. In their southern migration, the Akha have been caught in the crossfire between more powerful groups who were fighting with each other, the Akha never being main actors in these wars.8 There is some evidence that the Akha were originally wet rice terrace farmers, as the Hani and some Akha are still now, and as Akha oral/ ritual tradition describes (see Tooker 1996a), although swiddens could have complemented the terrace farming. They seemed to have been pushed south out of their original homelands where they were politically dominant and ended up living in mountain borderlands of present day China, Thailand, Burma, Laos, and North Vietnam by late-comer Tai groups called ‘valley-based, warrior-state groups’ (Alting 2000: 129) in the 12th century.9 In my own fieldwork in China I collected Akha oral history that tells that they fought over land with the Tai, but the Tai won out. ‘Yunnanese records tell of the conquest of the lowland areas by the Tai Lue warrior Ba Zhen in 1180 A.D., driving Hani/Akha, Palaung, and others higher into the mountains’ (Li Fuyi 1946 as cited in Alting 2000).10 Alting views these developments as essential to the construction of an Akha ‘ethnic alliance system’ (see below). Wang (n.d.) also views the Akha as dispersing south after the collapse of the Akha Jadae state.11 The main more recent movements south as discussed by Sturgeon (2000) were the Muslim Rebellion in Yunnan (1855-1873)12 which drove people from Yunnan into the Shan states of Burma and the civil war in Burma since its independence in 1948 which has over many years driven people into Thailand. The Akha were pushed further southward. Thus, the power domains within which the Akha found themselves belonged more often than not to Tai peoples. Evidence of various Tai kingdoms, princedoms, and small polities in Yunnan, the Shan states and northern Thailand can be traced to at least the 12th century. The Akha may have been in loose tributary relationships with Tai overlords since then and possibly even earlier. This does not rule out the possibility of the Akha being in tributary relationships with other groups as well or even some groups being in a tributary relationship with them, a concept that has been pointed out in recent discussions of multiple sovereignty. It also may have been common for the Akha to avoid overlords of any type. Nevertheless, the valley Tai seem to be the most significant alter in (upland) Akha identity formation. As mentioned earlier, Jonsson (2001a), who worked with the Mien, has proposed an historical periodization for upland/lowland relationships which includes precolonial, colonial and nation-state periods.13 In the precolonial mode, uplanders and lowlanders were tied to each other in tributary relationships. In this mode, lowland states defined themselves as economically and culturally distinct from uplanders, thus

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maintaining and reproducing cultural difference, and securing the importance of uplanders for defining the identity of the lowlanders. By contrast, with colonialism, Jonsson sees the reduction of warfare and the disintegration of upland ties to lowland rulers, accounting for a decline in the prominence of upland chiefs, facilitating household autonomy (1910-1970). Jonsson sees ‘classic’ anthropological studies of the 1960s and 1970s in this region as reflecting this era of household prominence before state penetration and notes that societies of this time period were labeled ‘traditional’. He claims that later studies incorrectly portray state penetration as eroding the ‘traditional’ because what is being defined as ‘traditional’ was itself historically constituted by complex upland/lowland relationships. While I agree with his point on the historical constitution of societies, it is likely that the Akha comprehensive form of collective identity (some features of which Jonsson labels as ‘traditional’) developed prior to the colonial era.14 In his third, ‘nation-state’ period, Jonsson links Thai nation state penetration to the outlawing of opium, the outlawing of swidden agriculture, restrictions on population migration, and the increasing incorporation of upland groups into national structures, all starting in the 1950s and 1960s. Identity politics of this early phase of nation-state building emphasized assimilation to the majority lowland identity and the erasure of minority identity (see Kammerer 1988 on the Ùló Akha). However, at least for Bear Mountain, this penetration was limited in scope until around 1985.15 The processes of state political and economic penetration intensified after 1985 to the point where now nearly all upland groups are affected, and involve new forms of identity politics other than those of assimilation.16 This intensification is tied not only to regional and national frameworks for defining identity (especially majority/minority identities that often take an ‘ethnic’ form) but also to global frameworks and international concerns. This intensification is linked to global economic changes and greater interest in taking control over the resources of the hills. Sturgeon’s (2000) research shows that Akha in China had been in loose tributary relationships with the Tai princedom of Sipsongpanna at least until 1937 when that polity was first disrupted by the KMT takeover and then in 1950 by the Communist Chinese takeover. She also shows that in Thailand, the village she studied was in a loose tributary relationship with a Shan prince in Burma until the Thai borders were (somewhat) firmed up after World War II. In the 1950s and 1960s, villagers attempted to perform rituals of submission to the new Thai authorities but the practice was viewed as outdated by the Thais (Hanks & Hanks 1999 as cited in Sturgeon 2000: 151). These two cases show that Akha/Tai tributary relationships have some historical depth and persisted until nation-state formation. I should here note that this for-

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mation was uneven and sporadic across Northern Thailand until after 1985 when state penetration intensified. The political context of my initial fieldwork was more of the tributary mode (or avoidance thereof) than of a national mode. The Akha seem to have been in an extractive relationship with the Tai lowland valley states who occasionally called upon them for labor or tribute, but could not exert regular control. However, the Akha must have been a threat because Tai armies occasionally took Akha as captives. Note for example, Hanks and Hanks’ citation of the Yonok Chronicle which describes Thai armies capturing Akha in Sipsongpanna and bringing them back to Chiang Mai (Hanks & Hanks 2001: 58). While there is some amount of evidence that the Akha recognized tributary connections with lowland Tai in premodern contexts (Sturgeon 2000), it is unclear how strong these connections were. The Akha certainly have had long-term interactions with other ethnic groups with the power imbalance being strongest with the various Tai groups. In general, the Akha seem to have preferred to stay out of any lowland reach if possible, thus not fitting very well with Jonsson’s general characterization of upland/lowland relationships in the precolonial period,17 although this characterization may well apply to other groups. The lowlands, however, seem to be a factor in the constitution of a comprehensive form of identity, an identity form which served as a kind of defense or protection against a variety of historical contingencies, the demands and dangers from more powerful groups being one of them. In fact, in his comparative typology of peoples of Southeast Asia, O’Connor places the Akha under the category of ‘autonomous peoples’ and suggests that their culture was an adaptive response that arose in ‘the shadow of states’ (O’Connor 2003: 300). The manner in which the Akha have been in tributary relationships with the Tai varied. My own suspicion is that they would tend to avoid them, unless the relationship was advantageous to them or warded off danger (raids, etc.). There were probably numerous Akha villages that had no formal tributary relationship with Tai rulers.18 The loosest type of tributary relationship seems to be that of just title appointment of the village headman without any provision of goods or labor as was the case in Phayaprai, Sturgeon’s village of research. The headman received a title of pusaen, a Tai word translated as ‘leader of 100,000’ (Hanks & Hanks 1999 as cited in Sturgeon 2000: 189). Sturgeon notes that this term was still used by villagers during her fieldwork and it also was used during my fieldwork in Bear Mountain in the Akha form of bùsɛ́, even though it came from the Burma (Shan States), and not the Thailand context. The fact that the term for ‘headman’ is Tai-derived makes one question whether this is an indigenous position (see also Lewis 1969a: 135). Its usage from a Shan princedom context indicates that

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these Akha are still thinking in more feudalistic and not nation-state terms about their relationship with outside governments. In any case, the position was instrumental in the development of the diarchic nature of rule in Akha society whereby the external leader (headman) deals with outside forces,19 protecting the internal leader (dzø̀ma) (see Tooker 1996b: 332). Recent work (Turton 2000a and Renard 2000) indicates that the term ‘Tai’ itself may not have been an ethnic term at all but rather a term of social status, referring to those who lived in muang, or political centers/valleys. The complementary term was kha, those who lived in the forest/hills, outside of direct control of the muang.20 Of course these would include other non-Tai groups in addition to the Akha. Tapp discusses both sets of groups (upland and lowland) as part of a ‘common and interdependent ecological region which found reflection in both symbolic and political relations’ (Tapp 2000: 356), noting that interrelationships have not been fully recognized. Given what we know about Akha history, it seems reasonable to assume that Akha interaction with more powerful groups had an effect on the production of an integrated form of identity that resisted incorporation in supralocal polities.

Identity formation in an interethnic context and the role of spatial practices Following the type of analyses of ethnic difference as historically and relationally constructed as carried out by Leach (1954), Lehman (1979), Keyes (1979), etc.,21 Alting von Geusau has proposed an historical explanation for the development of an Akha cultural complex (2000) prior to nation-state penetration. I find it convincing, given what we know about the Akha to date and I here follow his analysis. Akha history is rather murky given that written records are absent in this oral culture. As they have also tended to avoid state societies there is little in indigenous state or colonial records about them. Alting von Geusau (2000) has made a valiant, if speculative effort at drawing a picture of pre-20th century Akha history and the construction of what he terms an ‘ethnic alliance system’. I agree with Alting’s eloquent analysis and genealogy of the Akha cultural configuration (prior to modernity): Over many centuries, therefore, the more inaccessible parts of mountainous southern Yunnan, and neighboring Vietnam, Laos, and Burma became the ‘‘zonas de refugio’’ for tribal groups marginalized by the smaller vassal states which occupied the lowland areas. In this process of marginalization, tribal groups such as

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the Hani and Akha also selected and constructed their habitats – in terms of altitude and surrounding forestation – in such a way that they would not be easily accessible to soldiers, bandits, and tax-collectors ... In parallel, however, they developed a distinctive unifying social and political structure, which I have called an ‘‘ethnic alliance system’’ (Alting 2000: 130). The Bear Mountain Akha village set up in 1982 was an adaptation to this mountain lifestyle. The villages that Sturgeon studied also followed this pattern. For example, she characterizes the livelihood of the two Akha villages she studied (one in Thailand and one in China) prior to the encroachment of national systems. She characterizes the Akha of this pre-modern mode as living on or near the top of a ridge (10001600m.), surrounded by an expanse of forest (much of it primary), and depending primarily on shifting cultivation (Sturgeon 2000: 255).22 By ‘ethnic alliance system’, Alting means a system that united Akha as a single ethnic group in spite of their dispersal throughout the mountains of the Southwest China borderlands. It consisted of knowledge domains passed down orally and informal organizational mechanisms. For Alting, they include: Akha oral texts with historical references, genealogies (often 60 generations), marriage alliance relationships, the heredity line of village heads, the line of knowledge passed down by spiritual specialists, ancestral knowledge as passed down by the elders, technical knowledge as passed down by Akha blacksmiths, and knowledge of field fertility and healing as passed through shamans and ‘fertility mothers’. More significantly, for the purposes of this book, Akha spatial practices and concepts relating to them (as part of ancestral tradition) were a crucial element in this unifying and identity-constructing process. Akha spatial concepts and practices are numerous and complex. This book includes only a portion of them. The complex web of spatial practices, the messages about self and other in numerous spatial practices, the implicit and non-verbal nature of these practices, and their promise to be an access to otherworldly power and protection make them powerful organizational, psychological, and identity-forming techniques. They, too, may be considered part of the ‘ethnic alliance system’ that developed under the historical conditions of danger and power inequality that the Akha, who did not develop a military organization, have faced in relation to other ethnic groups, especially the Tai. Examples of how the Akha both reflect and construct inter-ethnic identities through spatial practices are: 1) They include a moveable domestication and orientation of territory; 2) They involve boundary markers that serve to isolate the Akha from dangerous draining forces such as lowland Tai ‘rulers’; 3) They separate an internal Akha society from external forces through complex symbolic processes such as demarcating ‘inside’ and

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‘outside’ forms of rice (see Chapter 6); 4) They appeal to internal spiritual powers such as ancestors and other spiritual ‘rulers’ to combat external forces; 5) They present Akha society to others (such as evil spirits and lowlanders) as compliant with their wishes to the point of deceiving these enemies; 6) They portray (external) high-ranking rulers (especially evil spirits) as extractive and tyrannical.23 In Alting’s discussion of the Akha ‘ethnic alliance system’, he applies the term ‘marginalization’ to the process of the Akha being pushed out of their territories by more dominant groups. I would like to propose that we consider the Akha in dispersion (prior to nation-state incorporation) instead as post-marginal. That is, in the course of power struggles and struggles for resources in which it appears the Akha lost out (see also Wang n.d on the collapse of the Akha state), the Akha reconstituted themselves as central, important and dominant in qualities other than those possessed by the lowland groups and in a different location – the hills. I have already discussed how the Akha use spatial schemes similar to lowland schemes to assert themselves as central and the lowlanders as peripheral (Tooker 1996b). That is, they respond to their marginalization by marginalizing the marginalizers. They also seem to have used political strategies (of distancing, for example) to their advantage. Small centers (how the Akha consider themselves) at the margins of larger, more powerful polities can align themselves in different directions and are generally not under direct control of any one center (multiple sovereignty issues, Jerndal & Rigg 1998: 814). In these senses, the Akha regain dominance in the hills. Thus, I see Akha spatial practices as part of this reconstitution of a sense of self identity.24 This is not to say that there is no ambivalence about their position vis à vis lowlanders. Lowlanders see themselves as more civilized than the hill people and some hill people do internalize dimensions of this view. It is to say, however, that the Akha have a cultural self-confidence that is somewhat underrepresented in Alting’s work,25 especially since the Akha represent what counts as ‘civilization’ in their own ways. When Akha mythology, for example, tells stories of why the Akha do not have a ‘state/polity’ (mǝ̀), do not have a writing system, etc., they are all in the context of what the Akha do have such as village-level egalitarianism as opposed to the stratification of a state, incredible memories as opposed to those who rely on writing, etc. This is an assertion of positive qualities that both constitute and motivate Akha identity formation. The ‘other’, whether lowland Thai or upland Lisu (‘they sell their daughters and we don’t’), while possibly possessing good qualities, is worse than the Akha. This is a response to marginalization, the respondents not always ending up as victims. Thus, while the Akha in some ways recognized that the lowland groups were more powerful than they, I agree with Kammerer (1988,

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265) that any dependency was ‘not internalized into self-identification’. Thus, although lowlanders viewed upland groups as ‘other’, the uncivilized, the ‘wild’, and symbolically, if not always actually, incorporated upland groups as lower level members of their own hierarchical systems, through spatial practices and concepts, the Akha ritually and symbolically expunged lowland influences which were seen as dangerous and draining of upland resources (see Tooker 1996b). In this expulsion, the Akha drew upon forces of spiritual ‘potency’ portrayed as spatially emerging from inside their society and tapped through ritual practices. This internally-derived ‘potency’, which flowed unidirectionally from the inside out had a protective dimension. As it moved out, it expelled dangerous outside forces (see especially Tooker 1988). These two perspectives, apparently in contradiction to each other, held in common the belief that, from either side, the uplands or the lowlands were the inferior ‘other’ and best kept that way. Prior to nation-state expansion, one reason uplanders and lowlanders co-existed peacefully was because they were kept at a distance from each other sometimes in an enforced or self-selected way.26 For example, the government school in Bear Mountain was unstaffed or understaffed at this time because of the cultural difficulties Thai teachers had living in the hills. Bear Mountain Akha blamed some illnesses on contact with the lowlands, a good reason to stay away. Other examples of sociospatial distancing are temporary submission or false compliance (as during lowland official visits to Bear Mountain), and maintenance of a non-threatening stance by uplanders (such as low level political integration and the absence of a militaristic tradition). In this way, they could ‘talk past each other’. When confrontation, based on collective identity, did occur, it was indirect at best. For example, rituals and ritualized behavior spatially constructed the Akha as having access to life forces (potency) that flowed from the inside and protected them from the dangerous outside ‘other’. Most often this ‘other’ was not the ethnic ‘other’, but some other outside force such as evil spirits, constructing an indirect resistance. However, the striking parallels of the ethnic ‘other’ with the other outside forces in Akha society, including evil spirits and wild animals, indicates the link to, yet the deflection of, a direct confrontation with the ethnic other (see Tooker 1996b). Both the holistic and the animistic dimensions of these practices are resources for the creative deflection of inter-ethnic tensions. In addition, the non-discursiveness of these spatial practices further added to the ambivalence of their interpretation and thwarted attempts to interpret them as overt inter-ethnic hostility.27

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History of Bear Mountain Village There is evidence that Akha first moved into the area that is presently considered within the borders of the nation-state of Thailand in the early part of the 20th century (Bernatzik 1970).28 Using case histories, I found that the first members of the Loimi subgroup (the subgroup with whom I worked) to migrate into Thailand from Burma did so approximately fifteen years prior to my fieldwork. Thus, Loimi migration began in the late 1960s and continues in the present, for both economic and political reasons. Sturgeon (2000: 191) notes the arrival of Loimi Akha (fleeing violence in Burma) at an Ulo village further north in the 1970s.29 Since that period, numerous members of the Loimi subgroup have been born in Thailand. Households in Bear Mountain Village of my fieldwork varied greatly in terms of time of migration, ranging from the 15 year period all the way to the present. In selecting Bear Mountain for settlement, the Akha were fleeing violence further north and thought they had found a more protected area, yet isolated enough from lowland government influences – an area where they could have a degree of autonomy. While this was true at first, this autonomy became gradually eroded in the course of my fieldwork in Bear Mountain with increasing encroachment of external influences, especially the nation-state and capitalism. The Bear Mountain Akha village was started in January 1982 by Átù30 who would become its unofficial headman.31 Átù and his close relatives had been living for several years further north on the overused soils of Mae Chan district of Chiang Rai province, the main entry-point for Akha migrating from Burma. He visited the Mae Suai area and realized its agricultural potential as it contained valleys within the hills and was still well-forested. This was one good reason for moving there. Átù struck a deal with the headman of a pre-existing (some 60 years old) Lisu32 village, with a population of approximately 700 at that time, to purchase land on which to build houses just below the land of the Lisu village in the same small valley.33 I believe that the second good reason for moving to Bear Mountain Village (and the link-up with the Lisu) was that the Akha presence was buffered in relation to the lowland Thai government whom they would prefer to avoid. The Lisu headman was an expert diplomat and protected ‘his people’ well. A third reason was that this headman also maintained a relatively peaceful and orderly village. Further north, the Akha had been plagued by raids from ‘Khun Sa people’,34 as they said – a term that seemed for them to combine both opium army men and roving bandits. In January of 1982 when Átù and the other Akha first moved in, Bear Mountain Village was still relatively isolated from the lowlands, a condition which was soon to change. This isolation allowed the Lisu to grow

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Map 2.1

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Areas of village expansion over 3 years

poppies without much governmental interference.35 As the Loimi also prefer to supplement their income with a cash crop, they saw Bear Mountain as a place where they could gain wealth through opium. Thus, this provided a fourth good reason for their move there. The relationship between the Bear Mountain Akha and the lowland Thai in this initial period of village formation could be described as loosely ‘tributary’. Only occasional labor and goods were required to keep the lowlanders at bay. Lowland officials, for example, extorted money from the Akha based on their ‘illegal’ status in Thailand (both for not having citizenship cards and for growing opium illegally). As long as the Akha paid, they were left alone (a situation that was to change later). As mentioned above, for some negotiations, the Lisu headman served as an arbiter. The formation of a ‘double’ Akha/Lisu community in itself could be a topic of study, both because it is somewhat unusual in terms of Akha village formation as it had occurred previously in Thailand and because more ‘double’ villages of this type have been forming. The main reasons for the appearance of these ‘double’/multiethnic villages are the increasing land shortage in Thailand and the need for a political shield against both the lowland Thai government and any unstable political forces in the area. By 1990 (see below), the village situation was even

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more diverse, since it then included a large Thai government agricultural research station a short distance from the village (with tribal people as day laborers), a further expansion of the Akha village, and an additional Christian village area outside both the Akha and Lisu villages. Nevertheless, prior to 1990, the Akha-Lisu village relationship did not seem to affect in any significant way the enactment of spatial codes at the levels of village and household that I discuss in this book. One might expect that they would affect the village level. The Bear Mountain Akha did not view themselves as living within the same spiritual or community space as the Lisu.36 The village gates of the Akha Bear Mountain Village were built in the typical Loimi fashion at the edge of the Akha ‘village’, they separated the Akha village from the Lisu village, and where the Lisu lived was always referred to as a separate village. Ideally, the Akha prefer to have a forest belt surrounding the village, and forming its periphery. This was the case for some sides of Bear Mountain Village (See Map 4.1 in Chapter 4), but not all. On other sides were Lisu fields. A dirt path just above the Akha village abutted on the Lisu village itself. Oddly enough, this alignment of non-Akha with what lay ‘outside’ the village gates fit the conventional system. As we will see below, there is a semiotic code at the village level that places both the negative spirits of the forest and non-Akha in the same structural position. The Akha grew dry rice as their main crop (a crop intimately connected to the ritual cycle), and, as I said, supplemented it with opium as a cash crop that would be used to purchase rice if there were not enough. They also grew corn, mostly as animal fodder. Among some families with enough extra labor, corn became a valuable cash crop sold to the lowlands via Lisu transportation. Barley was grown in small quantities. The main vegetables and fruits were lettuce, melons, cucumbers, red kidney beans, soybeans, peanuts, onions, mint, chilies, small tomatoes, pumpkins and pumpkin greens. Through gathering, the Akha collected bamboo shoots, mushrooms and honey, among others. Herding was not feasible due to the lack of grazing land nearby, although I was told that both in Burma and Northern Thailand, many of the villagers previously herded cattle. Villagers raised pigs, chickens, ducks, dogs, and ponies, using the latter as pack animals. Cats were allowed to roam free throughout the village. A few buffaloes were raised by the household of the dzø̀ma (village ‘ruler’). They were intended to be sacrificial animals for his funeral, as he was up in his years. Hunting was mostly for smaller animals, although a wild goat was caught in forested land below the village. Hunters and trappers caught lizards, pythons, various birds, barking deer, freshwater crabs and fish, bamboo gophers (hopì), and various other rodents. When I moved into Bear Mountain Village, there were two young men who had had a few years each of Thai language training in lowland

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schools. No one else spoke Thai, although many, especially men, knew Chinese, Lahu and/or Shan. They spoke Chinese or Lahu when dealing with the Lisu. In addition, during my fieldwork, some wealthy villagers began to send their small children to a lowland Christian boarding school in Chiang Rai where they could learn Thai.37 Other children attended the Thai government school in the Lisu village, although that school did not have a particularly good reputation and had difficulty holding some of its Thai teachers. Shortly after the Akha village was founded, its condition of relative isolation was to change. A joint Thai-German development project built a dirt road into the village,38 connecting it to villages further down the hills which were already connected further down to the main paved road that runs from south to north between the towns of Chiang Mai and Chiang Rai and on which the Mae Suai district offices of the Thai government are located. This did not have any immediate effect, since the new road was unusable most of the year39 as it was settling and at that time, no one in either village had a vehicle. However, by the end of my initial fieldwork (1985), through the use of the road, the village had been raided several times, both by local police40 and by the thahaan phraan or special mercenary forces41 in search of opium and firearms. In the latter raid, the soldiers knocked down all the, by then heavy and ready-to-be-harvested, poppy bulbs in the fields and villagers (myself included) lived for several weeks in fear of the presence of these heavily-armed soldiers. I was told that by 1986 (after I left), the villagers no longer grew opium.42 A further effect of the road was that several Lisu/Chinese families bought Toyota pick-up trucks to use for marketing and transportation to and from the lowlands. When Átù first came to Bear Mountain Village, he was followed by the first group of settlers which formed 18 households of slightly over 100 people. I moved into the village when it was this size. Over the three-year period, it expanded into two, then three, separate adjacent areas, each purchased from the Lisu. By the end of my fieldwork in July of 1985, the village had grown to over 550 people in some 66 households. These people were fleeing the political unrest and poor soil quality of the regions further north. Land for fields was still available when the first group of settlers moved into the village and they simply claimed it. Only the land for village houses was purchased, as it was relatively flat and close to the Lisu village, thus prime agricultural land for them. After awhile, as more and more migrants arrived, any good field land close to the village was claimed. Some new settlers worked land far from the village (and indeed several smaller satellite villages grew up at distances between Bear Mountain Village and the nearest other large villages). Others pur-

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chased fields from other Akha or Lisu, or worked out land use arrangements with the Lisu in return for a part of the crop harvested. A company which some years back was granted logging rights by the Forestry Department to heavily forested land between Bear Mountain Village and its nearest neighbor, another Lisu village a two hour walk down the dirt road, decided to implement those rights. In a short time period, this company destroyed nearly all the forest that separated the fields of these two villages, thus imposing further land pressures on the two villages. Near the end of my first period of fieldwork, there was much discussion about new areas to which villagers could move. The increased risk involved in growing opium in Bear Mountain Village was an important factor in the migration decisions of some villagers. At the time, it seemed as if this were the end of a typical village developmental cycle based on the limitations of migratory swidden agriculture, combined with external political and ecological pressures. These, however, were different in nature from previous ecological and political pressures that the Akha had faced. Under increased nation-state and capitalist penetration, the future of Bear Mountain Village and its inhabitants would not follow previous patterns of adaptation (see Tooker 2004 for post-1985 changes).

Settlers: the main sublineages of Bear Mountain Village In order for the reader to follow more easily the material in the chapters to come, I provide a brief overview of the main sublineages in Bear Mountain Village. The main thing to keep in mind is that this is a patrilineal, virilocal society. While there were a number of sublineages in Bear Mountain Village, four played major roles, and all four were interrelated through alliance relationships. Átù, the village founder, was of the Jábjàngù43 sublineage. He was the eldest of three sons. Both his father (Àbɔ́hỳ), who was in his early 60s, and his two younger brothers and their families moved into the village with him. The father and the youngest brother lived in one house, while Átù and the middle brother occupied separate houses44. I lived with the household of the middle brother, Ámɛ́. Átù’s father had a single elder male sibling living and this man (Álɛ́) and his two sons and their families also moved into the village into a single house. In fact, the funeral of Álɛ́ was the first one I witnessed in the village (see genealogical diagram, Figure 2.1). Ámɛ́’ s household formed a particularly tight unit with these first cousins, the sons of Álɛ́, as well as with the household of his youngest brother (Pítàn) and father. Átù was often distant from his own family,

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Figure 2.1

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Close members of the Ja´bja`ngu` sublineage that moved into Bear Mountain Village, 1982

and even from other villagers, one reason being his involvement in his headman role, a role which took him away from the village often.45 For the beginning period of my fieldwork, these four households contained all the members of the Jábjàngù sublineage. Later on, some more distant sublineage relatives moved in. Another significant sublineage was that of Ghø̀zǝ̀gù. The man who was invited to become the dzø̀ma (see my discussion below) of Bear Mountain Village was of this sublineage. He was in his early 70s. He

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was as well a spirit priest (bǿmɔ̀), and so was his son. By having both of them move into Bear Mountain Village, the Akha could acquire two important and frequently consulted specialists. The dzø̀ma brought with him households of his own sublineage, notably that of his dead younger brother (Tsàntàq) whose wife (Mìoq) was still alive and their adult children, and that of his eldest son who was no longer living with him. One of Tsàntàq’s son’s in the former household was married to the only living sister of Átù and his brothers. She was called Àné, and her house was located just opposite that of the family with whom I lived, thus opposite that of her older brother, Ámɛ́. Thus, the Ghø̀zǝ̀gù sublineage presence meant alliance relationships for the founder sublineage, Jábjàngù. The house of Àné was in a wife-taker relationship to the sublineage of 46 Átù (see genealogical chart, Figure 2.2). Figure 2.2 Partial genealogical chart of Ghø̀zǝ̀gù sublineage members to move to Bear Mountain Village, 1982

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A third important sublineage in the village was that of Zɛsjɔ́gù. One man, named Jɛ́tjìq (in fact, the bear attack survivor mentioned above), was in a wife-giver relationship with the dzø̀ma's family and as such was invited to important rituals. This provided further alliance relationships between village sublineages. Jɛ́tjìq and his sons also occupied a household in the village. A fact of importance was that his son was a blacksmith and thus provided another important ritual status occupation needed in an Akha village. His son became the village blacksmith and villagers built his smithy behind and below his house near a stream. The fourth important sublineage, that of Sɛdugù, had families in the village that were in a wife-taker relationship with the sublineage of the headman, Átù. In fact, the first important ceremony of bridewealth payment called jɛ́dán pi-ǝ that I saw, was the payment from a Sɛdugù family to Átù’s father’s family. The Sɛdugù sublineage was wealthy and had a leader (Àdá) who often accompanied Átù in his headman role, especially when dealing with outsiders or when making important village decisions. Soon, as more members came, Sɛdugù became more powerful as the most numerous and probably the wealthiest sublineage47 in Bear Mountain Village, and later formed the base of a separate village when the village fissioned.

Summary In this chapter, I addressed the broad, regional as well as local historical and interethnic contexts in which Akha spatial practices developed. I now turn to a more detailed look at the meaning of space in Akha society.

3

Space and the Flow of Life

Space provides a rich repertoire of signifiers universally, and has meanings that may be universally recognized, especially as they relate to human status indexing. However, here I specify the particular cultural meanings of space for the Akha case. Many of these contrast dramatically with western conceptions of space. The single most important characteristic to recognize is that, for the Akha, space has important qualitative dimensions so it is not uniform as in a western quantitative sense of space. This qualitative dimension links space to ‘power’ or ‘potency’, the ‘life force’ (gỳlàn). The Akha term gỳlàn has been variously translated as ‘blessing’ (Kammerer 1986: 66), ‘blessing, luck, grace (relig. sense)’ (Lewis 1989: 179) and ‘well being,’ ‘good fortune’ (Tooker 1988: 54, 133), among others. Similar concepts among other mainland groups have been defined as ‘potency’ (see Kirsch 1973 for upland groups), and ‘power’ (as an attribute common to both upland and lowland societies, see Durrenberger and Tannenbaum 1989, and Tannenbaum 1989).1 See also Errington (1989) for ‘potency’ in an Indonesian case. A similar concept of ‘lifeforce’ has been recognized in island Southeast Asia (see Endicott 1970; Anderson 1972; Benjamin 1979; Fox 1980; Errington 1983; and Waterson 1991: Chapter 6). There is a protective notion involved here (also recognized by Tannenbaum 1991 who calls it ‘power-protection’) in that the flow of potency protects those within its sphere from demonic forces at the periphery. Space is especially not uniform when it comes to power. There is good, protective power and there is bad, dangerous power. Good, protective power flows from ‘inside’ forces such as the ancestors and a dangerous, draining power of outsiders is drawing away that flow of life (see also Chapter 6). As an example of Akha notions of protected space, I recall a story during my fieldwork about a fire in another Akha village some distance from mine. One child was caught in a house on fire and retreated to the location below the ancestral shrine (near the central house post) where he thought he would be protected from the flames (unfortunately he was not). I myself was cautioned from laying my head towards the ‘lower’ side of the house (the side where a coffin is placed at death) because there were negative draining forces there and I might

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become ill. As mentioned in Chapter 1, a woman who was forced to flee to the forest with her young baby during a Thai army raid blamed the baby’s subsequent death on the fact that such a young baby had to leave the protective sphere of the village at such a young and vulnerable age. There are ancestral guidelines to predict which type of power is where (such as in the different areas of a house) and an ancestral system (zán) to produce good, protected spaces and expel bad influences.2 However, it is not always possible to recognize ahead of time the qualities of a space, especially since these can change when alien (non-ancestral, non-Akha) spheres of power try to extend their negative power over the Akha, an invasion that is indicated by illness, death, infertility or another misfortune. The concept of ‘power’ I use here is an indigenous Akha concept of potency, fertility, the life force, prosperity, and general well-being (gỳ3 làn). Formulaic names of three great ‘spirit-owners’ represent this concern with the potency/well-being of three realms that are important for the reproduction of Akha society: crops (kájɛ́ ‘spirit-owner’), people (bíjɛ́ ‘spirit-owner’), livestock (djèjɛ́ ‘spirit-owner’). Its close association with human reproductive fertility can be seen in numerous Akha statements that couples or individuals that are unable to bear children ‘do not have much potency’ (gỳlàn mà hỳ). These forms of power are best distinguished from power as rule by force which is reflected in such Akha terms as mǝ̀ dzà-ǝ ‘to rule (lit. ‘eat’) over a valley/town/muang’ (see below) or various usages of the term khaq such as khaq dzà-ǝ, ‘to take forcefully’.4 For these reasons, I find it best to use the terms ‘potency’ or ‘life force’. In my comparative comments, however, I must refer to the term ‘power’ since it has been used in discussions of lowland polities. What might be called political power is often associated with rule by force, although, as we shall see, both forms (potency and power as rule by force) can be dimensions of political power. Thus, strictly speaking, potency cannot be contrasted with political power, but only with power as rule by force. ‘Potency’ is seen as emanating or flowing (hydraulic metaphors are often used) from the supra-mundane world (or cosmos) to this world, and thus is not necessarily something that one can control. In fact, powerful people, positions, etc. are seen as channels through which potency flows. One cannot own or control potency, one can only try to tap into it or set up the right channels so that it flows in one’s own direction and not in someone else’s. This is where spatial notions come in and play an important role, since potency has a direction. Akha notions of space and potency are similar to the axis mundi concept described by Eliade whereby the axis point serves as a contact point with cosmic energy.

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Techniques for obtaining potency and expelling negative potency (or draining forces) have been handed down by the ancestors in zán. These include complex rules for the orientation of fields, villages, houses and people. Thus, part of the process of tapping into cosmic ‘potency’ is proper spatial alignment,5 whether it be for an individual (proper body and soul alignment), a household (proper household alignment), a field, kinship relations or a village. Improper alignment risks having one’s potency drained away. To have the best effect, mundane spatial alignment (village lay-out, for example) should reflect the directional lay-out of a cosmic pattern, and the flow of ‘potency’ from a raised center outward, a form similar to that of a mandala pattern.6 Key directions of this alignment are: center/periphery (equivalent to interior/exterior), upper/lower, level/sloped, and front/back. Should a village center/periphery lay-out (including not just architectural lay-out but the location of people as well) and incline (uphill/downhill pattern) be properly aligned with that of the cosmos, the Akha believe the village will be prosperous, cosmic potency flowing to it through the most centrally located and hierarchically highest individual – that of the village ‘founder-chief’ (dzø̀ma). Spatial coding is thus tied to an underlying power dynamic. It both channels and reflects the flow of potency, which has a particular direction. However, where potency is not flowing or is diminished (as at peripheries), space is not neutral, as I have mentioned above. Instead, that space is filled with an improper or draining force, often interpreted as the action of evil spirits or nɛ̀q. Misfortune indicates dangerous locations where potency is not channeled properly. When the directions from which potency flows are reversed (reflected in contextual re-spatialization – see my discussion in future chapters), so are the definitions of what may be draining to one’s fortune.7 The directionality of potency is linked in complex ways with the channeling of what the Akha define as proper fertility, including proper sexuality. One of the dzø̀ma’s main responsibilities is to oversee the channeling of potency in the proper directions with proper fertility as the desired result, as improper fertility in any of its parts could affect the village as a whole. As it regards the fertility of people (as opposed to animals or plants), this is the point where the dzø̀ma's political position is concerned with the Akha kinship and marriage systems and the control of sexuality, since the channeling of proper fertility is based on orderly relations between wife-giver and wife-taker groups (who are localized in households), and potency in fact flows from wife-givers to wife-takers. The dzø̀ma must oversee these orderly relations, as for example in assessing fines for adultery. As I mention elsewhere, I am unable to address the complex ways in which the Akha kinship/alliance/gender systems relate to the more

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territorially-based domains I discuss in this book. Nevertheless, we must remember that these systems are interconnected and, more importantly that the potency that moves through the marriage system flows in a spatialized direction from wife-givers (as ‘life-givers’ in that they provide the means for the reproduction of the lineage) to wifetakers,8 a movement that is often represented as a flow from above to below (or from a focal, origin point to a peripheral destination). Thus, this flow of potency has similarities with the way potency is represented in other domains of Akha society. In this respect, my discussion in this book of the spatialization of potency could fruitfully be compared with the discussions of the ‘flow of life’ in Southeast Asian marriage systems (particularly Eastern Indonesian, see Fox 1980). In addition, both sexuality and fertility (both proper and improper) as dimensions of potency are spatialized in ways I discuss later, reflecting further interconnections between spatialized potency and the potency of marriage alliance. These interconnections may reflect a more basic notion of potency which reflects the combination of opposing, complementary, asymmetrical elements to form a totality that generates potency (see below), the union of male and female in marriage being only one case of this generative potential.9

Space and the notion of totality The creation of human places of habitation and sustenance, such as villages, houses, and fields, in Akha society involves re-enacting the original creation of a cosmic order in which humans separated from evil spirits. These ‘outside’ spirits represent the powers that are dangerous to humans. The re-enactment of that order involves particular spatial configurations. Spaces that are able to generate cosmic potency and protect humans are spaces that align opposing, complementary, asymmetrical elements (upper/lower, interior/exterior (= center/periphery), front/back, right/ left, level/sloped). It is the combination of these elements that creates a totality capable of generating potency.10 Zán spells out the practices for bringing about such totalities. As mentioned above, such complementary elements are not limited to spatial elements. They can include, for example, the combination of male and female in the sexual act (perhaps the paradigmatic totality) to generate fertility. Likewise, auspicious rice planting involves the complementary actions of males digging holes with a digging stick and females dropping seeds in the holes. For each of the spatialized social domains I consider in this book, a totality is generated through these same processes. These may be seen as the generation of ‘microcosms’ in that they attempt to replicate the

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cosmos, and create a contact point with it through an axis mundi (Eliade). Thus, when the Akha establish a ‘village’ (pu), they are establishing a world of humans separate from the world of spirits. They are establishing a universe that has direct connection to protective gods/ spirits. The orientation of space plays a powerful role in this construction process. There are contradictions here since this construction elides the fact that the Akha recognize that there are both other Akha and other humans that exist outside their particular village gates. Nevertheless, the ritual complex and practices associated with the village occur as if this is not the case. This book explores the meaning of these totalities and their boundary-creating effects.

Akha socio-spatial domains For the purposes of this book, I examine Akha spatial practices for the specific social domains of the polity (village, pu) and the household (zɔ̀q) (along with its agricultural fields), and how both of those are involved in constructing a notion of Akha identity. Throughout my discussion, however, the reader will see links to other social domains.11 For a sense both of the delineation of these three areas as social domains and of their relationship to other Akha social domains, I present some material on the indigenous mapping of social domains. A spirit chanting text lists social domains in this order: m̀ (sky) mítsà (earth) míkhàn (country, region) pu (village) pà (patrilineal ‘sublineage’, zɔ̀q (household, family).

the exogamous unit)

The Akha also use these terms in daily life. In a second context – that of ‘reading’ a pig’s liver as a kind of performative divination at ceremonies in which a pig is sacrificed – the levels are represented in a more condensed way. There are three sections to the pig’s liver, one stands for each of the following levels: míkhàn, ‘country, including other villages’, pu, ‘village’, and pɛ̀zà, the (intra-village) ‘family’ carrying out

the ceremony.

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The latter term, which I discuss below, can take on different situational meanings. The first two levels in the first list, ‘sky’ and ‘earth’, represent the constitution of the universe, or ‘cosmos’, the ultimate totality. The inclusion of such items in a list that we would otherwise see as a list of human social domains indicates continuity between the latter and the cosmos. I read the term míkhàn (country, region), as used here, as referring to an Akha míkhàn, and not as the inclusion of non-Akha political units in this mapping. The context seems to call for this interpretation as does the use of an indigenous term (míkhàn) as opposed to, say, a Tai term like that of muang (Akha: mǝ̀ ).12 However, I have never seen an Akha míkhàn. Indeed, the Akha themselves will tell you they have no míkhàn, a fact deeply ingrained into their identity, at least at the time of my fieldwork. The presence of this term in ritual texts, however, leaves room for speculation that the Akha may have had their own míkhàn in the distant past and thus the possibility that the present condition (i.e. with villages as the largest unit of political integration) is an historically particular, albeit long-term, one.13 The recent evidence from Thailand and Burma provides no indication of political integration above the village level (see also Chapter 4). In both of these schematic representations, kinship ties are represented as below the village (pu) level, even though both descent and alliance ties cross-cut villages. It is interesting to note that there is no term for lineage here. Akha lineages are named, non-corporate units, based on patrilineal descent, that cross-cut communities. These broad, somewhat nebulous ties can be drawn upon, depending on the situation. When the named lineage has not split, it coincides with the pà (here translated as ‘sublineage’), also commonly referred to as the ádjǝ̀, a term which is best translated as ‘family line’. Whether or not the pà (sublineage) has a name is insignificant for the Akha. The points of splits in a named lineage which form pà are common knowledge within that lineage. The group of people who are thought of as in a relationship of belonging to a pà is often referred to in daily life as those with whom one tàq-ǝ (‘are attached to’). This attachment is reflected in two main senses: 1) in the sense of being attached enough such that marriage within the group is not allowed, and 2) in the sense of being attached such that when one household in the group performs certain rituals, the others must co-celebrate according to certain rules (lan dan tàq-ǝ 14). This latter attachment, however, only refers to pà members within the same village. This is probably why kinship ties are represented as a level ‘below’ the village, as one of the constituent units of the village.

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The term pɛ̀zà in the second list is an intermediary term that the Akha use to reference levels between, and including, the zɔ̀q (household) and the sublineage (pà). I have heard it used simply to refer to members of a single household.15 I have also heard it used to refer to close sublineal relatives as well as those of the household. In addition, it can be used to refer to all the members of the sublineage itself. Finally, I have heard this term used as a euphemism for ‘spouse’, since the Akha are modest about mentioning their spouses by name or even kinship term of reference (such as khàdzézà for husband). One can sometimes, but not always, tell its reference from the context. The group of close relatives intermediate between a sublineage and a household that the term pɛ̀zà may reference resists easy definition. It usually includes direct descendants of the last generation to die within one’s direct patriline. Thus, for example, if the ‘grandfather’ level has all died out, all of those at the ‘father’ level and their direct descendants, whether or not they live in one household, may be referred to as one’s pɛ̀zà. Thus, these groups may be of different sizes depending on particular family circumstances.16 The last unit (zɔ̀q or household), and indeed the smallest unit which can be differentiated by the type of zán it practices, is alternatively called íkán or njḿ. There is a tendency to use the latter two terms to refer to the physical structure of the house, while the terms zɔ̀q and pɛ̀zà are used to refer to the group of household members.17 However, we will see below that these two usages are intertwined. The zɔ̀q (household) is both a residential unit, constituent of the village, and a patrilineallyrelated family, constituent of the larger descent group, the pà. It is interesting to note that these lists mention no unit smaller than the household. In fact, when responsibility for illness is considered in terms of what wrong was committed that would cause a spirit to afflict a sick person, the household (zɔ̀q) is viewed as the responsible agent. In the next few chapters, I look at the complex spatialization of these indigenously constructed domains.

4

Spatializing the Upland Village Polity and its Alter, the Lowland Muang

In Burma proper the Hill Chieftains whom the first European travellers encountered were often dressed in Chinese, Shan, or Burmese style and took pride in listing the honorific titles which had been bestowed upon them by their elegant Valley overlords, but at the same time they themselves claimed to be lords in their own right, subject to no outside authority. (Leach 1960-1961: 60) Figure 4.1 Bear Mountain Village

Upland-lowland relations Any discussion of a ‘village polity’ needs to be linked to what that polity has historically been posed against and contrastively defined by. For the Akha, this is the Tai lowland muang (town/kingdom)[Akha: mǝ̀], a recognition by the Akha that they are and have been in a continuing interac-

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tion with more powerful lowland groups. The Akha polity itself (and one could say Akha identity as well) has come into existence, and is reproduced, through this dialectical relationship with the lowlands (see Chapter 2; see also Alting 1983). This chapter discusses that relationship but also includes spatial tactics (such as precedence and encompassment in power relations, and both aggregation and dispersion of power) that are applied within Akha society as well. The historical relationship between upland and lowland societies in Southeast Asia can be generally characterized as one in which politically dominant (more) centralized lowland governments have attempted some control of, or extraction from, hill peripheries, and upland decentralized governments have attempted to resist that control. As we have seen in Chapter 2, historically, the Akha have had complex relations with various Tai groups of the lowlands (including the Thai of Thailand, the Shan of Burma, the Tai Lue of China, etc.) as well as with other upland groups (Lisu, Lahu, Bulong, etc.). They may have even been displaced from some lowland areas to the hills by Tai groups, as they claim to be the case in Yunnan.1 Of course, now in China they are more directly influenced by the Han Chinese who have usurped the domination of the Tai in areas of Southwest China. Occurring as they have in pre-colonial and non-colonial (e.g. Thailand) contexts, these systems of political domination and resistance cannot be understood in the same terms in which analysts have portrayed political domination through colonial encounters, the expansion of (western) capitalist systems and/or the expansion of the nation-state. Nevertheless, these cases show clear evidence of political struggle and tensions, illustrating that we cannot view pre-colonial societies as unfractured coherent wholes. At the time of my initial fieldwork (1982-1985), the perception of lowland ‘ruling kingdoms’ or muang among the Loimi Akha (and Akha-lowland interactions) were probably not very different from what they had been for centuries (see also Leach 1960-1961). At that time, neither capitalism nor the nation-state system had fully penetrated the isolated areas and difficult terrain where the Loimi Akha lived in Thailand, Burma and Laos and the degree of control that the state exerted (almost always negative) was akin to what the precolonial rulers called for when they asked for tribute (extraction of crops or livestock) or corvee (extraction of human labor). Conditions that we associate with the modern nation-state and the notions of sovereignty that it implies, such as taxes, land titles, bureaucratic/administrative systems, etc. did not fully obtain in this area.2,3 Historically the Akha have benefitted somewhat from interactions with the lowlands, but their general reaction has been one of suspicion and distrust. In Burma, the Akha experienced raids by the central army

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who forced them to be porters4 and independent opium armies to obtain foodstuffs. In Thailand, they suffered from occasional forced labor (such as work on government agricultural projects, public works construction and even state celebrations such as the King’s Birthday), extortion by government officials and local gangsters, forced migration, and village raids by roving bandits, Thai mercenary forces, local police and opium warlords, and most recently from AIDS contracted from lowland prostitutes. These relationships can all be characterized as the extraction of people (human labor), crops and foodstuffs (and money). Until 1985, the relative isolation of the Bear Mountain region, and what lowlanders perceived to be an uncomfortable (Thai: may saduak) ‘space’ (the hills) and an unproductive space (i.e. marginal land), kept these unwelcome interactions to a minimum.5 Akha responses to political domination were migration or flight and occasionally submission, although their egalitarian ideology resists this. Under conditions of ‘semi-autonomy’, they were able to produce their own ‘spaces’ in the hills, including the establishment of villages, households, fields, and other intra-societal hierarchies, all of which rely on the carrying out of Akha ancestral practices (zán) that simultaneously reflect and constitute Akha ethnic identity. In sum, we can characterize the relationship of lowland governments to Akha society as one of extraction, the antithesis of the ‘potency’ (of crops, livestock and people) that the Akha are trying to obtain. The drawing of Akha ‘village’ boundaries served to protect village inhabitants from these negative external forces. The material in this book is based on certain historical conditions. The conditions during my initial fieldwork were that the Akha could still produce their own ‘spaces’ in the hills. With increasing land shortage and expanding state control, these conditions are changing.6

Constructions of insiders and outsiders and changing modes of political relations In these conditions of semi-autonomy, the Akha carried out an elaborate set of ancestral practices (zán) (both ritual and everyday) that separated the good domains of the ‘inside’ (inside Akha society, inside the community, etc.) from the ‘outside’ (non-Akha, outside the community, etc.). The spiritual world and the world of the dead were very much a part of this construction of worldly domains and thus on a continuum with the living and the visible. Thus, there were both living people who were ‘insiders’ or ‘outsiders’ and spirits who were ‘insiders’ or ‘outsiders’. These practices established the Akha as having access to the powers of the inside, powers that are triumphant over the dangerous/ threatening powers of the outside. In fact inside powers can ‘domesti-

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cate’ outside powers. This victory was continuously recreated through ritual, and the Akha were able to maintain the health and well-being of their society. The ‘village’ construct was a significant tool for marking these boundaries between insiders and outsiders. The upland polity in this area has been village-based, and villages tended to be mono-ethnic (single tribe). For the Akha, residential identity tended to reflect down to the headdress subgroup (sub-ethnic) level so that villages usually consisted of members of a single subgroup. It must be noted, however, that tribal and sub-tribal identity was really a practice-based notion and not an innate characteristic. Thus, anyone moving into a village community would have to follow the set of practices (usually referred to as ancestral or customary practices) of that community and as a result would become a member of that tribe or subgroup (see also Tooker 1992). This automatically made village residence coterminous with ethnic identity. Inter-village and thus inter-tribal relations in the hills were, for the most part, egalitarian, each polity having the swidden agricultural system as its economic base. A single tribe did not occupy a single region. Villages of different tribes were interspersed, and inter-tribal relations were non-violent. Of course, the availability of land was an important factor in this peaceful co-existence. Villagers were relativists about the practices and identities of members of other tribes. However, there were clear mental models of ethnic groups which distinguished the group of self-identification (the ‘insiders’) from the outsiders. Thus, Akha were very clear about what were Akha practices and what were Lisu practices, for example, and each group’s ritual practices served to reinforce these distinctions.7 The relationship between upland egalitarian tribes and lowland hierarchical societies, although also involving distinct models of ethnic identity and an insider/outsider dichotomy, was a different matter. Here there were clear political tensions. Lowland polities viewed upland groups as ‘other’ (the uncivilized, the wild) and symbolically (if not actually) incorporated upland groups as lower level members of their own hierarchical systems, and in some cases enforced tribute. Upland groups placed themselves within their own egalitarian value systems and symbolically expunged lowland (hierarchical) influences which were seen as dangerous and draining of upland resources (see Tooker 1996b). In this expulsion, the Akha draw upon forces of spiritual ‘potency’ which emerge from inside their society. Such constructions reflect a mode of political relations in which local groups maintain a degree of autonomy and social distance in relation to supralocal groups, and where overt political resistance does not crystallize (is not necessary). Because these were largely non-discursive practices that constructed ethnic identity and maintained a separation with

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the ‘outside’, their meaning retained an ambivalence in that hostility was not expressed in an outright discursive form. In Akha society in general there were a number of other conflict avoidance mechanisms. Akha society can be characterized as pacifist, seeking to avoid direct confrontation with others. In extreme cases, this took the form of fleeing an area to avoid violent confrontation (note that this was true whether the confrontation was with human outsiders or outside spirits). The lack of a military tradition, at least in recent history, should be added here. These two models (lowland hierarchical and upland egalitarian), while appearing contradictory, held in common the belief that, from either perspective, the uplands or the lowlands were the ‘other’ and clear inside/outside distinctions were maintained. Prior to nation-state expansion, as mentioned in Chapter 2, one reason they co-existed peacefully was because the uplands and lowlands were kept at a distance from each other. The expansion of the nation-state system and capitalism to the uplands brings with it a clear potential for inter-ethnic conflict because of the enforced confrontation between ‘others’ that results. Pre-nation-state practices articulate with political relations that contrast in significant ways with the political mode of the bureaucratic state (colonial or postcolonial nation-state; capitalized or socialized; see also Gibson 1994). In the latter, political technologies (Foucault) of the state effect the redefinition of ‘insiders’ and ‘outsiders’ in an expansionary process. In this redefinition, elements that were previously considered ‘outside’ are almost invisibly redefined as inside the local society. Thus, the bureaucratic state carries along with it new forms of inter-ethnic accommodation as the ‘other’, along with conceptions of insiders and outsiders, become redefined, a characteristic that makes it a powerful expansionary device. I discuss these developing changes in identity forms in Tooker 2004. For our purposes here, prior to national integration, the Akha ‘village’ marked a clear boundary between Akha insiders and ‘other’ outsiders.

The ‘village’ as a social construct In the present climate of the deconstruction of previous anthropological concepts and methods, a focus on the ‘village’ and village communities requires a justification that it did not formerly require. That is, the village can no longer be viewed as a natural unit but rather as a particular type of social formation that emerges under certain historical and sociocultural conditions. It is also not a universal one for nonmodern agricultural societies (see, for example, Tsing 1993).

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The ‘village’ as a ‘polity’ and microcosmic totality is socially significant for the Akha, and has a clear linguistic indicator (pu). The Akha polity is, and from all indications, has been, village-level. In fact, not having a muang8 (Tai term, supra-village political unit up to kingdom/nation-state) as the Tai lowlanders do is an important part of Akha ethnic identity. ‘Just-so’ stories about why the Akha do not have a muang, why they do not have the characteristics of ‘people of the muang’ such as a world religion like Buddhism, writing, head bowing, and a cashoriented economy, abound in Akha society and Akha tell these stories with relish. They also tell more positively oriented stories about their closer connection to nature, their common sense, their devotion to an unbroken line of ancestral tradition, etc. – all in contrast to the lesser people of the lowlands. Akha ethnic identity has thus been clearly attached to a certain kind of political identity-that of the village polity. The phrase ‘village polity’ may sound like a contradiction in terms, since a ‘village’ may not seem to be a polity. However, it is important to consider whether in non-nation-state conditions having a polity of this size and nature, as opposed to a more complex organization which may be more threatening to other complex political systems such as those of the dominant lowland peoples, may actually serve as a political strategy to maintain some degree of autonomy. In addition, Akha villages have relatively egalitarian relations with each other and are self-governing. They thus resist unification at a supra-village level. The lack of any indigenous political hierarchy at a level higher than that of the village, and the diversity of practices in different villages, create inherent difficulties of administration for external state systems. That is why, with the expansion of the nation-state political form, it is necessary to penetrate both the institutions and identity of the local polity. In fact, one of the state reforms carried out among the Akha in China was to reduce and standardize village practices (see Tooker 1995), including ritual practices. The ‘village’ as a concept and the village as an entity must be produced and reproduced as an ‘imagined community’ just as ‘nation-state’ systems need to be reproduced (Anderson 1983). It is also reproduced in dialectic with other types of communities and other types of political organizations such as states and feudal regimes, in fact, as an alternative to them. This chapter focuses on the role of spatialization (and associated concepts of the distribution of potency) in the production and reproduction of this type of political order.9 ‘Spatialization’ is a term that reflects the fact that 'spatial codes’ are embedded in Akha practices and represents the active production of political units through those practices. Spatialization as a non-linguistic medium (and a nondiscursive practice à la Foucault) is an inherent feature of processes of political incorporation and non-incorporation (or resistance to incorporation) in Southeast Asia generally in the production of ‘imagined

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communities’ (and their hierarchical forms) and in this chapter, I demonstrate these processes among the Akha.10

Village as microcosmic totality The Akha village is a created order and is a microcosmic totality. From the Akha point of view, new villages are built on formerly ‘wild’ land, an establishment process that can be regarded as a type of domestication or claiming of land for people. The ordering/claiming of formerly ‘wild’ land involves complex spatial marking that I describe in this chapter. In some ways, I see the degree of complexity of the spatial marking and the frequency with which it must be carried out and reinforced as directly proportional to the degree of disorder and contingent nature (spatially, temporally, and politically) of the uninhabited land.11 The domestication of the ‘wild’ through these spatial practices is a process of making the ‘outside’ inside. This movement is a cycle that can be repeated over and over again as the Akha establish new villages (wild to domesticated) and abandon old ones (domesticated to wild). However, this is not an interpenetration of inside forces with outside forces as Kammerer would hold (2003a: 61ff) as clear distinctions are maintained12 (see also Hayashi 2003). This process involves both the marking and the bringing together of opposite yet complementary spatial directions, including the center and the periphery (interior and exterior), the upper and the lower, and the level and the sloped. In a sense, these opposing elements are collected in village formation and in later village restoration ceremonies. They create the village as a potency-generating totality. I will here just mention a few key village landmarks that are part of this created order. It is marked by the house of the dzø̀ma (village founder-ruler) at its center,13 prototypically by a forested belt that surrounds the village called ghà tsàn lán tsàn, and by certain structures on the village periphery, especially three sets of village gates,14 a village swing, a village courting yard, a sacred water source, a village well, and a village clay pit. In addition, at a greater distance to the west of the village, the village cemetery is located in heavy forest. The village gates especially are viewed as keeping ‘spirits’ (nɛ̀q) out of the village, since nɛ̀q are afraid of them. Nɛ̀q are also afraid of the ritual ‘stars’ known as dálɛ́ that are placed at the village gates on important ritual occasions.15 That the concept of the ‘village’ plays a dominant role in Akha daily life cannot be denied. Most Akha live in a village.16 The Akha of Bear Mountain Village looked down upon those who lived in the forest (bɔ́tsàn), such as the Mrabri foragers who are considered to be like animals, and also upon those (even Akha) who lived in isolated households

80 Map 4.1

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Sketch Map of Bear Mountain Akha Village - 1982

or small clusters of households in between fields or between forest and fields. When one Chinese man wandered into the village after fleeing from Burma, Àtsu described him derogatorily as a follower of Khun Sa (the opium warlord) and/or an Ávàq (Wa), both people who dwelled in the wilds, bɔ́tsàn (forest) or jásà (uncultivated lands) and people to be feared. Although an Akha village (pu) is a loose17 affiliation of house-

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holds, it represents ‘civilization’ for the Akha much in the same way that the muang (‘town’, ‘princedom’, etc.) and its center represent civilization for the Northern Thai (Davis 1984: 83).18 The ‘uncivilized’ live outside the village gates. The village is the Figure 4.2 Village swing and gates

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sphere of people (tsɔ́hà) as opposed to spirits (nɛ̀q); it is the sphere of the tame or domesticated as opposed to the wild,19 and it is the sphere of ‘us’ (the good) as opposed to ‘others’ (àtjɔ̀) (the bad). There was great fear associated with sleeping overnight in a field hut as is necessary at certain times of the year that require a daily heavy labor load in the field such as at harvest time. On at least one occasion, villagers who did so were frightened by spirits (nɛ̀q) throwing dirt on them during the night. The forest outside the village also represented the sphere of ‘others’, those we don’t know too well, and those with evil intentions such as bandits and soldiers. When one young man of Bear Mountain Village decided to work as a temporary porter for a group of western tourists (who were thus wealthy prey for robbers), other villagers asked him if he were not afraid on the path. In the rugged terrain of this region, there was, of course, little policing of the pathways in the forests. Any enforcement agents that might be found would be just as likely to take advantage of the Akha as to protect them. Thus, although households are relatively independent, most Akha prefer to live in the security of an Akha village. This gives them some degree of protection (through ‘safety in numbers’) from lowland government forces (or anti-government forces as in Burma), roving bandits, and evil forces of the forest or ‘wild’ such as evil spirits (nɛ̀q) and wild animals (tigers, wildcats, snakes, etc.). As mentioned in Chapter 3, part of the dzø̀ma (village priest)’s responsibility is to oversee the flow of the life force, fertility, and reproduction in the village. These flows have repercussions for those who live in the village. When he decided that the youth of the village had not been frequenting the courting yard enough (with its nighttime singing and dancing), the dzø̀ma of Bear Mountain Village ordered a command performance and the teenagers appeared the next night. He also oversees orderly kinship relationships between households in the village as this affects the flow of proper fertility. These orderly relations include the channeling of fertility and reproduction through descent lines. Improper relations between descent groups can affect the fertility of the whole village. Infants who die before they are named, such as a stillbirth, are not incorporated into a descent group through the patrilineal naming system and are not allowed to be buried in the village cemetery. Illegitimate births represent a threat to these orderly relationships since the child belongs to no descent group. As a result, when such situations occur, special spirit chanting ceremonies (see Chapter 6) must be conducted at the village gates in order to protect the fertility of the village. Other forms of improper fertility that arise such as multiple and deformed births (occasions that require the killing of the infants) also affect village fertility. On such occasions, the village ‘courting yard’

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(dɛkhàn), as the locus of potential village reproductive fertility (based on proper alliance relationships), must be destroyed and a new one rebuilt. This process involves changing the location of the courting yard and releveling the ground, under the dzø̀ma’s supervision, reiterating his connection to the proper flow of village reproductive fertility. The village forms a social totality in terms of both descent and alliance groups. A single household cannot represent all of society for a number of reasons, the most important being that it cannot alone be a productive unit for any length of time since wives must be gotten from another household, indeed another sublineage. The civilized life of the Akha village includes the orderly relations between kinship groups (descent and alliance groups) as localized in households in order to channel fertility properly. Alliance relationships also affect the flow of proper fertility since it moves from wife-giver descent groups to wife-taker descent groups. The kinship composition of the village is important in maintaining this orderly flow. As a conglomerate of several exogamous units (sublineages), the village is a microcosm of all of Akha society. It normally and preferably includes within it groups that are sufficient to reflect the basic framework of the Akha kinship/marriage system. There are several lines of ritual text that re-iterate the embodiment of kinship principles in residential units: we don't build a village with only our sublineage we don't move to new territory with only our family as for the others [i.e. who do this with us], they are ‘unrelated’ to us [i.e. neither wife-giver nor wife-taker status] (my translation) As a comparative note, Lewis states that, in order to start a village, one must have members from at least three sublineages (1970b: 825). In one illustrative discussion I was first told that you could start a village with as little as one sublineage, but that this was not preferred since there were many customs (zán) that could not be carried out. For example, when there is a ‘monstrous birth’20 among one’s domestic animals, such as a single birth from a pig, both the mother and offspring must be killed. According to customs, however, no one in the same sublineage as the pig’s owner is allowed to kill it for fear that this improper fertility will pass to them. One villager said that the pig would not run away by itself and would keep coming back to its owner’s house. Thus zán, which prescribes that the family must get rid of the pig, would be violated. So you need someone from another sublineage to kill it. In addition, neither those in the same sublineage of the owner of the pig nor those who are in a wife-taker relationship with that sublineage (thus those involved in a second sublineage since the sublineage

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is the exogamous unit) can eat the pig once it has been destroyed, since fertility passes from wife-givers to wife-takers and one would not want to pass improper fertility. As one can see, this makes it desirable to have at least three sublineages (i.e. wife-givers, wife-takers and own sublineage) in a village in order to carry out zán properly. Thus, the villager started this conversation by saying that you could start a village with one sublineage, and ended the conversation, after he had gone through this kind of reasoning about zán, by claiming that you could not. The dzø̀ma can restrict the presence of certain individuals in the village that might affect village fertility, based on the proper alignment of kinship groupings. Thus, a woman recently divorced cannot move back to the house of her natal parents for an extended period of time. The time limit on her stay is set by the dzø̀ma. Since the woman was already attached to another sublineage from that of her parents, she can no longer regain her attachment to her natal sublineage. She is already a ‘given’ woman and cannot return to the house of her parents since that would be akin to incest. She now in essence belongs nowhere. She must leave the village and her best prospects are to remarry elsewhere. These women end up remarrying other Akha or living with other ethnic groups. One young woman I knew in this position stayed for awhile in the Lisu village just above Bear Mountain Village, and was still able to maintain some contact with her friends.21 Her presence in the village would risk confusing the lines of wife-givers and wife-takers in the village, and disrupting the flow of potency. The presence of unrelated or unattached, that is, not one’s own group or not one’s wife-takers, represents a social world beyond the household which goes beyond the household’s descent and alliance ties. These ‘other’ non-attached groups are important for the carrying out of zán (see also Tooker 1991). For example, the meat of rejected animals, associated with improper fertility (see my note above), is divided exactly evenly among all the remaining unattached households in the village. It is not that they receive the flow of improper fertility, but rather that fertility will not flow in their direction so they are not in danger. In a sense, the flow of improper fertility is deflected, an important dimension of the role that they play in a village. Kinship principles and broad sublineage ties can be seen in rituals conducted at the household level, emphasizing the significance of the household complex in Akha society. However, the limits to these ties are often conventionally circumscribed by village boundaries. One example of such a household ritual is that of spirit chanting by a spirit priest. A household may perform one of these rituals in cases of illness or simply in cases of desire to increase the household's good fortune (gỳlàn). When a single household undertakes such a ritual, other households who are in the same sublineage as the household undertaking

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the ritual must practice co-abstinence (lan-ə). However, the application of the co-abstinence rule stops at the village boundaries. That is, those who reside in another village, even though they are of the same sublineage as those sponsoring the ceremony, do not have to abstain. This practice points to an image of the village as a microcosm of Akha society, indeed of the world, as the village embodies elements that represent the kinship system as a whole. This is not to deny that the Akha kinship network has broad ramifying ties beyond the village that operate in other contexts (see especially Kammerer’s 1986: 392ff. discussion). However, we must also recognize a tendency in the opposite direction as well, that is, the tendency of the political construction of the village to limit the extent to which those ties are called upon. While the village ideally represents the inclusion of kinship units that form the minimal structural basis of the Akha descent and alliance system (own sublineage, wife-giver sublineage, wife-taker sublineage, unrelated groups) it also serves as a barrier to anti-structural elements, as we have seen in the case of the divorced woman above. Thus, those in the taboo relationship of zán dòq are not permitted to live in the same village. This includes, for example, men who have been married to the same woman (at different times). Note that this overlap would confuse the separation of wife-taker groups. Thus, the village as microcosm of the Akha kinship system at times serves to exclude as well as include. These exclusionary principles are based on the logic of the Akha desFigure 4.3 Meal of respect to dzø̀ma

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cent and alliance system in which the potency that flows within descent groups and that flows from wife-giver groups to wife-taker groups (and not vice-versa) must be protected. The Akha avoid anything that might disrupt or redirect that flow.

The dzø̀ma as village ‘owner’ An Akha village is centered around a male figure called dzø̀ma, a term which may be translated as ‘founder/tradition leader/ruler’,22 and, for the most part, cannot exist without such a person.23 The dzø̀ma is only one of the specialists one finds in Akha villages, albeit the most important one. The others are the spirit priest (bǿmɔ̀), blacksmith (badjì), and shaman (njípà). They are spoken of as those who jɔsán tɔ̀-ə, ‘bear an [spiritual] owner, patron’, while others in the village do not. I discuss the spirit priest’s role in more detail in Chapter 6 when I discuss spirit chanting. The origin story of Djadɛlán, the mythic Akha ‘city state’ in China, is a mythic charter for the role of the dzø̀ma and the hereditary basis of the ‘right to rule’ (dzø̀dzà). This original ‘city-state’ was in shambles because its dzø̀ma (the original one) had left, presumably to the ‘other world’. This world was out of harmony, had lost the potency necessary to reproduce Akha society. This origin myth portrays Akha life as barren and full of disasters without a dzø̀ma. However, the original dzø̀ma would not return to ‘rule’ over the people of Djadɛlán who begged him to return. Instead of returning himself, he sent his son, starting a line of succession.24 There is great emphasis on the passing down of the ’ruling’ line without break generation after generation from time immemorial in order to maintain Akha potency. The basis of this authority lies in the past and among the dead (spirits) – all of the dead dzø̀ma in that line, as well as in the dzø̀ma's responsibility to carry out zán as prescribed by Àpø̀mìjɛ́, the creator. The Loimi biannual ceremony called dzø̀jan lɔ́-ə honors the present dzø̀ma of the village as well as the nine original dzø̀ma, who may be considered the ‘owners’ (jɔsán) of any living 25

dzø̀ma.

Continuity with past potency is reflected in the physical construction of the village swing, which is said to belong to the dzø̀ma. When a new swing is constructed the following year, the main swing post must remain in the same hole, while the other three posts are shifted around.26 This rotation parallels the rotation of agricultural fields (discussed elsewhere) where one part of the old field is kept in the construction of the new field. Thus, great importance is placed on the continuity of village structures, as it is in other spheres of Akha life. In fact, Lewis and

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Lewis (1984: 10) propose a ‘desire for continuity’ as the basic theme of Akha social life. The ‘right to rule’ (dzø̀dzà) as a dzø̀ma is inherited from father to eldest or youngest (but not middle) son. The inheritor should have lived in the same house with his father until his death (again physical continuity). In Bear Mountain Village, the dzø̀ma’s eldest son (Àbɔ́té) had already moved out to a separate house and so the youngest son was supposed to inherit the ‘right to rule’.27 Although the ‘right to rule’ passes patrilineally, there was no tendency for lineage status superiority based on ‘the right to rule’,28 since there were numerous patrilineages which contained it. Lineage (actually sublineage) segmentation would additionally spread the ‘right to rule’ around to different sublineages. More importantly, the ‘right to rule’ concerns only certain spheres of Akha life, as we will see. As mentioned earlier, in Akha society, ‘power’ or ‘potency’ (gỳlàn) including fertility, prosperity, health, well-being, and other positive ‘life forces’ are spatialized as emanating from an interior point (center)/axis mundi out.29 This is the point of contact with macrocosmic power. For village affairs, the dzø̀ma is the intermediary and holder of this intercosmic relationship for the village, and as we will see, village spatialization both reflects and creates this relationship. The dzø̀ma is responsible for maintaining the well-being of the village. Without him, all of the misfortunes of the mythic city-state of Djadɛlán, such as natural disasters (earthquakes, landslides), infertility, and others might occur. In his access to cosmic forces, the dzø̀ma can also affect negative weather patterns (excessive rain or drought) through the carrying out of prescribed rituals. He leads off many of the annual rituals, and sets down basic rules (zán) that must be followed by all villagers in order to ensure the flow of potency to the village and protect the village from the evil forces at its periphery such as evil spirits. He can be called on in situations when village potency/fertility is in jeopardy, even on occasions of difficult childbirth when he may be called to a household to apply herbal medicine to the woman in labor, a situation normally avoided as women attend to deliveries. Following zán as laid down by the village dzø̀ma (and ultimately by the ancestors and Àpø̀mìjɛ́) is a protective, communal device. It is said that spirits are afraid of people who carry out zán properly and in unity with each other (zán tsà-ə). That is why, it is said, that everyone does the village zán as proclaimed by the dzø̀ma. Should people argue about the way in which village zán should be done, and do things differently from each other, this will arouse nɛ̀q (spirits) to afflict people. That is why people are motivated to follow the dzø̀ma’s ‘rulings’. The dzø̀ma’s rule, however, extends only to his realm – that of his own village. While customary similarities hold between Akha villages,

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there are also differences relating to the way each dzø̀ma interprets those customs. Calendrical rites and therefore agricultural cycles can vary from village to village, each of which is an independent microcosm. Each Akha village can, then, be considered a different autonomous local realm or domain.

The diarchic nature of rule The political arena in Akha society is divided into two complementary spheres- internal relations and external relations, with the dzø̀ma responsible for the former and the ‘headman’ responsible for the latter.30 This division of rule is not a division into political/religious domains, since the dzø̀ma does have some politico-religious responsibility for internal affairs. He must watch over Akha customs (zán) as carried out by the villagers. For example, these would include common intra-village disputes and fines as well as ritual prescriptions. He himself also sets certain ritual prescriptions within the general guidelines of zán. For example, he is the one who decides what will be the ‘rest day’ for the village in the Akha twelve-day week. As mentioned earlier, the dzø̀ma fixes the amount of time a girl can stay with her (natal) parents upon getting a divorce, since she is not allowed to live with them permanently once she has married. In Bear Mountain Village, the dzø̀ma set this at one ‘week’ (12 days). In one case, a woman who was friends with a recently divorced girl complained to me that in other villages she had seen girls live with their parents for two or three years after a divorce, but because this was the dzø̀ma’s village they had to follow his rule. These can be called internal political affairs. Decisions about major political/economic relations with outside groups are made at the village level, usually by a council of adult males and elders, headed by one or two ‘important men’ (jɔ hỳ) who maintain their positions through political and diplomatic skills and wealth. In this sense, they are similar to the ‘big men’ defined by Sahlins (1985) in that their positions are not inherited and need to be maintained through status display. Interestingly enough, the Akha term for them, jɔ hỳ, can mean ‘big’. In fact, Sahlins’ description of the social organization of Melanesia where ‘big-men’ are found could easily describe the social organization of the Akha: The characteristic western Melanesian ‘tribe’, that is, the ethniccultural entity, consists of many autonomous kinship-residential groups. Amounting on the ground to a small village or a local cluster of hamlets, each of these is a copy of the others in organization, each tends to be economically self-governing, and each is

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the equal of the others in political status. The tribal plan is one of politically unintegrated segments-segmental. (Sahlins 1985: 182) Sahlins then goes on to contrast this status-achieving organization with the more stratified, ‘pyramidal’ one of Polynesia. One of these ‘big-men’ may be appointed as the official headman by the dominant lowland government, but this is not necessarily the case. It was not the case in Bear Mountain Village, probably because the village was only of recent origin and also because, as far as the Thai government was concerned, the Lisu headman filled that official capacity. In the Akha Bear Mountain Village, however, Átù was often called the ‘headman’ (bùsɛ́) of the village, even though he was not officially appointed as such. Bùsɛ́ is a Shan term for the officially appointed headman. It is equivalent to the Thai term phuu yay baan (‘village headman’), a term villagers started to use towards the end of my fieldwork.31 Since both terms for ‘headman’ are foreign loan-words, one might question, as Lewis (1969a: 135) and Kammerer (1988: 273) do, whether or not diarchic rulership is indigenous to the Akha or has only arisen out of their relationships with outside groups.32 However, we must remember that the Akha have been in some kind of interaction with outside groups for centuries, even if it was avoidance. There is also an indigenous precedent for this role in the Akha term khaqma (lit. 'strong man') which appears in oral texts. This person is the receiver of guests for the village and thus has a more externally-related role than the 33 dzø̀ma (possibly also a warrior role). Lewis suggests that the headman position ‘may have developed as somewhat of a protective guise’ for the dzø̀ma (Lewis 1969a: 135), although I am suggesting that it is just as likely that that ‘protective’ role is centuries old. For the dzø̀ma to get involved in the more externally oriented decisions of the ‘big men’ might actually be threatening to his reception of potency, since potency is generated from the inside. In this sense, he is responsible for village harmony and concordance with zán, but is not responsible for any extra-village affairs. In fact, Lewis states that when a 34 dzø̀ma is selected by a council of elders they will pick a man ‘who is not interested in hunting, trading, and other pursuits that take him from the village’ (Lewis 1969a: 120).35 Thus, not one who is interested in activities that would take him away from the source of potency at the center/interior of the village to the peripheral and dangerous areas outside the village gates. The diarchic division of rule in Akha society into internal and external affairs parallels what has been found for at least some other parts of Southeast Asia (See, for example, Hayami’s (2003) and Mischung’s (1980) discussions of diarchic rule among the Karen). Schulte Nordholt,

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in describing Atoni princes and their relation to internal affairs, states: ‘The prince is not permitted to be active and is not allowed to leave the precincts of the palace … it is his duty to remain ‘‘inside’’ ’ (1971: 200). Waterson, citing Errington, notes the images of the ruler as the ‘still centre of the universe’ (1991: 95) for the Buginese and practices among the Toraja that the ‘Leader of the Land’ must not travel during the ricegrowing cycle (192). She states that ‘Immobility ... represents a concentration of fertility, or of supernatural or political power’ (193). This characteristic, however, does not make the Akha dzø̀ma ‘feminine’, as Schulte Nordholt states for the Atoni, since the dzø̀ma is responsible for fertility as a unitary principle, combining both male and female. Thus, this internal/external distinction does not align easily with a female/male distinction, but instead does reflect a complementary division of different types of political domains.36 It also does not align with the active/passive dichotomy either since each is active in a different way. The Akha village ruler is male, but is responsible for the channeling of proper sexuality and proper fertility (something which combines both female and male elements) to the village. It is best to avoid applying the dichotomies of male/female or active/passive, and instead to view the difference in roles as a cultural response to a particular (if more generally shared) cultural construction in which potency emanates out from an interior, protected center and anti-potency, or draining forces, impinge on it from the outside.

Village orientational schemes: level/sloped, upper/middle/lower, and the ‘middle way’ As I discuss spatial coding in Akha practices, I ask the reader to keep in mind that ‘space’ is not the neutral empty container that it is in modern western notions. Whenever I discuss Akha spatial arrangements, we must keep in mind their direct relationship to notions of potency as can be seen, for example, in the relationship of space to health and illness that I discuss below. ‘Potency’ emanates from centers and therefore peripheral areas are subject to two kinds of dangers: the danger from being insufficiently protected by one's own center, and the danger of influence from another damaging center. The basic orienting divisions in an Akha village are tripartite. They are dzéhù (upper part), ghántjɛ (middle section) and dzédàn (lower section). The sense of ‘middle’ ghántjɛ is not the sense of being between upper and lower, rather it is the sense of being centrally located in relation to them as non-central (or peripheral), i.e. in the middle of a slope. Thus the Akha term used (ghántjɛ) in these discussions differed from the term normally used for a sense of between two points (jɔ kà-án; see

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Lewis 1989: 525). In this sense, the meaning of ‘middle’ here overlaps semantically with that of ‘center’, which I discuss later. In this sense, also, the dzø̀ma, whose house is located in the ‘center’, becomes an orientational point for the upslope/downslope division in the village, a division which is normally relational. This position in the middle of the slope is one which represents ‘level’ (or unsloped) ground, which is positively valued by the Akha, and the tripartite division mentioned above can best be understood in this manner. The imagery of level ground is associated with good living conditions in general and at times specifically with good health. For example, one form of ‘outside’ spirit chanting37 at the village level (pu khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə; see Glossary) done in the case of a village epidemic is called pu lan dɛ lan tyq-ə. Pu lan means ‘the whole village’. Dɛ lan means ‘the whole flat land’. The final verb tyq-ə was described to me as leveling out a flat area in a steep field and ‘holding it' with rocks and/or logs, somewhat similar to field contouring practices. Thus, the village curing ceremony involved the image of leveling out steep land (the land that was jɔ sjà, i.e. the difficulties of the village) in order to make it jɔ sá (level). The term jɔ sjà means ’steep’ as well as ‘poor’ and ‘difficult’. Notice that leveling in relation to hill fields means greater field fertility with less erosion. The syllable dɛ, meaning flat land is often used in phrases to describe the village land in a positive light as in the phrase above, pu lan dɛ lan (the syllable lan means ‘all’). See also the following phrases found in Lewis’ dictionary (1968: 248-249): pu tjɔ̀ dɛ tjɔ̀, ‘the people (tjɔ̀) of the village', pu zán dɛ zán, ‘the zán of the village’, pu zɔ̀q dɛ zɔ̀q, ‘the households of the village’. Alting’s discussion of upslope/downslope and the Akha view of villages as located mid-slope (1983: 263ff) is instructive here. He describes the ‘prototype Akha village’ (263) as one that is in the middle. We will later see this positive valuation of level land replicated at the level of household. The village courting yard, called dɛkhàn (lit. ‘level land’) belongs to the dzø̀ma (see below) and is a piece of ground that is leveled by villagers as a main village structure. It usually contains some wooden benches for people to sit on. Here youth sing and dance at night as part of their courting practices. It can be seen as a spatialized representation of village fertility. Should improper births occur in the village, the courting yard must be moved and re-leveled (as happened several times during my fieldwork) to re-introduce the flow of proper fertility to the village, an activity that is overseen by the dzø̀ma. The dzø̀ma’s positioning in the middle as a channel that establishes the Akha (village) in the middle can be seen in the annual village swinging ceremony held in the middle of the rainy (and thus rice-growing) season. After allowing a spiritual dzø̀ma to swing first (note the link to the cosmos), the head dzø̀ma of the village swings (before other villa-

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Figure 4.4 Leveled ground for the dɛkhàn

gers). In the textual language38 associated with this ceremony, we find that the swing stretches out to swing first down ‘to the Tai lowlands’ to bring good fortune from there up, passes through the middle and then swings up to place of the Ághɔ́39 rulers ‘who have lots of rice’ in order to bring that good fortune down to the Akha. Note that this positions the Akha in the middle (in contrast to the locations of the other ethnic groups) and as receptors of good fortune/potency flowing from both above and below. Ideally, the dzø̀ma’s house was the first to be built in an Akha village and must be built in the middle (ghántjɛ)40 of the village.41 This was the case in Bear Mountain Village. After the dzø̀ma’s house is built, the other houses of the village can be constructed. This in fact is the first example of what have been called ‘rituals of dispersion’ (Tambiah 1985b), a point I will return to later. In this sense, the dzø̀ma may be called the ‘founder’ of the village, although in actuality another person may have located and first settled the land where the village is located, as happened in the case of Bear Mountain Village. Both the physical location of the house of the dzø̀ma and his avoidance of involvement in external affairs that we have mentioned above protect him from peripheral forces, forces which in Akha terms are negatively evaluated.42 In the context of village spatialization, these peripheral forces would include lowland or other non-Akha centers, the realm of evil spirits and the realm of wild animals (the forest), all of which represent dangerous domains. In Akha conceptualization, low-

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land state centers (muang) are more frequently the reference for those ‘outside’ the Akha village gates. Other upland tribal groups appear to be less threatening In general, the Akha prefer not to locate their houses in the lower part of the village (dzédàn) which is associated with impurity, although they may. It is the place where garbage and run-off from other households ends up. In 1988, after my initial fieldwork, I was told by an Akha that a respected elderly man (in fact, the father of Ámɛ́) who, with his family, had been one of the first initial Akha settlers, decided to move to the upper part of the village. With little settling-in time before that first planting season in 1982, he and his family had decided to purchase an abandoned Lisu hut for 2000 baht in an area that was to become the lower part of the village. Afterwards, he and his family decided that they did not want to live ‘below’ (làq oq), that is, downslope from, others, and so purchased some land from the Lisu just above the house of Ámɛ́. Certain families, however, must locate their houses there. Parents of monstrous births and victims of other major tragedies such as house fires must live in the lower part of the village (dzédàn) (usually at the edge), far from the center of village purity and well-being represented in the figure of the dzø̀ma. There was one case of such a house in Bear Mountain Village. An elderly woman moved into the village with her grandchildren -both her husband and children had died. In the previous village where she lived, three houses had burned, including hers. I was told that when that happens, one is not allowed to live in an Akha village. That family must live in jásà (‘uncultivated lands’) for one year and after that could move to the edge of the village. They said that that was why she now lived at the edge of the village. They called her house njḿdzé (‘house to the side’). I note the location of her house (as njḿ dzé) on the Village Expansion Map 2.1, as she was part of the third village expansion. The three-fold (upper/middle/lower) division of the village, with its positive valuation of the middle, is one found in numerous other domains in Akha society, especially in images of the afterlife. After death, there are three spiritual paths that the ‘soul’ (sàqlá) may take – an upper path, a lower path and a middle path (see Figure 4.5). While teaching me, the spirit priest used his knife to draw these paths on the ground as three lines, the middle line being much longer. While dangerous spirits lurk in the upper (njakán) and lower (gykán) paths, the middle path, which is the longest of the three, leads to the land of the ancestors. In fact, a spirit priest’s main responsibility at a funeral is to lead the recently deceased down the correct path. Lines from the funeral text run as follows:

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in the middle of heaven the sun and moon shine don’t shine from the edge the middle of heaven is good, shine in the middle in the middle of earth walking with a staff don't walk with a staff at the edge of the earth the middle of the earth is good, walk just at the middle the small tiger roams all over the country don’t roam at the edge of the world the middle of the world is good, roam just at the middle. (Hansson 1979: 2) The middle path is called ghánkán djmàkán, ‘the middle ancestral path’. Here we see the syllable ghán meaning ‘middle’ as well as the syllable djm that we will find in the term for the main house post (djmzə́) next to which the ancestral section is located.43 Note also that here the middle is contrasted not only with upper and lower, but also with ‘edges’, a point I discuss further below. This is not just the point of view of specialists, either. One day an elderly man (Àbɔ́hỳ) was insistent that I come visit his house and so I did. His conversation both elaborated on and confirmed the structure I have already presented. His older brother (Álɛ́) had recently died and so he himself was thinking about the afterlife. Also, I had recently been Figure 4.5 Representation of the three paths in afterlife from funeral ritual

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taping the chanting of shaman trances, and shamans are purported to visit the land of the ancestors in their journeys to the spirit world. At first, Àbɔ́hỳ said that there were two ways to go to the ancestral world, one way by horseback44 and one way by foot. At this point in the conversation he was still referring to the manner in which shamans go and not to the manner in which ordinary people go after death. He said that shamans can go either way.45 Later in the same conversation, he mentioned three ways to go to the ancestral world, and here is where he was referring to the journey of a person after death. One way was uphill, one downhill, and one in the middle. The latter is the one you are supposed to take. If you follow this proper path, you will be well taken care of when you reach the ancestral abode and you will be given a house to live in. Many other villagers confirmed this vision of the threefold path to the afterworld. Notions of a level middle stance (or ‘Middle Path’46) also guide the Akha in their lifetimes as in the Akha ideal of avoidance of extremes such as extreme happiness or extreme wealth. The ideal is to be satisfied, contented, neither too ‘up’ nor too ‘down’. One does not want to be ‘poor, in difficult circumstances, or hard up’ (jɔ sjà), but ‘content, comfortable, in good health, having enough’ (jɔ sá). In fact, the syllable 47 kà in the name àkà means ‘in the middle’, although, as far as I know, the Akha do not make conscious use of this meaning. Roux and Tran (1954: 153-154), however, state that ‘Les deux mots A-Kha signifient ‘‘intermédiaire’’ ou ‘‘entre deux choses’’ ... Cette appellation proviendrait de la manière dont sont construites les cases kha kò [Akha] qui, moitié sur pilotis, moitié sur terre battue, tiennent à la fois de la case chinoise et de la hutte p'u noi ou kha khmu.’48 This is an interesting explanation, but it is not clear from whence it comes. However, there is a conscious notion of living ‘in the middle’ in Akha house construction, as we will later see.

Two axes and the notion of totality There are two axes that can define a center for the Akha, and, as I have mentioned above, they often overlap. One is the upper/middle/lower axis that defines the center as between these two points, and can best be understood in terms of the sloped/unsloped dichotomy with the positive evaluation on the unsloped (level). The other is the centerperiphery axis that defines a center in relation to edges. The location of the dzø̀ma’s house represents a central location according to both of these schemes. I also need to complicate this picture a bit further. That is, whenever I use the term ‘center’, I do not mean to imply an exact geometrical

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center, but rather a focal point from which a ‘periphery’ as a continuum is constructed. As a focal point which represents the source from which potency flows, Akha ‘centers’ are also connected in important ways with notions of interiority. In fact, the center/periphery dichotomy overlaps an interior/exterior dichotomy. Thus, the dzø̀ma’s house as at the ‘center’ of the village (see below) means that he is at the most interior (and protected) point. We will also see the construction of the ancestral shrine in the household at the most interior point in the house. Nevertheless, the important element in this construction is that a hierarchical continuum from the focal point out is constructed. In general in Akha society, the center (as opposed to periphery or edges) and the middle or level (as opposed to upper or lower as sloped) are positively valued and are the points from which well-being, abundance, good health and fertility emanate. For example, a song extolling the Akha ‘line’ makes a point of noting that the Akha can be known by their topknots, which are worn (by males) not on the sides of their heads (ùtɔ), but at the center (ùghán) of their heads. I was told that you could lose your ‘soul’ if these topknots, called dzànbɔ, were cut. One Akha man who went to school in the lowlands was forced to cut his by a lowland teacher. He needed to have a ceremony done for him back in the village to retrieve his ‘soul’, his life force. As we have seen, the middle is at times also equated with level or flat ground, as opposed to steep or sloped ground (i.e. upper or lower). In this case, level ground is always positively valued over sloped ground.49 That there are multiple ways to define a ‘center’ may appear somewhat contradictory to a western perspective, but actually is not. The importance of the center, as focal point, is that it represents the gathering of a totality. This is what makes it a microcosm. The totality is that of the universe. This gathering is the collection of complementary (and thus often what seem like opposite) parts of the universe. The collection of the totality can be represented by different types of spatial signs: the collection of upper and lower, the collection of the edges, etc. It is not the particular type of spatial signs (i.e. whether it is upper/lower or center/periphery or interior/exterior) that is at issue here, but rather the collection of complementary units to create a whole and generate potency through that creation.50 The swinging ceremony with its swinging to and fro to upper and lower ground to collect the potency there is a clear example. Later, I draw out this point in my comparison of Akha spatial schemes with those of the lowlands. Thus, while certain more formalized mandalic schemes have been used in the lowlands, which some believe are not relevant to the hill societies, I claim that the notion of the collection of space into a totality to generate potency is present in both. Thus, each society constructs its own totality (using spatial codes in the process), a construction that has implications for the relationship

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between the totalities, the pragmatic construction of access to potency, and the manner in which elements outside the totality are construed.

Figure 4.6 Swinging

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Village orientational schemes: center-periphery The notion of center as something opposed to periphery is evident in the Akha procedures for starting a new village. Before a village is established, a post, split on the top such that two sticks may be inserted and their four ends face in four different directions, is implanted in the ground on the spot where the Akha wish to establish the new village.51 This post is left for one night and is examined the next day. If it has been undisturbed, the present site is a good site for the village. There are a number of articles in the volume on founders’ cults in Southeast Asia (Tannenbaum & Kammerer 2003) that interpret similar practices Figure 4.7

Post similar to one for village founding (here used for field marking)

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as signals from the spirit-owners of the land that they are accepting human habitation here, thus indicating a kind of contract with the local spirit-owners. The dzø̀ma, then, is a mediator between the villagers and the local territorial spirits. The dzø̀ma’s house is built immediately after the village marking procedures, and makes this post location the center of the village. Oral texts also proclaim the dzø̀ma's association with the center of the village: ‘pu lán ghán tsé njì adzø̀-ə djɔ́ ngɛ’, ‘when twelve dzø̀ma lived in the middle of a single village’ (see Tooker 1988: 339, 356). Lewis mentions a different procedure for determining where the dzø̀ma’s house should be when a new village is started which nevertheless includes notions of both centricity and leveling. An egg is dropped on the proposed site of the dzø̀ma’s house, in fact, the location of his main house post, the djmzə́. The egg should break and run out in all directions from the center in order to indicate that this is the proper location.52 If the egg runs out in only one direction, the dzø̀ma’s house will be moved more in that direction, ‘which to their way of thinking moves the whole village’ (Lewis 1969a: 125-126). He also notes that after the dzø̀ma’s house is built, the area is considered a ‘village’ (pu) (Lewis 1969a: 128). Thus, the dzø̀ma’s house is thought of as representing the location of the village as a whole (a Dumontian encompassment notion-see below). This marking represents not just a center-oriented conceptual framework, but also a framework of continuous space. That is, the domain in question is oriented in relation to a center and proceeds out in a continuous way from that center. All village space is within that sphere of influence. The notion of center-oriented, continuous space may, in fact, have more resonances with the ‘natural symbols’ the Akha find in their own natural and social environment than they do with more abstract or linear designs of polity. One image that struck me as particularly appropriate for this notion of center-oriented, continuous space, and which may help the reader conceive of it better is that of fire.53 Wood fires, built in Akha houses on each side of its main central partition, provide both heat and a place for cooking, and so are an important part of Akha daily life. Thus, it is a readily available symbol for Akha notions of space. A fire is most intense at its center, its light and heat radiating out from there, diminishing towards its periphery. In the oral text for an Akha month called zoqla (around September) when the dzø̀ma is honored, we even find the image of a fire at the center of the village, radiating out to the village periphery: above, at the flat54 approach to the village the dzø̀ma Làn doq doq kán kán làn [= name of dzø̀ma]

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ruling at the village center55 friendly Mìnm̀ kɔ́ tiq ábəq [lit.-fast like the rolling ábəq 56 seeds] When Kɔ́ tiq ábəq strikes the flint for a fire, if [she] doesn't strike it, [only] the space around her feet is lit [at night] striking it, all the land and rivers light up.57 (zoqla text, lines 313-319, my translation; see Tooker 1988. Appendix B). Fire is an appropriate image for the notion of influence in a sphere of continuous space. Contrasting with the dzø̀ma’s house at the center of the village are the gates (lɔ́kàn) which mark the village periphery and represent several types of separations, including those between people and spirits, life and death, village (domesticated) and forest (wild), and ‘us’ and ‘others’ (àtjɔ̀), including lowlanders. Some of these separations are also represented at the household periphery. As mentioned, the village gates mark the separation of the world of people (tsɔ́hà) from the world of spirits (nɛ̀q). This separation reflects an initial one that occurred in the Akha mythological past. Spirits and people used to live together in the same house, but argued over stealing each others’ goods, and so were forced to live in separate domains. That the world of the muang as the world of the lowlanders is also represented as beyond the village gates, along with the spirit world, illustrates how Akha spatialization of the village peripheralizes that world as well. There is another interesting example of protecting the center from the periphery. Sometimes at night an Akha male elder would go outside of his house and loudly clear his throat. This was explained to me as an effort to scare away any evil spirits (nɛ̀q) in the vicinity (Note in Chapter 6 that these are called ‘outside spirits’). I interpret the throat clearing as a performative clearing of a (potentially) blocked channel and as the movement of force from the inside out, protecting the inside from any outside intrusion. Both the annual gate-building (lɔ́kàn ḿ-ə) (see frontispiece, Figure 0.1) and spirit-chasing ceremonies re-enact and reinforce the original separation of humans and (evil) spirits. The yearly ‘spirit chasing’ ceremony called ká jɛq jɛq-ə, is described by villagers as a chasing out of spirits (nɛ̀q) from the village. During it, young boys run through the length of each house more than once, terrorizing the spirits with their carved wooden clubs (tɔqma) and carved wooden rifles (Figure 4.8). After the chase, the boys gather in front of the dzø̀ma’s house and then proceed to the lower village gates where they deposit their weapons just outside a secondary ká jɛq village gate which further protects the village. The militaristic images of weapons, warplanes, rifles and machine guns are

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Figure 4.8

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Chasing out the spirits ceremony

commonly associated with the village gates. Pipe-smoking pilots sit atop their airplanes on top of the village gates (see Figure 6.8 in Chapter 6) and protective male and female carved wooden figures at the village gates may be holding rifles (see Figure 6.9 in Chapter 6). Protection against evil spirit armies is an interesting and important political dimension of the Akha village gates, not unconnected to the fact that the gates also separate Akha from lowlanders. The three sets of main village gates58 parallel the tripartite structuring of the village which locates the center between the upper and lower sections. These gates are spoken of as being located in the ‘upper’, ‘lower’ and ‘side’ (or ‘edge’) (gádzé) regions of the village. Each set is renewed each year in the annual gate building ceremony. Although the ‘side’ village gate conceptually parallels the central part of the village, it also contrasts with the village center in being located on the ‘edge’, closer to the world of spirits and other outsiders. In this sense, it is peripheral and is thus negatively valued in opposition to the positive valuation of the central part of the village.59 As mentioned in the previous section, certain people must locate their households at the periphery and lower end of the village, away from the center of prosperity and purity that is the dzø̀ma’s house. These are people associated with bad fortune and improper fertility such as those who previously experienced house fires, or those who reproduced improperly, which by Akha standards refers to ‘monstrous births’ such as twins or deformed infants. Their bad fortune might

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drain the good fortune of the village as a whole if they were located too closely to the village center. Thus, village spatial practices reflect and create inequality within Akha society as well as between Akha and lowland society.60 There are certain customs (zán) that must be followed to avoid the danger that lurks beyond the village periphery. One of these is that a baby less than a week old (considered to be ‘soft’ [jɔ nàn]), should not be taken there. During my fieldwork, there were several raids on Bear Mountain Village, both by Thai army forces and local police searching for drugs and weapons. In one of these raids mentioned in the introductory chapter, a young mother was so frightened that she fled the village with her newborn to avoid being accosted by the soldiers. Soon after, the baby died, and the death was attributed to violation of this zán. Note that her movement to the ‘periphery’ was caused by the ‘peripheral’ forces of the lowland polity. The Akha’s centric conception of the village (pu) as I have represented it so far is strikingly similar to that described by E. V. Daniel (1984) for Tamil conceptions of the -ur. Daniel asked villagers to draw maps of both the -ur (traditional village) and the kir-aman (administrative village). When drawing the latter, they would draw ‘a linear boundary in the shape of a square, rectangle, circle, or other less regularly shaped enclosing form. They then proceeded to fill in the main roads, houses, temples, and so on in the interior of the village. They would also occasionally label the villages that surround Kalapp-ur [his village of fieldwork].’ (Daniel 1984: 74, my emphasis).61 When drawing maps of the -ur (traditional village), however: the drawing began not with the periphery of the village but at its center, with the noting of the important places, such as the temple, the priest's house, the cross-roads, and so on. Only then did attention shift to the periphery. All the respondents took great care to mark the shrines of the sentinel deities, the points at which roads or the village stream enters the village, and the haunted tamarind trees that dot the edge of the village. (Daniel 1984: 74) Daniel concludes that: The -ur, as a village, is a spatial unit with the focus on the center of the village and with a vulnerable ‘‘frontier’’ (Embree 1977) or a periphery through which foreign substances from beyond the village enter (in the form of ghosts from the cremation grounds, visitors and intruders via the roads, and deities via the stream). (1984: 77)

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When referencing the periphery of the –ur, what was important to the villagers was not a boundary line, but specific village structures that marked the periphery as a porous and vulnerable one, that is, as a point of contact with non-village forces. This same orientation exists among the Akha with the concept of village radiating out from the center, and with the peripheral structures such as village gates representing the vulnerable openings to the world of the ‘other’.62 In fact, the term for village gate-lɔ́kàn-is also used for any of the main paths out of the village, even those that do not contain a wooden gate structure. These conceptions and their related practices contrast with those of the nation-state delineation of administrative units.

The ‘inside’-‘outside’ distinction The spatialization of center and periphery as a continuum is equivalent to an inside (làqkhǿ) /outside (làqnjí) distinction (also interior/exterior) that is also a continuum. Thus, the dzø̀ma is more ‘inside’ than others. Inside and outside are spatialized in terms of degrees of outsideness such as the social outcasts still living near, but within the village gates as opposed to other outsiders beyond the village gates. In soul-calling ceremonies the lost soul(s) is gradually called back from various points of ‘outsideness’ from the underworld to the forest to the village gates to the house ladder, etc. Like ‘center’, ‘inside’ is the point of contact with potency, although, as we will see, what gets defined as the ‘inside’ varies in different contexts depending on where the cultural focus is. This reiterates my point that a ‘center’ is not necessarily a geometric center but is a focal point of access to other-worldly potency. This focal point may be the most interior point in a structure, as it is in the Akha house, and thus clearly not in the geometrical center. However, once a focal point is established, so is a continuum of peripheralization (and hierarchy) in relation to that focal point. The association of the dzø̀ma with internal matters has already been mentioned. External (peripheral) forces may be draining to that inner potency. Other spatial signifiers can be juxtaposed on top of the interior (center) /exterior (periphery) dichotomy, however. Thus, ‘central’ and ‘upper’ can overlap as in the location of the dzø̀ma’s set of village gates which are the ones in the upper part of the village. When a shaman uses chicken thigh bones for divination purposes (usually in cases of illness), the upper part of the bone represents the inside (‘us’) and is called khǿjø̀ (lit. ‘inside bone’), while the lower part represents the outside (‘them’) and is called njíjø̀ (lit. ‘outside bone’). In both cases, the

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positively valued spatial signifiers (whether upper or interior) are placed in the same structural positions, reinforcing the hierarchical set of relationships that a single set sets up by itself. The inside/outside distinction is marked in a different way in a set of spirit chanting ceremonies that I discuss in detail in Chapter 6 called ‘spirit chanting of the inside and outside’. In this context ‘inside’ refers to ‘inside spirits’ (khǿnɛ̀q), a term which mainly refers to household ancestral spirits. Thus, ‘inside’ spirit chanting occurs only at the household level, while ‘outside’ spirit chanting may occur at both the household and village levels and takes place at any number of peripheral points leading out of the household and village. Thus, in these ceremonies the focal inside point shifts to the household level and to the potency emanating from the ancestors, not from the dzø̀ma. ‘Outside’ chanting at the level of the village takes place just outside the village gates. The dzø̀ma’s house cannot serve as a receptor of ancestral potency for villagers since these are separate lines of potency. These ‘inside’ spirits (khǿnɛ̀q) are an ‘internal’ matter different from the ‘internal’ matters at the village level. Here the connotation of the inside spatial signifier shifts, but not in a random way. I later suggest that this shift is related to the political nature of the spatial codes.

Spatialization as a political technology: some analytic concepts The hierarchical relationship produced between the dzø̀ma and the rest of the villagers in village practices is an important aspect of the relationship between village and household. There are several analytic concepts which can, in fact, help us to understand these practices as a political technology, and that are useful for describing this political relationship and its spatial dimensions. The first is that of ‘encompassment’ as developed in Dumont’s theory of hierarchy (Dumont 1980: 239ff), the second is that of ‘exemplary center’ as developed in Geertz’s (1980: 13ff) conception of the ‘theatre state’, and, finally the descriptive concepts of ‘rituals of aggregation’ and ‘rituals of dispersion’ as used by Tambiah (1985) in his formulation of the ‘galactic polity’. These concepts describe processes of political incorporation and nonincorporation that involve spatialization.

A

Hierarchy as encompassment

The way in which the Dumontian notion of ‘encompassment hierarchy’ applies is in the sense that, in certain situations, the dzø̀ma can stand for the whole village, while the reverse is not the case. For example, he

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carries out certain ceremonies (such as village gate restoration) on behalf of the whole village. I was told of one Akha village which lost its prosperity when it was deprived of its dzø̀ma because he decided to become Christian. This is illustrative of the fact that the dzø̀ma is responsible for maintaining the well-being, as well as the ritual purity (as concordance with zán), of the village as a whole, and is a source for the fertility and prosperity of the village. We have already seen Lewis’ remark on new village marking in which moving the house of the dzø̀ma is viewed as moving the whole village. This is much like the South Asian conception of the priest representing the whole as the ‘guardian of tradition’ (see Parkin 2009: 55). This sense of pars pro toto generates a hierarchy in which the relevant pars, the dzø̀ma, is at the pinnacle. The dzø̀ma is viewed as ruler, protector of the village as a whole. The verb dzø̀-ə, from which the title dzø̀ma comes, has the sense of ‘to rule’, but it also has a broader sense of ‘being responsible for an area, sphere or activity in Akha life’.63 The dzø̀ma’s sphere is that of the village as a whole. He is spoken of as being the ‘owner’ (jɔsán) of the village and the owner of the village structures. The village swing, for example, is spoken of as the dzø̀ma’s swing. The dzø̀ma ‘owns’ the village courting yard (dɛkhàn) which is located near the upper village gate. This further strengthens his association with fertility. In fact, as mentioned earlier, at one point during my fieldwork, after a rather violent fight broke out at the courting yard, the adolescents of the village stopped going there for several months. The dzø̀ma, responsible for village fertility, ordered them to start going again, and they had to, and did, show up as a kind of command performance. On another occasion, when the dzø̀ma was drunk, he confronted a villager and said: ‘Whose village is this?’. The villager responded meekly: ‘Your village.’ Although he consults with others, notably the male elders and the male adults (tsɔ́mɔ̀, tsɔ́khaq) of the village, the dzø̀ma’s word is the final one for setting the annual ritual schedule which, in turn, regulates the agricultural activity of all households. I once questioned a young man about the day on which an important village ritual would start, my assumption being that anyone in the village would know the correct date. Later, I happened to be in the company of the dzø̀ma who claimed the ritual would start on a date different from the one I was first told. When I confronted the first man with this contradiction, he deferred immediately to the dzø̀ma’s status, saying that if the dzø̀ma said it, then that was the correct date. These various examples of deference illustrate the dzø̀ma’s authority in the village sphere.

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Aggregation of power

Whenever a new household moves into a village, the household head must present a ritual meal of respect64 to the dzø̀ma, acknowledging his dominion. This can be viewed as a process of political incorporation (of household into the village) carried out through a ‘ritual of aggregation’. Should an outsider (defined as someone who has not been incorporated through this ritual) enter the village during the annual gate building ceremony, he must pay a bottle of whiskey to the dzø̀ma as a fine, a payment that both acknowledges the dominion of the dzø̀ma and effects political incorporation of villagers through the exclusion of non-villagers. Additionally, at the time of harvest, each household must send a representative to the dzø̀ma’s harvest feast, in recognition of the village potency and fertility he has released to the village fields. Each household must also give a plate of rice to the dzø̀ma’s household at this time. A further example is the payment to the dzø̀ma of the foreleg of any animals caught in the forest.65 These forms of ‘tribute’ reaffirm the relevant household’s inclusion within the village polity. Note that in these examples we see an extractive dimension of the dzø̀ma’s role. This minimal extraction of goods is counterbalanced by the receipt of potency. Thus, the process is viewed as an exchange. The contrast with the lowland muang, however, is that, while extraction occurs, for the most part, there is no return. Further aggregation of the parts of the village polity can be seen in circumambulation rites. At the time of establishing a new village and yearly in the annual gate-building ceremony, the three gates are built/ rebuilt in a circular pattern. First the ‘upper’ gate is constructed, with the dzø̀ma initiating the actions, and then the two others as the workers move in a circle around the village, following the dzø̀ma's instructions. This circumambulatory pattern reappears in ceremonies at times of severe misfortune, as a protective rite. At those times, if it is found necessary, ceremonies at the village level called ‘leading around the village’ (pu djɔ sjə̀-ə) and at the household level called ‘leading around the household’ (zɔ̀q djɔ sjə̀-ə) are conducted by a spirit priest (bǿmɔ̀). In the village level ceremony, the spirit priest begins at the house of the dzø̀ma and then proceeds to the ‘upper’ village gate for chanting and offerings, then moves in a circular pattern to the ‘lower’ village gates for more chanting and offerings, then to the ‘side’ village gates for more of the same and finally ends at the ‘upper’ village gates where the sacrificial animals are cooked and eaten. The syllable djɔ refers to movement in a circle around (not through) something,66 or circumambulation. At the household level, there is a similar circumambulation of the household, with the spirit priest stopping at three points along the way. This movement can be seen as an incorporation process, collecting the parts of

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the village/household space inside their boundaries, and separating them from the outside. The protective ‘rule’ of the dzø̀ma does not reach beyond the village gates.

C

Dispersal of power

The dzø̀ma’s household serves as an ‘exemplary center’ from which ‘rituals of dispersion’ as prescribed by zán originate for the rest of the village. The dzø̀ma leads a number of ceremonies in the complex annual ritual cycle of the Akha, including those that restore the village structures. His most important role is the regulation of the yearly agricultural cycle through his compunctory initiation of each stage of the farming cycle. In these ceremonies, the other households of the village must replicate the actions that have taken place first at the dzø̀ma's household, as we have seen already in the order of house-building in a new village. This replication represents and ensures the dispersion of potency from the center out. As we have seen, the dzø̀ma is the medium through which proper fertility (proper reproduction67) and prosperity (of people, livestock and crops) is dispersed to the village, a dispersion that protects villagers from the demonic forces threatening at the periphery. In the yearly restoration of village structures, the dzø̀ma is responsible for supervising the annual construction of the village gates which we have seen is the main separator of humans and spirits. He also supervises the annual construction of the village swing. At the annual swinging ceremony, the dzø̀ma is the first to swing on the new village swing, with male elders of the village next in line, and after that, other villagers. After the village swing is constructed near the ‘upper’ village gates and after this initial ritual swinging, each household produces a smaller version of the village swing in its front yard, outside the doorway. The dzø̀ma plays his dispersive role in the annual rites of the rice agricultural cycle. At the time of rice planting, the dzø̀ma carries out the annual purification of the village sacred water source (lɔ́khɔ̀q), an important source of village potency, (which includes a segment called ‘opening the irrigation ditch’68), after which each household fetches water from it. In Bear Mountain Village, this was located near the ‘side’ village gate, the gate that paralleled the central location of the dzø̀ma’s house and was associated with special clumps of trees. The first to obtain the new water (after the dzø̀ma) will obtain the most gỳlàn, or ‘good fortune’.69 This sacred water source is connected to the fertility of the village as a whole. The first rice seeds to be planted are washed in it. Although ritually purified once a year, if cases of monstrous (such as twins or deformed babies) or illegitimate births arise, cases which negatively affect the fertility of the village as a whole, the sacred water source

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Figure 4.9 Village sacred water source

must be re-purified by the dzø̀ma and the irrigation ditch re-opened. One of the reasons given for a later village split in 1994 was that those in the ‘old’ village did not want to share the same water source as the break-away group since incest70 had occurred in the latter group and they had not conducted the proper purificatory ceremonies. The flow of water here is closely connected to the flow of gỳlàn, fertility and prosperity to villagers, and they would be affected by the improper fertility. The dzø̀ma’s household must carry out the first ritual planting of rice, with the other households following on the days after, each in its own field, and each carrying out the exact same ritual as the dzø̀ma. On the day of the dzø̀ma’s rice planting, no other household is allowed to turn over the earth’s soil. The beginning of rice planting serves as a calendrical marker that sets up the timing for the complex cycle of annual rituals to follow in the rest of the year. For example, according to zán, the swinging ceremony is to be scheduled nine ‘weeks’ after rice planting. The night before a village ritual is to be held, the dzø̀ma announces it from the open porch of his house, calling out to the rest of the village.71 In this sense, the dzø̀ma is the initiator of the whole cycle of annual rituals. As I mentioned earlier, his is the final voice for setting the date for the other annual rituals as well. The dzø̀ma’s house is the first to harvest rice (oq doq ghɔ́-ə) and to hold the harvest feast (tjɛ́ sjỳq dzà-ə).72 On following days, the other households of the village perform their first ritual harvestings of rice

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and hold their own harvest feasts, each on its own ‘auspicious’ day (nan mỳ). The dzø̀ma holds his ceremony on an ‘auspicious day’ for his household (auspiciousness being based upon days of births and deaths of members in his household), which is also considered the village auspicious day (jɔ̀ pu nan mỳ). Note here the reappearance of the encompassment notion in which the house of the dzø̀ma stands for all the households in the village. Dzø̀ma in different villages have different types of ‘rule’ and thus different ways of doing zán. Each protects his own village through his connection to a line of powerful spiritual dzø̀ma. Like rituals of aggregation, particular rituals of dispersion in a particular village serve to recognize the dominion of a single dzø̀ma as the village polity and thus also serve as processes of political incorporation of villagers and non-incorporation of those in other villages.

D

Boundary creation: outside the realm

The protective ‘rule’ of the dzø̀ma does not reach beyond the village gates. This is the realm of the forest, the wild, the realm of evil spirits, as well as the realm of lowlanders, including the muang, an indication that this system developed in an intergroup context.73 During one ceremony in which a shaman and her village helpers were chasing illnesscausing spirits out of the village, villagers laughed embarrassedly as they told me that they were sending the illness-causing spirits to my land, that is the land of the muang so that they would afflict others and not Akha. Lewis (1969a: 264) describes a ceremony to keep an epidemic from other villages from their own village. In it, the skin of a dog is stretched out by the secondary village gate and his head faced outward with the mouth open as if the dog is snarling (see Figure 5.12): ‘... the village priest will tell the sickness, ‘‘Stay away from our village. There is no place for you here. Go to some other country.’’’ (my emphasis). These are clear examples of the political dimensions of Akha spatial practices, at first appearance solely religious, and the way in which the production of space is simultaneously the production of ethnic difference. The realm outside the village gates is not merely a neutral unprotected area, but actually has a negative dynamic, that is, it can be dangerous and draining, thus extractive. Akha carry out protective rites for persons travelling beyond the village gates to the lowlands so that they do not lose their ‘soul-stuff’ (the potent and life-giving center of the person). Akha who are captured or arrested and taken to lowland jails are also susceptible to soul loss. Even when soul loss occurs for other reasons and manifests itself though illness, the imagery is that of an evil spirit capturing the soul, tying it up, and jailing the soul in a

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prison in the same way I have seen lowland authorities capture Akha for alleged criminal offenses. Here the parallel between the evil spirits of the forest beyond the village gates and the people of the muang is clear. As part of this spatial dynamics, the boundaries of peripheries, such as the village periphery or the periphery of the person are permeable. Dangerous, misfortune-causing forces, either lowlanders or evil spirits, can penetrate the village gates. Lewis (1989: 135) notes the phenomenon of the ‘vapor’ (sàq) of the lowlands entering someone, presumably causing illness. In other contexts, sàq has the sense of one’s smell. Alternatively, one’s own life-force (soul-stuff) can overstep its own boundaries to be caught up with these evil forces. This is likened to the soul ‘wandering’ (bá-ə) off because it is distracted by some desirous object, such as a beautiful flower in the forest. Once the soul wanders away, it is then in the sphere of dangerous forces that can weaken it. Exchanges, such as sacrifices and offerings, are made at peripheral contact points such as at the village gates or household yard with these evil ‘outside’ spirits, exchanges which parallel similar exchanges with real, ‘outside’ people, as when lowlanders come to extort money or raid villages for domestic animals. They are able to appease or cajole these lowlanders in the same ways they would appease or cajole evil spirits at these peripheral contact points. The types of exchanges carried out with outsiders differ in significant ways from the types of exchanges carried out with insiders, and the exchange itself serves to construct and reinforce the inside/outside distinction. In Chapter 6 I have a more extended discussion of how exchange practices produce spatially differentiated interior and exterior political domains. The Akha village is pragmatically constructed through spatial practices as a microcosmic totality that can aggregate all parts of the universe into an order that generates potency on its own. Producing itself as a ‘totality’, the Akha village indexes its lack of dependence on lowland centers. Even further, in Akha spatial practices of the political incorporation of the village, the lowland centers undergo a transformation (actually a reversal) into a devalued, negative and dangerous/draining periphery, a point that will become important in my discussion of the relationship between Akha and lowland power symbolics (chapter 7). Thus, the production of space in Akha society is simultaneously the production of ethnic difference and ethnic (inter-societal) inequality, in this case with the Akha in the superior status. See also Alting: ‘... the Akha feel themselves very much at the centre of the universe-disc (míXan). The Chinese, Burmese, and Shan are cast as inhabitants of the periphery ...’ (1983: 263). In my fieldwork as recent as 2010, an Akha woman told me that her grandfather spoke of their village in the Loimi area of Burma as at ‘the center of the world’. When I asked why he

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thought that, she said it was because it was the place in the world that was furthest from any muang, or town.

E

Spatialization of the cosmos, potency, and Akha ‘spacetime’

The connection of the Akha village to cosmic potency rests on the idea that the dzø̀ma, as a kind of intermediary, has the ability to collect the necessary elements of the universe in order to generate potency for his domain. This is the accumulation of potency at a center, or focal point. This ability rests on bringing together a proper order (the order of zán) so that potency flows to members of the domain. In one sense this can be viewed as the mundane world imitating a cosmic pattern, but emphasis must be paid to the relational dimension of this pattern, that is, instead of imitating a fixed pattern, the mundane world is imitating a potency-generating set of relations. This set of (hierarchical) relations is clearly expressed in spatial terms, although it is also expressed in other ways. The dzø̀ma’s ‘rule’, as that of an intermediary between the mundane world and the cosmos, is linked to a long line of dzø̀ma in the Akha past, particularly to the original nine dzø̀ma and the Akha origin home of Djadɛlán, as I have mentioned. His legitimacy lies in his connection to this line as well as to the greatest of all ancestors, Àpø̀mìjɛ́, who is a kind of prime mover for the Akha, and who laid down the order of zán. I do not mean to imply that there are strict doctrines concerning the cosmos in Akha society. The variability in Akha conceptions associated with the cosmos and the looseness with which villagers apply these conceptions relates to the fact that orthodoxy as ‘beliefs’ or doctrines are not emphasized in Akha society, rather orthopraxy is (see also Tooker 1992). However, the common element in these various Akha conceptions is the unity of complementary principles/elements and sets of relations that generate potency. With this variability, the ultimate macrocosmic center for the Akha was at different times represented as: (1) the origin point of all human races in China, the walled and moated city called Djadɛlán; (2) the house or village of Àpø̀mìjɛ́ (creator); or (3) the ancestral village/household to which one returns at death (also the abode of Àpø̀mìjɛ́). I have already mentioned the first representation in the myth of the origin city-state of Djadɛlán. This mythic city-state appears in oral textual language and is described as maintaining a proper set of spatial relations, located in a middle space, between downstream (íbi) and upstream (ímɛ́) (see Tooker 1988: 333ff, lines 96, 97, 102, 103).74 The original dwellers are admonished not to stray away in either of those di-

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rections (and thus to stay in the middle), but in the end do not listen to the original dzø̀ma and suffer the fate of disasters and diaspora (see Tooker 1988: 333ff). Regarding the second conceptualization of the cosmos, the abode of Àpø̀mìjɛ́, we find in textual references that Àpø̀mìjɛ́ lives at the center of the universe where nine mountains meet, where ten rivers meet, and where ten big wells meet (Hansson 1983: 40-41). (S)he75 has a kind of ‘looking glass’ (hɔtə̀q) through which (s)he can see the whole world, looking one way to the downslope side (gypɔ) and turning (her)his head to the other way to the upslope side (njapɔ) (Hansson 1983: 40-41). Note that this positioning centers Àpø̀mìjɛ́ between the complementary elements of upslope and downslope. The village sacred water source, taken care of by the dzø̀ma, is called Àpø̀ùjɛ́'s water source, a source which we have seen is connected to fertility. One villager's (Àtsu’s) image of Àpø̀mìjɛ́, a picture she said she had learned from others, was that of a being whose each strand of hair, each finger, and each toe bore a child. ‘Babies emanate from his/her whole body’ (ghɔ́mɔ́ mɔ́lannjɛq zà djə̀le). This is a picture of a spatialized being that radiates fertility from a center outwards. A centralized cosmic location such as that of Àpø̀mìjɛ́’s abode is replicated not only at the village, but also at the household level, indicating that the household can also stand as a cosmic totality. In fact, in shaman texts, the shaman’s ability to circumambulate sky (m̀) and earth (mí) (remembering that circumambulation is the collection of the totality) is her ability to circumambulate the house of this greatest of ancestors, Àpø̀mìjɛ́ (Hansson 1983: 59, 61). Finally, to address the third conceptualization, we find, in ritual texts, that the journey to the ancestral abode after death (by taking the middle path as opposed to the upper or lower paths) is the journey back north to China, retracing the route of Akha migration by listing the villages and rivers through which the Akha have passed. The ancestral destination aligns somewhat with that of Djadɛlán, and at times also with the cosmic abode of Àpø̀mìjɛ́. Thus none of these interpretations are exclusive, and all represent an attempt to create a continuum between macro- and micro-cosm that ensures the flow of potency through the proper combination of complementary elements. A further example of an attempt to restore a flow between the macro- and micro-cosm can be seen in the ceremony for infertility, which is called ‘building a ladder to the origin place of children (a cosmic lake)’. The idea is to restore the connection (through the image of a ladder) between the supramundane and the mundane world so that fertility flows once again to this world. See my discussion of this ceremony in Chapter 6.

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It is important to note that while spatialization is used in this attempt to link macro- and micro-cosm, there is actually a ‘transformational relationship between space and time’ such as has been recognized in many South American societies (see Hugh-Jones 1995). This, in fact, is the common element in all three representations of macrocosm mentioned above. Thus, while the dzø̀ma is located at the center of the village, his connection to the original dzø̀ma, the original ‘middle’ citystate, and the zán handed down by the prime-mover Àpø̀mìjɛ́ link him temporally closer to Akha origins than other villagers. Thus, ‘center’ is temporally prior to ‘periphery’. In addition, the dzø̀ma’s link to the ‘upper’ part of the village is also a transformational link to earlier time in that ‘upper’ (in this case, north) lands are the lands from which the ancestors came, the ultimate ‘upper’ land being that of Djadɛlán in China. The dzø̀ma’s temporal precedence in ritual, especially rituals of dispersion, is also a transformation of his spatial superiority. All three images of the Akha macrocosm contain within them this same transformational relationship between space and time, reinforcing Akha ‘spacetime’.76

F

Disruptions in the flow of potency and processes of exclusion

While the previous discussion outlines the set of Akha practices that bring about an orderly relationship between micro- and macro-cosm so that potency flows to the village, there are certain occasions which threaten to disrupt that flow. For example, on occasions of difficult childbirth, the dzø̀ma may be called to the house to assist, reaffirming his connection to the flow of proper fertility (see also Lewis 1969a: 121, 132). There are also occasions of monstrous births whether of humans, animals or plants. The parents of twins or deformed babies are temporarily exiled from the village to the forest so as not to further contaminate other villagers. This is the most feared disruption of potency (I certainly saw the most signs of physical and psychological fear in villagers during such an incident). If proper purification procedures, including the killing of the babies, are not followed, the village risks illness, disease and infertility in animals and humans. During the dangerous and vulnerable period following such an incident, as a protective measure, villagers are confined to the village and are not allowed to go to their fields. The village is seen by other Akha as contaminated and a special meal is offered to the first outsider willing to visit the village after such an incident has occurred. I have already mentioned above that the village split of 1994 was based on the belief by one faction that incest had been committed in a household of the other faction. Allow-

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ing such behavior and its consequences (the birth) to occur without the proper purificatory rituals could affect the flow of proper fertility to villagers. Similar ritual procedures must be carried out for ‘monstrous deaths’ (sjaq sjí-ǝ) such as those occurring violently and/or outside the village, or the occurrence of more than one death in a village in an Akha ‘week’. Thus, people must be protected from the forces that drain away the life force as well. Ritual procedures are a response to the disruption of the flow of proper fertility which has already occurred with the birth. Rituals are carried out, for example, in cases of village epidemics (such as measles), serious threats to the crops of villagers such as a rat plague, and any disruption of village structures such as the village gates.77 Those who have seen bad omens in the forest or fields are not allowed to re-enter the village without certain purification ceremonies. My discussion in Chapter 6 on ‘outside spirit chanting’ at the village level addresses more specifically the occasions that are viewed as disruptions of village potency and the procedures that are used to restore the flow. Certain individuals/households can threaten village potency and may actually be excluded from a village. Those who do not practice Akha zán properly, Christians and members of other ethno-religious groups are not allowed to live inside the village gates. The dzø̀ma has the power to exile them from the village (see Lewis 1969a: 134 who mentions two cases). When I returned to Bear Mountain Village in 1990, a small Christian community was living in the area, but their houses had to be located outside the village gates.78 As mentioned above, evil spirits might afflict villagers if everyone in the village is not carrying out zán in accordance with the dzø̀ma’s rule. We have also seen that non-villagers (outsiders) are excluded from the village on certain occasions, such as at the annual restoration of the village gates. Parents of a monstrous birth, such as twins, threaten the flow of proper fertility to the village and are excluded completely from the village for several days and must sleep in the forest, after which they are social outcasts and must locate their house on the edge of the village, as mentioned above. Women who divorce are allowed to visit their natal parents for a short period after which they are excluded from the parents’ village. These various exclusions expose the fact that power is located in non-discursive practices such as ritual practices and further confirm the political nature of the processes of spatialization we have been discussing.

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Summary The Akha village polity as an ‘imagined community’ and as a ‘totality’ is produced and reproduced through culturally embedded practices in which spatial codes as indicators of the flow of potency are crucial. I call this process ‘spatialization’. Spatialization is a political process. It involves the politico-hierarchical incorporation of households into the village as a polity and excludes incorporation of certain households/individuals. This incorporation is simultaneously the creation of a potency-generating microcosmic totality as the aggregation/collection of all parts of the universe. These parts are represented in oppositional spatial codes, such as upper/lower, centerperiphery, level/sloped, etc. In creating the village as a potency-generating totality, this indigenous political process indexes village autonomy since it has access to cosmic potency on its own. It also simultaneously serves as a (political) resistance of the village polity to incorporation into lowland state polities. The spatialization of the Akha village I have presented in this chapter includes an encompassing model of hierarchy that proceeds from a level center out. This spatialization of the village polity is the production of inequality within Akha society, an inequality between the dzø̀ma and ordinary villagers and between those who are outcasts located at the village periphery and ordinary villagers, not to mention those who are excluded completely from a particular village. There is a double inequality produced in that the village as a whole is produced as distinct from and superior to the lowland state polities outside the gates. The hierarchy between the dzø̀ma and ordinary villagers, as we will see, does not hold for all situations. In the next chapter, we turn to alternative ways in which the ‘potency’ of the Akha macrocosm gets channeled spatially through the construction of another microcosmic totality, the Akha household. These alternative political processes represent contextually shifting access points to cosmic potency and thus also alternative constructions of hierarchy which in some cases resist village incorporative processes.

5 Space and Fertility in House and Field

Case story: When the unmarried daughter in the family with whom I resided became pregnant, she was forced out of the house before the baby was born. The family arranged for a pickup truck to come and pick her up one morning to drop her off in the lowlands. ‘I don’t care if she becomes a prostitute down there’, said her mother, ‘or she can be a servant’. As she was about to alight the truck, she blurted out the name of the (Akha) father, who lived in the village. A wedding was arranged shortly after.

Introduction In this chapter, we see that spatial practices and patterns in the construction of the village have parallels in the construction of fields and households. While some of these practices serve to incorporate the household into the village, others allow the household (and its fields) to have an independent access to potency and fertility (through its patrilineal ancestral line), and thus resistance to full incorporation in the village. This gives the household a degree of autonomy that articulates with an egalitarian ethos. Thus, ‘spatial tactics’ are not monolithic and are actively used in different contexts to produce different social domains and their associated identities and hierarchies.

The Akha household The house has been recognized as a key social unit in Southeast Asia. Lévi-Strauss has gone so far as to coin the term ‘house societies’ (sociétés à maison) (1979, 1983a, 1983b, 1984, 1987, 1991) and a number of publications have arisen from this initial discussion (Macdonald 1987; Carsten & Hugh-Jones 1995a, among others). The house has been recognized as basic to the social structure of upland communities on the Southeast Asian mainland as well (see Kandre, Jones, etc.). In Akha society, too, the household has a degree of significance, resilience, inde-

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pendence and autonomy that sometimes makes one wonder why villages exist at all. Jonsson (1999) has pointed to the need to take account of the historicity of the household and the variability of its prominence in upland society over time, depending on historical and political-economic circumstances. During the time period covered in this book, the household (njḿ dàn/íkán) was the basic kinship, ritual and economic unit in Akha society. It was the minimal segment of a patrilineage,1 below the level of a sublineage (pà) which may consist of several households. A typical Akha household consists of two or three generations – a man, his in-married wife/ves, their married sons and their wives, and unmarried sons and daughters, and so on in patrivirilocal fashion, although this composition varies, of course, according to the household developmental cycle. All of the members of a household live within a single physical structure that can be described as one large chamber divided by a central shoulder-high partition (see description of household structure later), the physical unity reflecting the group's social unity. Segmentation of households (njḿ dàn dàn í-ǝ) most often occurs as the breakup of brothers (sometimes sons) and their wives/children to form separate households. The ritual side to the household centers around an ancestral/rice cult, the ancestors being honored at an ancestral shrine (which contains rice) in the house, called the àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q (lit., ‘ancestral banana leaf’), and rice spirits being honored at field shrines and at the granary next to the house. Ancestral offerings take place at important points in the rice growing cycle, as well as at other times. These ritual dimensions of the household are also intertwined with inter-household/village relationships. Although a localized segment of a patrilineal descent line, the primary criterion for household membership (identity), as it is for Akha identity as a whole (see Tooker 1992), is based on practices: the carrying out of zán (ancestral rituals). Thus, the members of the household are those who ‘carry’ zán at the household's ancestral section/shelf which is connected to the physical structure of what is called the ‘main house’ (njḿma) and to the household's fields.2 One needs to keep up the practice of household zán in order to maintain household (and patriline) membership. In Bear Mountain Village, whenever a son and his family moved out of his father’s house (njḿ dàn dàn í-ǝ), the acquiring of an ancestral section and its associated practices was soon to follow.3 Those who reside in the physical structure of the house but do not carry out zán at the àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q are not considered to be full members. These are people such as ‘child-servants’ (zà khaq), who must leave the household during certain ceremonies (for example, during the khm̀ sjỳq

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ceremonies). During my fieldwork, it was constantly pointed out to me by the family with whom I lived that, as a non-member of the household, normally I would not be allowed to attend the offerings at the ancestral section.4 Thus, processes of exclusion occur here just as they do at the village level. Alternatively, outsiders may be grafted onto patrilineal descent lines to become zán-practicing members, emphasizing the primacy of exteriorized practice over an innate essentialized descent identity (see also Tooker 1992). The Akha speak of ‘àtjɔ̀ ádjǝ̀ gǝ̀q í-ǝ’, ‘taking on another family line’, if one wants and if one changes one's zán. In one case during my fieldwork, a Chinese became an Akha and gained an Akha genealogy and other elements that relate to the complex of a ‘family line’. It was said of him and his family that they ‘àkà ádjǝ̀ gǝ̀q í-ǝ’, they ‘took on an Akha family line’. The same can happen within Akha society. An Akha can change his family line. Although these cases are not the norm for male Akha, they are not viewed as unnatural in any sense.5 In fact, they are the norm for women in most contexts, since it is often said that a woman takes on her husband’s ádjǝ̀ when she marries.6 Thus, Akha ‘descent’ units must be viewed within this framework which gives primacy to practices. As economic units, households claim, work and reap the fruit of their own fields. They raise their own domestic animals. Inter-household relationships are egalitarian. Thus, any use of labor from another household in one’s own fields must be matched by an exact equivalent Figure 5.1 Equal meat distribution among households

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counted in units of adult labor days. Likewise, any distribution of village goods such as meat from a village sacrificial ceremony or from a particular household’s ‘rejected’ animal, must be divided and distributed in exact equivalent amounts for each household in the village (except for certain related households for ‘rejected’ animals), reflecting the egalitarian calculations that the Akha make regarding households. As I have mentioned earlier, the concern with reproduction is a concern with proper (as opposed to improper) reproduction and proper fertility. All three forms of potency necessary to reproduce Akha society (crops, people, livestock) are reproduced at the level of the household. Nevertheless, these reproductive functions are tied also to the household/village relationship. There are structural dimensions and tensions to these relationships. There is a complementary, but at times uneasy relationship between an individual household and the Akha village community as a whole. Villages are loose conglomerations of households in this migratory society, and the decision to move into or out of a particular village rests with the male household head. Of course, there are advantages to living in a village in that villages provide a measure of protection from raids by outsiders and attacks by wild animals of the forest (tigers, wildcats, snakes, etc.), not to mention protection from evil spirits. They also provide important labor power that can be called upon for agricultural and other tasks that go much more smoothly with a large work force, available when people are living together. There are also the advantages of the ritual regulation of the agricultural cycle. Perhaps most importantly, other households in a village represent dimensions of the kinship and alliance system that are lacking in a single household. As I have discussed in the village chapter, the household may be viewed as a localization of a descent line. Important needs of the household must be obtained from other households as representatives of different types of descent or alliance relationships. Thus, other households that are patrilineally related may be called upon for labor and ritual purposes. Since the Akha practice sublineage exogamy, males of a household must obtain wives from other households that are not patrilineally related. Wife-giver lines may be called upon for purposes of household well-being (since potency is seen as flowing from wife-givers to wife-takers) and thus each household also fulfils a role to its own wife-taker lines. The importance of the presence of ‘unrelated’ lines has been stressed in the village chapter. Thus, being able to live in a community with other households that are linked through diverse sorts of kin ties (and lack thereof) works to the advantage of an Akha household.

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There are disadvantages as well. Once committed to living in a particular village, each household is subject to certain constraints, such as the tribute requirements (extractive), the locational requirements, and the need to follow the schedule for the agricultural cycle determined by the dzø̀ma (possibly advantageous), including the precedence rules, as well as other rules that the dzø̀ma lays down. These structural dimensions and tensions are reflected in the spatial coding of household and village.

Household fields Introduction The basic livelihood of the Akha with whom I worked was upland shifting agriculture, with upland rice as the staple crop. As mentioned above, households are the basic production unit and the relationship of households to agricultural fields is a direct one. That is, households have full control over which land is to be worked and how the products of the fields are to be distributed. Fields, where Akha spend most of their daytime hours, are located outside the village. However, they are considered a ‘domesticated space’ (inside), in contrast with the ‘wilds’ of the forest, which is also located outside the village. Fields are owned and worked jointly by the members of a household. There is a processual relationship between households (and their laborers, the household members) and their means of support, (the products of) the fields. Household members leave the household daily and return to the household at night. Crops are planted from seeds stored at the household at the beginning of the planting season, cared for during the rainy season and brought back to the house at harvest, along with the seeds for the next planting. Thus, during the growing season, fields are conceptually portrayed as an ‘inside’ domain, despite the fact that they are physically located outside the village. As an inside domain (linked to crop fertility – one of the elements of general potency), fields also represent points of access to cosmic potency. Spatial practices in Akha fields, like those in Akha villages, represent attempts to tap into and channel cosmic potency. Like other channels, such potency may be blocked or disrupted as in the failure of the rice crop to grow properly or in an undue presence of pests in the fields. Village/field relationship It is not surprising then that fields are oriented in ways similar to other ‘inside’ domains as the household and village in order to channel the flow of potency from the inside. Although this was not fully the case in

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Bear Mountain Village, Akha prefer to have a forest belt surrounding the village on all sides for purposes of protection of local water sources, domestic animal foraging, human bodily excretion, and possibly as a wind break (see also Alting). Note that this type of arrangement already places the village centrally in relation to a periphery (the forest belt). Outside that periphery, the fields are located at varying degrees of distance from the village. Of course, closer land tends to be worked before the more distant land in order to reduce walking time to the fields. Much beyond two hours of walking time is considered unacceptable. As a result, households, in claiming their land, tend to spread out equally in all directions from the village, resulting in a tendency towards a circular extension outward by degrees as land use (and soil infertility) in successive years extends fields outward. Note that the further fields are located from the village, the more the productive fertility moves away from the center (village). Potency is literally fleeing to the periphery as the more distant land is more fertile, and thus center/periphery images emerge as ‘natural symbols’ in this particular agricultural lifestyle. Finally, when fields are too distant (in the two hour walk range), villagers start to move out to another village (or to establish another village, thus another center) closer to land that can be worked as part of the village developmental cycle. Thus the concentric expansion of fields is related to the village fission process. The ‘rule’ of a particular village dzø̀ma lasts as long as village potency lasts. This description, of course, relates to the particular requirements of a migratory swidden agricultural system and does not apply once that economic mode starts changing. Lewis (1970a: 571) mentions another dimension to the village-field relationship wherein the village can decrease the potency (fertility) of a field if the field can ‘see’ the village,7 that is, if they are within eyesight of each other. Attached as they are to households, fields can indicate the same tension between households and village that I discuss later. Center-periphery coding The process of establishing a new field, as in the establishment of a new village or new household, is also the collection of complementary elements to generate a totality and its accompanying potency. This is also true for maintaining field potency. A primary example is the combination of male and female in the planting of rice, which must be done in couples. The male of the couple uses a digging stick with a sharp point to make the hole for the rice seeds, while the female places the seeds in the hole (see Figure 1.2). Spatial elements, such as center and periphery are significant dimensions in the construction of this totality. Fields are created in relation to a center-periphery pattern, and follow that pattern in the movement of work (labor) from the center out. When

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I went with a villager to mark his fields (já bjàq-ǝ) for the year, he planted a post (the same as in village marking) at the lower end of his previous year’s field (see Figure 5.2). Contrary to a western style of marking the borders of property,8 this post represented the center (ghántjɛ) of the land to be worked in the coming year. The new field would proceed out in all four of the marked directions from the post.9 A field hut, if there is one, tends to be located at the center of the field as well. This type of marking means that others would not necessarily know how far in each direction the man was claiming land. When I asked about this, the villager told me that, if others wanted to know, they would have to ask him. Of course, there is a preference not to mark land too close to that of another household, and households can estimate how much land another household can work in any given number of years. This type of marking fits in with a swidden system where land is readily available. Since the post was placed at one end of his previous field, part, but not all, of that field would be worked in the year to come (see Figure 5.2). This establishes both a new center-periphery pattern in the field as well as a continuity with the old center-periphery pattern through the connection to the same central point, albeit a rotation around that same point. If we view the central point as an access point to potency, we can understand why this relationship continues. Note that we see the same kinds of rotations around centers at both the village (in the rotation of the village swing from year to year around the same main post- see Chapter 4) and household levels (in the rotation around the central house post when a ‘new’ house is built- see this chapter). Figure 5.2 Field marking and rotation

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Rice fields are also ritually marked through the construction of an offering basket (khm̀pì zakhaq) and spirit field hut (khm̀pì játjḿ) (both associated with a female field spirit), also at the center of the field. The ‘mouth’ of the offering basket must face the auspicious direction of east (direction from which the sun rises) in order to capture potency,10 paralleling the association of other auspicious ‘centers’, such as that of the 11 dzø̀ma with the east and the sun. Figure 5.3

Field spirit hut

Periphery as dangerous As in other center-periphery patterns, the periphery of the field is a dangerous place as a contact point with outside, possibly draining or blocking forces. Thus, along with the practice of throat-clearing, which I interpret as a performative clearing of a blocked channel and as the movement of force from the inside out, protecting the inside from any outside intrusion (see Chapter 4), at household and village thresholds, we also find the Akha clearing their throats at the ‘threshold’ of a field, especially when it is time to harvest the rice.12 Not only can peripheries be dangerous intrusions, but potency can wander away from the center. The phenomenon of a ‘lost’ or ‘wandered’ soul applies to the crop (especially rice) as well as to persons. In such a case, the ‘soul-substance’ of the rice must be called back from the dangerous areas where it has wandered (or been drawn) away from its focal point. This ritual is called ká lá kú-ə.

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The potency of fields and the danger represented by their peripheries can be related in a direct way to the construction of ethnic difference. At the time of rice threshing, Akha stand on a large woven mat to pound the paddy with wooden sticks, similar to hockey sticks. NonAkha may not step inside this mat, nor may they speak to the workers in a language other than Akha. I was present at a threshing in a field when Lisu friends walked by and greeted the Akha repeatedly (in another language, either Chinese or Lahu), waiting for a reply. There was an awkward silence because the Akha could not answer. I (off the mat) finally responded and explained that they could not speak to the Lisu while threshing the rice on the mat. This practice protects the inside sphere of potency (the harvest) from the possibly draining influence of outsiders. Figure 5.4 Threshing rice on mat – no outsiders allowed

Fields and continuous space Field marking represents not just a center-oriented conceptual framework, but, just as at the village level, also a framework of continuous space. That is, the domain in question is oriented in relation to a center and proceeds out in a continuous way from that center. For example, an inauspicious and potentially dangerous arrangement of hill fields is called já tè tè-ǝ. In this situation, a field belonging to household A is surrounded on two sides by fields belonging to household B13 (see Figure 5.5). This means that there is a disruption of the

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continuous space from a center of household B’s fields, and as well means that household A’s fields create that disruption. In fact, household A’s fields gain a central (and thus encompassing) location in relation to territory of another household. As the center is associated with ownership of the periphery, the relation created by this arrangement violates Akha principles of field ownership according to which a single field is owned by a single household. It also violates the egalitarian nature of household relationships since the center is as well associated with higher status. A third negative consequence of this arrangement is that it appears as if the periphery (household B’s fields) is impinging on the center and creating an imbalance between the two.14 This constrains and limits the sphere of potency emanating from A’s fields. Household members of both A and B are subject to illness and affliction under such circumstances.15 Figure 5.5 Játè diagram

Upper/lower and level/sloped coding Akha fields, being located on slopes, will always have the relational dimensions of upper and lower. Just as in the construction of the ‘village’, the ‘field’ is also symbolically constructed through the terminology of its spatially related parts such as upper (já hm̀) and lower (já dàn). These dimensions are referred to in ritual texts where a field is referred to with poetic terms for upper and lower sections that serve as a collection of field parts into a whole. This is often done through the use of couplets which have a temporal relationship to each other in the construction of the whole field in the collection of its parts through oral recitation. Nevertheless, the Akha are certainly aware of the advantages of ‘level’ land and recognize the fertility problems associated with seriously sloped land. Land clearing and the felling of trees and other brush as part of the land clearing process encourages the process of nutrient soil runoff. To prevent this, in some cases, sloped land is leveled and the

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leveled portions held up with logs as a kind of contouring practice. Irrigated mountain terraces have been part of Akha history and they are highly valued (if not readily obtainable) as can be seen in numerous Akha ritual references to them (see my discussion below and also Tooker 1996a). These fields have a number of steps or levels (dɛma dɛlɔ̀) that serve to retain soil fertility. As mentioned in the village chapter, the images of leveling land are associated with curing practices (to restore health) and the restoration of village fertility (to maintain the reproduction of people, as in the re-leveling of the village courting yard). A significant dimension of the image of hill terraces is the mountain water source located at the top of the fields which provides the water that flows down onto the steps to produce field fertility. Images of clearing water channels to allow water to flow are also found in Akha rituals to restore reproductive fertility (see below).

Household ‘owners’: ancestors and the household heads Like the village, the household also has protective ‘owners’. The connection to the cosmos for the households is through the ancestors contacted at the household ancestral shrine. These are the ultimate ‘owners’/caretakers of the household, and their worldly intermediaries are the male and female household heads, also called ‘owners’ just as the dzø̀ma is called the ‘owner’ of the village. The household heads are the ones who carry out the ceremonies for the household ancestors at the household ancestral section.16 My own house did not have an ancestral section, nor was I officially attached to one at another ‘main house’. This, of course, was somewhat anomalous. When my house began to lean because of insufficient grounding of the main house posts, some villagers told me it was because I did not have an ancestral shrine (àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q), i.e. a protective center to help prevent such misfortune.

Ancestral section and continuity The household ancestral section or shrine, àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q, is attached to the inside of the roof on the ‘female’ side of the house which is called the ‘main house’ side, next to the main house post (djm zǝ́) (see Figure 5.8). There is sublineage variation in the form of ancestral shrine, either a long cylindrical bamboo section (djmbàn) or a flat bamboo shelf (djmgý). In some sublineages, the ‘shelf’ form can only be erected if the household has a ja jɛ́ àma (‘fertility mother’17). In others, it may be erected even without such a figure in the household.

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When we look closely at the physical ancestral section, we see that it consists of a bunch of rice stalks. In addition, there may be some bø̀søq leaves which have been added when spirit chanting was done at the Figure 5.6

Ancestral shrine and main house post

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house. The latter leaves are important in Akha origin stories, and in ritual language are called pɔ̀q lɔ̀q, a term that in everyday language means ‘banana leaves’. Thus, the name for the ancestral section, àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q, sometimes simply referred to as pɔ̀q lɔ̀q, is a reference to these leaves. The bø̀søq leaves are used only in ceremonies of the ‘inside’ type and thus mark ceremonies that way. They contrast with other types of leaves that are used in ‘outside’ ceremonies (see Chapter 6). The main component of the ancestral section, however, is the bundle of rice stalks preserved from each harvest year after year. The Akha draw a parallel between the fertility and continuity of the family ‘line’ and the fertility and continuity of the line of rice seeds. Indeed, there is a sense in which Akha society can be considered one that practices a rice cult since its most important rituals are carried out here. A particular household’s ancestral section is linked to the household fields (and the social unit that works and controls them) for a particular rice growing season. Houses may be built any time after the ‘minor year’ starts (khòq zà) (see Tooker 1988, Appendix A for a brief description of the Akha calendar and ritual cycle), thus any time after the celebration of the rice flowering (ká jɛq jɛq-ǝ) which marks a significant turning point in the rice growing cycle. In one case in Bear Mountain Village where a son had moved out of his father’s house and had obtained a new ancestral section, he was not allowed to carry out rituals there until after the present growing season had ended (marked by the new year ceremonies, gátán pá-ǝ). During that year, he and his family had worked the same rice fields as his father. Because the ancestral section is connected to the rice fields one works and the growing cycle of rice, he was to join the ceremonies at his father’s house. A particular household’s ancestral section is also linked to the physical/spatial structure of the household. When one builds a new house, for example, a raw egg, among other things, must be put on top of the ancestral section before the old house can be destroyed. This, in a sense, claims the ancestral section for the new house, since after this the new main house post (djm zǝ́), which is the sanctuary of the ancestral section, may be laid while carrying out certain ritual procedures which involve this raw egg. Once the new house is built, the egg is boiled in the ‘moving-in’ ceremony for the household members to eat. The utilization of the egg allows for a continuity between the old and new physical house structures.18 Physical continuity is also expressed in new house construction. Should a new house be built on the same spot as an old one, the main house post (djmzǝ́) remains in the same place, while the other house posts are shifted around (See Lewis 1970a: 629). This parallels the practice we have seen at the village level of keeping one village swing post in the same location as the year before,19 as well as the practice of rotat-

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ing fields by keeping one section of last year’s field (Figure 5.2). Thus, continuity in physical structures is important for a number of domains in Akha society, including the village, the household, and household’s fields. Patrilineal descent, as associated with the household’s ancestral section, serves to construct the household unit which at base is a unit of production and consumption, connected to the household’s fields. However, descent is only one dimension of an Akha ideology of lineal continuity that is also found in the continuous line of rice seeds passed down year after year and in the continuity of the physical structure of the house. All of these dimensions are reproduced through practices (zán) that are also viewed as continuous through time. This ideology is reflected in multiple domains of Akha society and articulates with the household as a labor unit of hill rice agriculturalists, a unit which is reproduced through the potency of its fields. Ancestors at the shrine Yet how is descent/lineal continuity practically represented at the household ancestral shrine? Given that this is a society where representations are not dogmatized (see also Tooker 1992), when one asks villagers what ancestors are connected to the ancestral section, one gets different responses. Nevertheless, the principles of lineal continuity (social reproduction of the line) and elder/younger protection are present in all the representations. The most common representation is that the ancestral section is connected to three generations of the male household head’s patriline and their in-married wives. Note, then that the lineal continuity represented here is a continuity of couples, a continuity of a reproductive combination of wife-giver and wife-taker lines,20 and not purely a patrilineal descent principle. The time limit of three generations corresponds with the time limit for the lapsing of alliance ties (see Tooker 1991). Most importantly, it is said that the last three generations (tsỳq) of ancestors that died are the ones who ‘look over’ their descendants. At a funeral, for example, the names of the couples (husband and wife) of the last three generations must be recited, and are told to ‘look after’ their children.21 Conversely, if their descendants do something wrong, they will punish them with illness that can be cured through offerings to these same ancestors. This was expressed as the ancestors wanting their children to tu-ǝ (‘pay respect to’) them (See Chapter 6 for my discussion of ceremonies of the tu-ǝ form) and in return they give protection. After three generations, the ancestral spirits àtjɔ̀ nɛ̀q pjǝ̀q í-ǝ, ‘turn into the spirits of ‘‘others’’’, i.e. are no longer connected enough to the

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household to be ‘us’, according to the spirit priest I interviewed. Thus, if one’s father is still alive, the three generations would include FF, FFF and FFFF and their wives, since ancestors are remembered in couples. When one’s father dies, the FFFF figure drops out and becomes ‘other’. It is important here to note that terminologically there are distinct terms for the first lineal generation (F/FWi), the second (FF/FFWi) and the third (FFF/FFFWi) (see Chapter 6). All generations after that are referred to by the same term (àpø̀pì) as that for the third lineal generation which then becomes a generic term for ‘ancestor’. In a second representation of the ancestors connected to the ancestral section, the same spirit priest assured me that all one’s ancestors going back to the first human being are included. Note that these would be all the ancestors listed in a typical patrilineal genealogy. Finally, in some contexts, there is a third representation of what ancestors are at the shrine. It is two generations of ancestral couples that are marked. One villager, for example, told me that there are four people (two generations) connected to the ancestral section. These include one’s àbɔ́ (also called àdamɔ̀) (FF)22 and àmamɔ̀ (FFWi), as well as one’s àpø̀ (FFF) and àpì (FFFWi). In addition, there are different levels of inside spirit chanting (see Chapter 6) where one can sacrifice either to the last generation or to the last two generations. The ‘joints’ (tsỳq) in inside spirit chanting represent the ancestors as of two levels, the ‘below’ (gy) and the ‘above’ (nja). In this representation, they are called 23 gydjm, gysán, gylòq, and njadjm, njasán, and njalòq. I was told that the ‘below’ terms refer to the last generation that died (i.e. in the above case, FF and wife) and the ‘above’ terms to the generation above that (FFF and wife). Putting the ancestors (àpø̀pì) into this dual form precludes adding the third generation that is included in other contexts. However, the duality mirrors the dual nature of protected/protector roles that are reflected in the concept of jɔsán (‘owner’) and are marked by the spatial codes of upper and lower.

Household ‘owners’ and lineal continuity As intermediaries between the household ancestors and other household members, the household heads are responsible for the general well-being of the household and must ensure the flow of potency to them. The two main figures of the household are the male household head who is called the ‘house owner/father’ (njḿsán àda) and the female household head who is called the ‘female owner/mother’ (njḿsán àma), reflecting a basic gender complementarity that has been noticed for other parts of Southeast Asia, and that we have seen also at the village level.24 These are the couple at the eldest lineal generation25 in the

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household. Note that the term ‘owner’ (jɔsán) was also used to describe the dzø̀ma’s relationship to the village, and like the dzø̀ma for the village level, the household ‘owners’ have the responsibility for protecting the household and keeping its practices in line with zán. Both the ancestors and household elders are viewed as ‘taking care of’ (tju-ǝ) their descendants.26 In ritual contexts, the household heads represent the household as a whole. Like the dzø̀ma at the level of village, normally the male household head (although another sub-lineal male of the house may substitute for him)27 leads off the household rituals, with everyone else in the household following,28 similar to rituals of dispersion at the village level. Just as the dzø̀ma is an extension of a line of dzø̀ma extending back into the past, the house ‘owners’ are an extension of the household ancestors. This extension is represented spatially by the fact that the household ‘owners’, who are next in line to ascend to the ancestral section after they die, sleep just below it and next to the household's central partition (see Figure 5.9).29 As I note below, no one else may sleep in their places as this would violate the lineal continuity of the ancestral section.30 As occupants of this position, no matter what their age, they are called tsɔ́mɔ̀, ‘elders’, a term that reflects their closeness to the ancestors. This closeness and continuity with the ancestors was expressed to me when I was told that a very old and sick man who was expected to die soon was now living among the living during the day, while at night when he slept, he was already living among the ancestors. Upon the death of the male household head, the responsibility for maintaining the ancestral section/shelf passes to the eldest son, who then becomes the household head. Thus, the continuity of the jɔsán relationship between elder (ancestor) and younger (household head) is ensured.31 Dealings with the ancestors are expressed linguistically in the terms lɔ́-ǝ, ‘to make offerings to, to entertain or honor, as a guest’, as in dàjan lɔ́-ǝ and tu-ə, ‘to pay respect to’. Twelve times a year, the household heads (male and female) perform a ritual called àpø̀ lɔ́-ǝ, ‘offering to the ancestors’, in which certain dishes of food are offered to the ancestors connected to the ancestral section/shelf in the house. These ancestors are viewed as temporarily visiting the houses of their descendants. The types of offerings and procedures follow a strict set of rules with an interesting set of repetitions and contrasts. I have also noted above that on some occasions when a spirit priest chants on behalf of a household to their ancestors, the chanting is called a tu-ǝ, offering food out of respect. Soon after a person dies a version of a jatjiq mɔ́pùq tu-ǝ (‘respect’) ceremony is held for him/her as part of the funeral rites, reflecting the fact that the household elders are viewed as in a subordinate position in relation to their dead ancestors.

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Figure 5.7 Dead GF next to central partition

While elders must pay homage to their ancestors, juniors must pay homage to their elders. An example of this type of homage is the jatjiq mɔ́pùq tu-ǝ ceremony of the tu-ǝ (respect) form that one can also hold for a sick, but living elder. Thus, ritual practices of the lɔ́-ə and tu-ə forms create and encode a lineal hierarchy between elder and younger generations. These practices incorporate individuals into a social hierarchy that constitutes that ‘inside’ domain of Akha society (see Chapter 6).

The spatial construction of the Akha house: level/sloped, upper/ middle/lower, and the ‘middle way’ Like the village, the household is a microcosmic totality of complementary elements, a relational combination that generates potency for the household members. The notion of a house as microcosm is not new to discussions of the Southeast Asian house (see, for example, Cunningham 1964, Forth 1981, Waterson 1990, Carsten & Hugh-Jones 1995a, Sparkes & Howell 2003). Here I focus specifically on the role that spatialization plays in the construction of the household and household hierarchy within the household. As we have seen in the chapter on the village, processes of spatialization (and its relationship to potency) have already established hierarchical relations between the village and household. The new processes of spatialization to which we now turn index an alternative source of po-

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tency, that from the ancestors, and thus expose inconsistencies between village and household hierarchies. The Akha house is a physical unity that reflects the social unity of the group of household members. All reside within one large chamber which is symbolically marked in complex ways that I discuss below. The various physical dimensions and functional areas of the house (eating, sleeping, working, entertaining areas) are semiotically integrated. Just as the village is represented as a ‘leveled’ area on a slope (through the leveled courting yard and in phrases referring to the ‘leveled ground’ as the land of the village), so is the house. When a new house is constructed, the first step is to level the ground. When a house site is prepared, the ground is leveled (njḿ dzán sì dù sá-ǝ), and a level surface is created on sloping ground. Just as for the village, this level ground of the household is referred to in textual language. Thus, in the marriage song it is called ghoqkhɛ̀ míné tsàdù dɛ-án, ‘the flat, hoed yard of red soil’. Thus, the house as a whole is ‘middle’ (and level) in relation to slopes on both sides of it (see Figure 5.8). From this created level surface, the Akha further construct the internal household organization. As a whole, the household is also viewed as in the middle in terms of another upper/lower scheme. The area below the house (and also hierarchically below) is the domain of animals, the house itself (as middle) the domain of people, and the area above the house, the domain of ancestors. See these lines from a curing ritual: not making a tray for the spirits to eat above not making a tray by the fields, by the planted rice not making a tray in the pen where the animals are below but in the middle where people live, in the house of the sick making a tray in this household (here the name of the head of the household is said) (Hansson 1978: 2). This tripartite division of the universe can be seen as one common to other parts of Southeast Asia. Waterson, for example, lists a ‘three-tiered cosmos’ as a common feature in Southeast Asian cosmologies (1991: 93). The ‘lower’ domain (of animals on the ground) can be extended even further down since evil spirits are viewed as below the ground. We will see, in our discussion of the ládù bǝ̀-ǝ (‘soul-calling’) ceremony, that the ground is contextually used as a division between the world of negative spirits (below ground) and the world of people (above ground). Thus, distance from the ground is also distance from the world of negative spirits. In ‘outside’ spirit chanting to these spirits (see Chapter 6), ritual offerings are placed on the ground outside the house (i.e. rather than on

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Figure 5.8 House diagram A

a tray on a raised area). This negative evaluation of the ground in this tripartite scheme can be seen in the Akha preference for taller, raised houses (njḿ gó) over houses located on or close to the ground (njḿ ɔ). As one moves from the outside to the interior of the house, one moves in an upward direction. Thus, one mounts a ladder leading to the uncovered porch (gýga) and slightly above that is the covered porch (pjàkhàn). The house door leads from the covered porch to the inside (male side) of the house, on the ‘lower’ end of the house (hɔ́bipɔ – see below). An identical pattern occurs on the ‘female’ side of the house except that there is no uncovered porch. Although an Akha house is divided lengthwise in half by a shoulder-high partition (lɔkà) that separates the ‘male’ side from the ‘female’ side of the house, widthwise it is divided into two other halves, the separation point marked by the main floor beam, one side being the sleeping side (which is considered ‘upper’) and the other side being the ‘living’ (eating/cooking/working) side (which is considered ‘lower’).32 The sleeping side is, in fact, raised with wooden planks above the working side, and is called hɔ́mɛ́, the syllable mɛ́ meaning ‘up’, while the working/cooking side is called hɔ́bi, the syllable bi meaning ‘down’ (see Figure 5.9). I have heard the raised

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sleeping area also called mɛ́taq, the syllable taq meaning ‘above’. Hɔ́mɛ́pɔ (the upper side) is where one’s head faces when asleep and hɔ́bipɔ (the lower side) is where one’s feet face. While people normally sleep on the upper side, those individuals that are considered ‘impure’ because they have been contaminated with improper fertility (such as multiple births/twins or deformed babies) must sleep in the lower side (see Figure 5.9). Thus impure is associated with lower and pure with upper. The lower side (male end) is the place where coffins are placed at funerals, much as the Akha locate the village cemetery outside the lower village gate. Once when I was attending an all-night trance in a shaman's house, I lay down with my head facing the lower side of the house. Everyone was concerned for my health and asked me to move since this position could drain away my life-force. The ultimate ‘upper’ area in the house (which is also the most interior point-see below) is the focal point of the household ancestral shrine, which we have previously said is located at the inside roof area on the ‘female’ or ‘main house’ side, next to the main house post (djm zǝ́), thus on the upper or sleeping side of the house (hɔ́mɛ́pɔ). I once heard a woman scold her granddaughter by saying that she was not allowed to ‘go up’33 (mà lé khm̀-ǝ) towards the area where the ancestral paraphernalia was located. In general, the internal upper side of the house is more positively valued than the internal lower side. The ancestral section is located at the internal upper side, one’s head faces that direction when sleeping, elders eat there at ritual meals while those younger must eat at the lower side, etc. This positive evaluation of the space where elders are located can be extended further by building raised beds (djatjì) for them on top of the raised sleeping area as a sign of respect. That these spatial processes serve to reproduce the hierarchical system in Akha society and its attendant (age and gender) status differences was forcefully illustrated in my attempt to give a town-bought mattress to the daughter-in-law of the family with whom I stayed. There was much resistance from the father of the family (who was normally an amiable person) since the mattress was thicker than his own (thus the young woman would be sleeping in a higher position than he and would also be more comfortable), and ultimately he ruled that she could not have it. For the Akha, the proper order of hierarchy must be maintained to ensure the flow of proper fertility to the household, and thus his refusal was not purely self-interest. At first I thought that this upper/lower internal slope or upper/lower pattern was the opposite of the external slope of the ground on which the house is built. Thus, the ancestral altar would be located at the downslope side of the house and the living area at the upslope side. Many but not all of the houses in Bear Mountain Village were built this way. While the external slope of the house ground is noted by the Akha

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with the terms gy for the downslope side and nja for the upslope side (terms we have seen in our discussion of ancestors), I was told that this slope may or may not correspond to what I am calling the ‘internal’ slope of the house. There seems to be some implicit preference for this kind of oppositional orientation, however. There may, for example, be some practical reason for having the living/working side (where fireplaces are located) near the ground (as it would be if located on the upslope side of the hill). Although ‘upslope’, this means that the ground is closer to the bottom of the house, something that corresponds with having the living side be the ‘lower’ side of the house. There may also be a practical reason for having the sleeping side on the downslope since sleepers are raised further off the ground. With the sleeping side (where also the ancestral shrine is located) built on the downslope side of the house, it is, in fact, raised off the ground (and thus further above the domain of animals and evil spirits) more than the working/cooking side, possibly indicating a reason for this preference. Descriptions of the Akha house by Kammerer (1986: 35ff) and Lewis (1969-1970) give evidence for this oppositional pattern among other Akha groups. Kammerer also notes the phrase daq le, ‘to climb up’ being used with reference to movement towards the downslope side of the house (1986: 37), which is the area where the ancestral shrine is located. In Lewis we find that the bottoms of the ladders that one must climb to get into an Akha house point in the upslope direction, while the tops point in the downslope direction. Thus, one ‘climbs up’ toward the sleeping side (and thus externally downslope) of the house (Lewis 1970a: 632). I have also found in my own research that the external ‘upper’ side seems to be more negatively valued than the external lower side. The ghoqkhɛ̀ or front yard of the house (literally ‘passageway’) outside the door is a significant location in ‘outside’ spirit chanting for evil spirits. Chanting there takes place on the upslope (non-sleeping or internal ‘lower’) side of the house, and it is chanting associated with the negative outside spirits. Thus, there seems to be some evidence that upper and lower are evaluated differently inside the house than they are outside the house. In either case, an internal order contrasts with an external order in the creation of household and other forms of identity.

Center-periphery, interior/exterior and household hierarchy Just as I have noted at the level of the village, the construction of a center-periphery pattern at the level of the household is the construction of an interiorly-located focal point (which is the access point to potency) from which a continuum of degrees of periphery is established. And

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just as at the level of the village, this focal point is the first to be established in the construction of a new household. Thus, the first post to be planted (by the male household head) when building a house is the djmzǝ́, the main house post, also the most important house post. This is located towards the (soon-to-be sleeping) side-end of the house. This is the focal point of the house and its access to potency, especially as it is intimately connected to the household ancestral shrine (see below). With doors on both the front and back of the house, the place of the post/ancestral shrine (located near the roof eaves) is the most interior part of the house one can move into without going through the walls/ roof.34 Thus they are located in the most interior part of the house (see Figure 5.8 and Figure 5.6). The ancestral section, as the most interior point, is the contact point with the ancestors. That this notion of a ‘contact point’ or access point relies upon spatial relations, and not on the physical object itself, was brought home to me during a visit to an Akha village in one of my field trips to China in the early 1990s. Ancestral sections as ‘superstitious’ paraphernalia had been banished by the Chinese government. Nevertheless, while visiting one household, the male elder, in an attempt to introduce me to his ancestors and make them aware of my visit, made an offering of whiskey at the exact same location in the house, despite the fact that no ancestral shrine existed. To him, this procedure was just as effective. The centrality of a household is built up of several other features as well, including a second house post. The post in line with the main house post but towards the working side of the house and located in what we might call the physical center of the house is called bjɛqtoq (also 35 bɛqtoq). In fact, in ancestral verse (dɔ̀dà), the household heads (i.e. elders or tsɔ́mɔ̀) are spoken of as being located next to this central post: tsɔ́mɔ̀ mɔ̀ lá ná When [you] get old, djɔ́zá bjɛtoq dɔ̀pɛ̀ your place is at the

central house post.

The djmzǝ́ is longer than the bjɛqtoq post. The bjɛqtoq post need not extend any further down than floor level, although it may extend into the ground.36 In general, the djmzǝ́ post is conceptually more important as well. There is some evidence (that I cannot go into here) that these two house posts are associated with gendered distinctions, that is, that the main house post (djmzǝ́) is associated with males and the bjɛqtoq post associated with females.37 The central partition spans each of these two posts and a bit further on each side, dividing the Akha house into two sections – a female section and a male section. Just as the dzø̀ma lives in the center of the village, the male and female household heads (‘elders’) sleep next to the central partition, each on his or her respective side (See Figure 5.9).

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Figure 5.9

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House diagram B

And just as the dzø̀ma is associated with fertility, so is this central part of the house. As a sleeping area and thus as an area associated with sexual activity, this central/upper area is also associated with fertility. At weddings, grains of cooked rice (hɔ̀ sì) are thrown back and forth over the central partition onto the raised sleeping area on each side of the house in a ritualized play between men and women. The seeds sown here are to represent the seeds of the children to come, seeds to be sown on this very same area.38 The sacred household paraphernalia are all located close to these central features. Thus, the ancestral section is located on the women’s side wall next to the djmzǝ́ post, with its related paraphernalia (storage basket, rice drum, shoulder bag with dishes, etc.) just below it. Two fireplaces (one male and one female) are located on each side of the partition next to the bjɛqtoq post. From these central locations, a periphery continuum extends outward and indexes a continuum of social hierarchy. Thus, the peripheral features of an Akha house are its outside edges,39 such as doorway, porches, eaves, yards and areas close to these. An outsider observing an Akha house at night would correctly observe that family members (of the same sex) slept together on a large raised

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bamboo platform, almost like a single ‘bed’ in western terms, all within the single household ‘chamber’. While this observation of physical closeness would be accurate when contrasted with western-style autonomous rooms that prevent such physical closeness, it would miss a subtler level of difference. Thus, a closer examination would reveal that each person had his/her sleeping mat (and covers). Males who are not the household head (and thus are younger) sleep in a line extending out from him (at the center) and towards the periphery of the house, reflecting their position in a social hierarchy.40 The same is true for females. Maintaining this social hierarchy (here an age hierarchy) is directly connected to the flow of gỳlàn. Thus, for example, older siblings should marry before younger siblings. Should the reverse be the case (a younger sibling marrying before an older), this would reduce the gỳlàn of the married couples. As a potentially dangerous ‘outsider’, at the beginning of my fieldwork I was assigned a sleeping place on the male side of the house, near the door (periphery) (see Figure 5.9). Thus, individuals are both distinguished from and connected to each other through hierarchical terms, terms that relate simultaneously to Akha social hierarchy, spatial arrangements and the flow of potency. Should a household member become the parent of a monstrous birth, he or she is initially not even allowed to sleep on the raised sleeping area since this might be draining to household fortunes, but must sleep in the lower end of the house (See Figure 5.9), thus making him/her even more peripheral. I saw one such unfortunate father sleeping near the Figure 5.10

Boulder

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door. This household peripheral location for impure people (constructing inequality spatially) parallels the location in the village scheme for impure households, and, as at the village level, ensures that the center is protected from draining forces. That peripheral elements can be draining to a household’s fortunes is illustrated in another example. On one occasion a large boulder within the household compound was divined to be the cause of serious illness in the house (thus draining the household’s potency). The compound’s fence was reconstructed so as to place the boulder on the outside of the fence, outside the house compound so that its draining influence would not be within the household’s sphere. The spatial ordering of sleeping positions in the household illustrates a relation of gradation between the various members of the household, with a relation of absolute break (i.e. the partition) between those of different sexes. When Àtsu and I visited a house above Bear Mountain Village belonging to a development project, what struck her most about the house structure was that each person had his/her own bedroom. In her view, there were partitions set up for each person. She said ‘jɔ̀há jɔ̀ha lɔ̀ bɔ’, ‘each has his/her own lɔ̀ [enclosed area]’, and thus were no longer in positions of gradation from an interior focal point. The importance of the interior/exterior continuum in Akha society and the positive evaluation of interior over exterior is reflected in the fact that ancestors are called ‘inside spirits’ (khǿ nɛ̀q), as opposed to ‘outside spirits’ (njí nɛ̀q). As mentioned in the village chapter, there is a set of spirit chanting rituals called ‘spirit chanting of the inside and outside’, which I discuss in detail in Chapter 6. At the household level, spirit chanting of the inside is chanting to the ancestral spirits connected to the ancestral section in the house. This chanting takes place just below the ancestral section (on the female side of the house), while outside spirit chanting takes place at various locations outside the house, most commonly in the front (and thus male side) house yard (ghoqkhɛ̀), a term associated with the passageway into and out of the house, and may also take place at various degrees away from the house in the direction of the forest. While there is outside chanting at the village level, there is no inside spirit chanting at that level, indicating that there is a source of potency at the household level that is not found at the village level. I discuss below this significant difference between the household and village levels, and its implications for encompassing models of hierarchy. As we have seen above, the inside/outside distinction is also related to a gender distinction. The ancestral shrine is located on the female side of the central partition. This may strike some as unusual since the Akha are patrilineal.41 This location is appropriate, however, in that it is the most ‘inside’ (interior) part of the house, females being connected

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with inside-ness more than males in some oppositional contexts, as has been noted for other parts of Southeast Asia (see Janowski 1995: 103 on the Kelabit of Malaysia and Carsten 1995 for Langkawi). In fact, the female side, the most internal of the two sides, is called the ‘main house’ side (njḿma pɔ), paralleling a similar Northern Thai usage. Opposite the ancestral shrine, on the male side, is the place where hunting rituals take place. Being an activity of the forest, hunting is an ‘outside’ activity. Paralleling the chasing of animals in the hunt (sjà tɛ-ǝ) is the chasing of spirits (nɛ̀q tɛ-ǝ) that occurs once a year at the ká jɛq jɛq-ǝ ceremony. Note that this also draws a parallel between wild animals and outside spirits. At this time, young boys chase all the spirits (nɛ̀q) out of the village with carved wooden weapons (see Figure 4.8). Girls are not allowed to participate in the chase, leaving the boys to deal with these ‘outside’ elements.42 When outside visitors enter an Akha house, they enter the male chamber, not the female chamber. When ‘outside’ spirit chanting is performed, it takes place outside the door on the male side of the house. While covered porches extend from both ends of the house, only the male side is allowed to have the further peripheral extension of an uncovered porch. Thus, the male side has a greater degree of ’outsideness’ associated with it than the female side. Patrilineality of the ancestral shrine is not the determining factor in its location. We find a similar location for the matrilineal ancestral shrine in Northern Thai households. There, the ancestral shrine is loFigure 5.11 Uncovered porch

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cated in the most interior part of the house, the main bedroom (also called ‘main house’ as it is in the Akha case43) in which the female head of household sleeps.44 This structuring has more to do with gender oppositions than it has to do with the nature of the descent system. The association of males with ‘outsideness’ reflects their social roles as members of Akha society who deal with outsiders (both non-Akha and Akha from other villages). Males, for example, travel outside the village to a much greater extent than do females, both to market towns and to other hill villages. They are the ones most likely to know the languages of outsiders such as Shan, Chinese, or Lahu. The male side of the house is the side where outsiders and guests are received. These ‘outside’ roles are reflected and reinforced in Akha spatial oppositional patterns that align male with outside and female with inside.

Household ‘owners’ and spatialization as political process Just as at the level of the village, spatial practices at the level of the household are non-discursive practices that reflect and constitute a household hierarchy/totality with its resultant inequality. These practices are part of processes of inclusion of members in households, as well as exclusion. The hierarchy that is set up is that from household ancestors (at the highest point) to household ‘owners’ to other lower (younger/impure) members of the household, and finally to temporary guests, following the downward flow of gỳlàn. Since these practices construct a microcosmic totality at the level of the individual household, they have consequences for inter-household relations and household/village relations. In the construction of a totality at the household level, they can be seen as indicators of moments when the hierarchical encompassment of the household by the village, as illustrated in the last chapter, shifts. I discuss these shifts below. Since similar political processes of incorporation/non-incorporation and the production of a totality with its concomitant hierarchy are occurring at the level of the household and village, the same analytical concepts that we used in the village chapter are useful here as well. Encompassment In household hierarchy, the (interior) center is more positively valued than the periphery and upper is more positively valued than lower. These more positively valued spaces are occupied by people who can encompass45 the occupants of the less positively valued spaces. This form of encompassment can be seen in the fact that the household heads are called ‘owners’ (jɔsán) just as the dzø̀ma is for the village

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and represent all members of the household on various occasions. They are responsible for ensuring the flow of proper fertility to the household, and make the annual ancestral offerings on behalf of the whole household. They are also the ones (and the only ones) who must maintain strict abstinence (including sexual abstinence) during household rituals. Their abstinence suffices for the whole household. Another example is that during the yearly field offering known as khm̀pì lɔ́-ǝ, the household ‘owners’ must abstain from work in the fields while other members of the household need not. Again their abstinence stands for that of the whole household. The heads (especially the male household head) serve as representative of the whole household at village feasts such as those that take place at the dzø̀ma’s house. Thus, the encompassing ‘owners’ of the household have a particular kind of hierarchical relationship to the other members. In this relationship of encompassment, each household member (and thus person) is presented in terms of gradations, both socially and spatially as part of a whole. Some parts of this whole can stand for the whole. Personal ‘space’ is what I would like to call ‘partial space’.46 It fits along a continuum of social relations and is in a degree of relationship to the relevant center. In this sense, the Akha individual contrasts with the western ‘individual’ by being based on continuum as opposed to discontinuum principles, and on sets of encompassing relations instead of equivalence relations. In the western case, individuality is not gradated, but is equivalent and clearly bounded, and space is the Cartesian one of homogeneity. Àtsu’s contrast (discussed above) of the Akha’s and the development project’s house structure in terms of where partitions are located illustrates this contrast nicely. Rituals of aggregation: the house as microcosmic totality The aggregation of household members to an exemplary center (the ancestral shrine) from which potency flows takes place regularly, such as at the annual ancestral offerings.47 Thus, just as non-villagers are not permitted in a village during the annual gate-building ceremony, nonhousehold members are not allowed to be present during such household offerings (I was an exception as mentioned above). When a household splits up (njḿ dàn dàn í-ǝ), so does the ancestral shrine. The flow of potency from the exemplary center is represented in the form of a spiritual irrigation ditch, which also must be split should the household break up (see my discussion below). Thus, disaggregation occurs as the counterpart to aggregation. Of course individuals are incorporated into the household at birth, when they receive a patronymic that links them to the line of ancestors at the household ancestral shrine (also done for adopted members).

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They are also physically incorporated by the burial of the umbilical cord (the person’s center) below the main house post. Practices excluding outsiders are not just those at ancestral offerings. As a unit of reproductive (proper) fertility, the household is also the place for proper sexual relations, that is, for sexual relations between married members of the household only. Unmarried members (or married members of other households, as in adultery-see below) may not have sexual relations inside the household. This jeopardizes the flow of proper fertility through the ancestral shrine to the household, and should this happen, purificatory ceremonies must be carried out. Thus, household aggregation is reflected in the norms for sexual practices. Household aggregation is further represented in the practices of circumambulation (mentioned in the village chapter) such as the rites called zɔ̀q djɔ̀ sjǝ̀-ǝ ‘leading around the household’, conducted by a spirit priest (bǿmɔ̀). Both village and household level ceremonies are performed in cases of numerous and serious illnesses. At the village level, the spirit priest starts at the upper village gate, and during his chanting, circumambulates the village in a counterclockwise fashion passing to the lower village gate and then to the side village gate, and finally back to the upper gate. There are sections of ritual text associated with each of the three points. At the household level, the spirit priest begins at the ghoqkhɛ̀, ‘front household passageway’ and circumambulates the household, reciting a textual refrain at each of three points – the ghoqkhɛ̀, and the two house corners on the female side of the house. Then he returns to the ghoqkhɛ̀. As mentioned earlier, this movement can be seen as a protective incorporation process, collecting the parts of the household inside their boundaries, and separating them from the outside. Just as at the village level, the household is also a microcosm of the universe, representing and collecting all its elements within it so as to generate potency. This is why, paradoxically, the borders of the household are also represented as the borders of the universe, with the world of disorder and chaos represented as outside the household doorway. We note that the location of ‘outside’ spirit chanting at the village level is just outside the village gates, just as at the household level it is outside the front door. Both the household ‘passageway’ (ghoqkhɛ̀) and the village gates (lɔ́kàn) serve as points of division with outside spirits. In fact, the syllable khɛ̀ in ghoqkhɛ̀ means ‘opening’. The syllable khɛ̀ as associated with the village level can be seen in the fact that certain of the structures associated with the village periphery, especially the courting yard, are called lɔ́khɛ̀ in song language. Villagers clearly state that the purpose of the village gates is to separate the world of people from the world of nɛ̀q (spirits). Yet we find the exact same separation at the

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household ‘opening’. Note these lines from the zoqla text concerning the house passageway: outside the plank wall [of the house], the ground pounded level48 spirits separated [ from humans] Spirits can live dispersed from us. (my translation – see Tooker 1988, Appendix B, zoqla text) In the yearly ‘spirit chasing’ ceremony called ká jɛq jɛq-ǝ, previously mentioned, which is often described by villagers as a chasing out of spirits (nɛ̀q) from the village, spirits are actually chased out of both houses and the village as a whole. During it, young boys run through the length of each house more than once,49 terrorizing the spirits with their carved wooden clubs and rifles (Figure 4.8). Thus, the world of disorderly spirits is simultaneously represented as outside the house and outside the village, both of which are microcosmic totalities. Multiple microcosmic borders can also be seen in another example occurring during the initial rice harvest ceremony (oq doq ghɔ́-ǝ), when the family members going to the field to harvest the first rice must clear their throats three times, once at the ghoqkhɛ̀ or threshold of the house, once at the passageway out of the village (lɔ́kàn) and once when they reach the rice field (thus at the threshold to the field). This is in order to scare away any negative influences, including nɛ̀q. Thus, the ‘opening’ to the world of disorder as a relational opening occurs at all three thresholds, including those of household and village. That the household can be seen as a microcosmic totality of the universe, just as the village can, has implications for the politico-hierarchical relations between the household and other totalities, such as the village. The household is able to stand for and encompass the world of orderly relations and to serve as an ‘opening’ to the world of disorder. The household’s ability to create a totality made up of complementary elements means that it can generate potency on its own. Rituals of dispersion Various Akha practices indicate the dispersion of potency from the household ‘exemplary center’ of the ancestral shrine and the world of the ancestors, and thus the creation of a hierarchy from there down. The household heads (‘owners’), called ‘elders’ (tsɔ́mɔ̀) serve as intermediaries for this flow. Elders are also recognized as a source of potency in many ritual and non-ritual practices where they are called upon to give blessings to their juniors. This is especially true at the wedding ceremony where the bride and groom ask for blessings from their elders. During a village feast that I sponsored, elders came to me sponta-

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neously offering me their blessings: that I would have good health, many children, etc. They assumed that I offered the feast to gain potency from elders through their connection to the ancestors. Just as the dzø̀ma is the ‘founder’ of the village in that his house is the first to be built, so the household heads are the ‘founders’ of the household in that they are the first to enter a new one.50 As part of the house warming ceremony, a boiled egg is opened at the female, and thus more interior, fireplace and fed, along with sticky rice, first to the male household head and next to the female household head. Only after that may others eat it. In the accompanying meal, the household head must eat first. This practice of food dispersion continues at the annual ancestral offerings with the dispersion of offering food, after the ancestors have partaken, down the hierarchy of household members and finally outsiders. In some ways the construction of the main swing post at the level of the village parallels construction of the main house post. For the swing, the dzø̀ma must be the first to start digging the hole for the first swing post. For the house, the male household head is the first to start digging the hole for the main house post (djmzǝ́). For both types of holes, a similar offering is thrown in. As the main swing post is placed in its hole, those around yell out: ‘sǝ sǝ sǝ!’. The same exclamation can be heard when the house post is placed in its hole. And for each the same order of precedence, that is – with the ‘owner’ carrying out the first activity – is followed. This dispersive order is followed in various agricultural rituals concerned with the rice cycle, such as rice planting and harvesting. Thus, the household heads must conduct a first ritualized work segment before other members of the household set to work. Following this dispersive-hierarchical order ensures the flow of potency to the household.

Cosmos Like the village, the household is able to represent a cosmic totality that generates the flow of potency. And like the village, potency is accumulated at the center or focal point, spatially the main house post (djmzǝ́), and conceptually the household ancestral shrine. The household is able to bring together the opposing and balancing forces of the universe (such as male/female, wife-givers/wife-takers, elder/younger, animals/ humans/spirits, center/periphery, upper/lower, etc.) in orderly, hierarchical relations. In its ability to represent the totality of the forces of the universe, its borders also represent the borders to the worlds of disorder and chaos as we have seen.

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Thus, the cosmos can be represented as a household as it is in the shaman text I mentioned earlier, where Àpø̀mìjɛ́’s household is equated with the center of the universe, and the shaman circumambulates this household. The structure of this and an ordinary Akha household are the same. Note for example the reference to Àpø̀mìjɛ́’s open porch (gýga) in the shaman text (Hansson 1983: 59), the same open porch that is found in everyday Akha houses (Figure 5.11). Another example of the macrocosm as household can be found in the fact that ancestors are spoken about as returning to an ancestral household after death (and sometimes also a village).51 Links to the cosmos are through ancestors (with household heads as intermediaries) and are often expressed through concrete images for the flow of water. These are images of ladders (as in the infertility ceremony ‘building a ladder to the origin place of children [a cosmic lake])’ and irrigation canals (see below). These connections ensure the flow of potency to this world. Just as at the village level, the household’s connection to the macrocosm is a connection to an ‘origin’ point that represents temporal as well as spatial priority. Thus, the link to the ancestors (who are prior in time) is through the ancestral shrine, located at the central, interior part of the house. Movement towards this origin point (the ancestral shrine) is movement ‘upwards’ as well, as is movement towards the ancestral lands in China. Thus, spatial and temporal movement occurs simultaneously. Those temporally closer to the ancestors (household heads) sleep closest in space to the ancestral shrine while those younger are moved towards the periphery. Both ancestors and then household heads take temporal precedence in rituals (as when ancestors are fed first, or household heads carry out ritualized agricultural activities before other household members can) over those junior. Both sleeping and eating locations in Akha households reflect this combination of space and time.52

From a raised center: the irrigation system as a concrete image for the flow of potency We have previously seen the positive evaluation of both upper and center in the spatialization of both household and village. Thus, the household ancestral section is both ‘upper’ in terms of being located on the sleeping side, but also is ‘central’ in being located next to the central partition and djmzǝ́ post. Fertility and gỳlàn flows from this central, yet upper ancestral section. The sleeping positions of the two household heads are also upper in being on the raised sleeping platform, and central in being next to the central partition. As we have seen, in its asso-

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ciation with sexual activity, this central/upper area is also associated with fertility. Contrastingly, we see that the father of a monstrous birth slept both at the periphery in being located near the door, but also at the lower end of the house, off the raised sleeping area. When I first came to live in Bear Mountain Village with a family, as a guest and outsider, I was told to sleep on the men’s side (raised area) near the outer front wall. Further into my fieldwork, I was invited to the women’s side, but away from the central partition. Thus, ‘lower’ and ‘peripheral’ are devalued in Akha society. The overlap of central and upper occurs at the village level as well. Thus, while the dzø̀ma’s house is located in the village center, the dzø̀ma’s swing and courting yard (dɛkhàn) are located near the upper village gates.53,54 In fact, the upper village gate is the first and most important one used in ritual services. In divination, the egg that breaks and flows downward in all directions from a central, level, and yet upper location indicates the proper location for a village and its dzø̀ma. The dzø̀ma’s affiliation is with both the central, level ground of the village and the upper part of the village. Fertility flows from a raised center outwards. Perhaps most importantly for the village, water and gỳlàn flow down from the central yet upper sacred water source (called Àpø̀ ùjɛ́ [= Àpø̀ mìjɛ́]’s stream) of the village, which is called an irrigation ditch. We recall that at the time of rice planting, the dzø̀ma carries out the annual purification of this sacred water source (which includes a segment called ‘opening/clearing the irrigation ditch’) after which each household fetches water (see Figure 4.9). The first rice seeds to be planted are washed in it.55 Should anything occur that would affect the flow of fertility to the village (such as monstrous or illegitimate births, this water source must be re-purified (lɔ́khɔ̀q sjɔ́-ǝ) and the irrigation ditch re-cleared, indicating its direct connection to the flow of potency. In this ritual a hand hoe (làqngǝ̀) is used to dig out the village irrigation ditch (ýkhɛ̀). I would here like to suggest that this image of an irrigation ditch may help us to understand this overlap of upper and central (as flat, level). The image is that of the (mountain) water source from which ditches (ýkhɛ̀) are dug for the flow of water to irrigated fields. We remember from our earlier discussions the positive valuation placed on the notion of level ground. Thus, the water source is in a centralized, level position higher than the ditches into which it must flow in order to irrigate the fields. This irrigation brings fertility to the land. The source has the properties of being both level (and thus ‘middle’ in relation to upper and lower, or sloped ground) and raised (upper). The flow of water proceeds downward from it.

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That the image of irrigation systems appears in a society that today practices dry rice cultivation is an interesting historical question, possibly related to past practices. Various Hani and Akha groups in China still cultivate irrigated terraced fields. However, this is a topic I am unable to address in any depth here (see Tooker 1996a). The image of an irrigation ditch is replicated at the level of the household, thus indicating the flow of potency to the household. It is said that each household (zɔ̀q) has a spiritual56 ‘irrigation ditch’ from which its gỳlàn flows. I was told that this spiritual irrigation ditch is like the irrigation ditches of terraced fields (dɛma). The household irrigation ditch represents the unity of the household and its members as it is said that there is one for each zɔ̀q (household).57 Thus, when someone moves out of the household or when someone in the household dies, the irrigation ditch must be ‘divided’ (ýkhɛ̀ bí paq-ǝ) to maintain proper fertility. This splitting of the spiritual irrigation ditch parallels an actual division of household fields when someone58 moves out. Like the village irrigation ditch, the household irrigation ditch is connected to gỳlàn and fertility, especially the fertility of people. The link between the fertility of the fields and human fertility can be seen in the following blessing that elders give to the new couple at a wedding: ‘May you have only lots of daughters, lots of sons, lots of terraced fields, lots of irrigation ditches!’.59 There seems to be a gendered association here of females with fields and males with irrigation ditches. In a section in a marriage song I collected where the bride leaves her natal home, she is compared to dɛjá (fields) which can be made anywhere (i.e. she must leave), while the groom is compared to an ýkhɛ̀ (irrigation ditch) which must remain in one place. The earth is associated with women in many other contexts as well (often with the sky being associated with men).60 There is also a connection between those in a wife-giver relationship with the household and the flow of gỳlàn to the household. The wife-givers are also sometimes viewed as the irrigation ditch from which gỳlàn, especially in its forms as fertility and health, flows (see how this relationship appears in the text translated by Hansson 1983: 27, 48). Lewis mentions sterility being seen as ancestors ‘blocking the irrigation ditch’ (Lewis 1969b: 345). Sterile couples may have a shamanistic trance performed for them. ‘That night, or any night soon thereafter, if either the husband or wife dreams of water coming down from a lake, they will get a child’ (345-346). The shamans of Bear Mountain Village also performed these sterility trances to open the irrigation ditch. The spirit priest (bǿmɔ̀) as well could perform a type of spirit chanting called ýkhɛ̀ djɛ̀q-ǝ, ‘opening the irrigation ditch’ that would increase the household's potency (gỳlàn). This is a rather elaborate and expensive

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ceremony and so is done only rarely. It includes only inside chanting (see Chapter 6), and thus is done at the household ancestral section. While it may be done in positive circumstances, such as the desire to increase the household's gỳlàn, it must also be done in negative circumstances involving certain serious violations of zán that affect the fertility of the household. Thus, it must be done in the case of adultery if the husband does not divorce the adulterous wife and decides to keep her in his household. The version of it done for adultery is called mìmỳ tɔqmán tja-ǝ, literally, ‘digging out the good wife’s long case’, although it actually refers to digging out the irrigation ditch. I was told that this ceremony is absolutely necessary if household heads (njḿsán àda, njḿsán àma) are involved in the adultery, but may not be necessary for lesser household members. Their adultery violates the ancestral section in a serious way (àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q bàn-ǝ), reiterating the close connection between the household ‘owners’ and the ancestral section. In fact, it also reiterates the fact that they and their behavior influence the whole household,61 just as the behavior and person of the dzø̀ma influences the whole village in this encompassment form of hierarchy. Note that the household’s gỳlàn is vulnerable through the wife, not the husband.62 A married man may sleep with unmarried women, while married women may not sleep with anyone except their husbands. Should a married man sleep with a married woman, it is the gỳ63 làn of the married woman’s household that is affected. To restore this n gỳlà , either the woman divorces her own husband and marries the new lover (Polygyny is allowed, and this resolution is the most common practice), or an ýkhɛ̀ djɛ̀q-ǝ ceremony must be carried out at her household to purify and re-open its spiritual irrigation ditch. Part of the ritual paraphernalia for the ‘opening the irrigation ditch’ (ýkhɛ̀ djɛ̀q-ǝ) ceremony are a hand hoe (làqngǝ̀) (as in the village level ritual) and a metal digging tool (gàntjɛ́) that will be used by the spirit priest to open up the spiritual irrigation ditch so that the spiritual water may flow (i.e. gỳlàn). In addition, a duck is sacrificed so that it may eat the insects (ámɔ́) at the irrigation ditch. Thus, the imagery of an irrigation system remains throughout. This same paraphernalia is used in the ceremony for a ja jɛ́ àma (‘fertility mother’), further linking this image to the flow of fertility and potency.

Disruptions in the flow of potency and processes of exclusion Both the flow of potency and its disruption are integrally related to spatial orientation in the household. In the above section, we have already seen some examples of disruptions in the flow of potency, such as the cases of illness, adultery, infertility and monstrous and illegitimate

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births. Death, especially as a point of disruption of the flow of the life force, means that the household spiritual irrigation ditch must be split, and for the other cases there are ritual procedures to be followed. Irregular menstruation is seen as another sign of improper fertility. Sexual relations in the household by non-household members also threatens the household’s fertility. I discuss numerous other examples in the chapter on ‘outside’ spirit chanting. The latter type of chanting is a way to deal with the disruptive forces and restore the flow. Any disruption of the fertility/prosperity of the household’s crops, human members and domestic animals calls for ritual procedures (and sometimes purifications) to deal with the disruptions. So, for example, there are ceremonies for calling back the ‘soul’ of rice when the rice crop is jeopardized, or the soul(s) of people when they are ill (for both the imagery is that of the soul wandering away to dangerous, peripheral, draining areas). Sometimes threats to the flow of potency call for a protective spatial aggregation of household members, such as when household members are confined to the house during certain parts of a funeral for a household member. A parallel at the village level occurs at the time of a monstrous birth (such as twins) when villagers are not allowed to go beyond the village boundaries for a certain period of time. For example, they cannot go to their fields on such occasions. The flow of potency is also jeopardized by any violation of the order of household hierarchy. This includes the hierarchical relation of seniority in the connection to ancestors. When I once sat down in the sleeping area of the male household head, I created a great concern as this might affect the household as a whole. On the other hand, on another occasion, there was great concern for my well-being when I accidentally laid my head towards the lower (potency-draining) section of the house. As we have seen, the possible location of lower household members in a position raised above higher household members (such as the daughter-in-law sleeping on a mattress thicker than that of the male household head) can create problems for the household. This hierarchy is also gendered. A man may beat his wife without consequences to the household’s potency (although he may suffer social pressure to refrain), while a woman who beats on her husband puts the husband’s patrilineal line at risk. It is said that the line will die out under such circumstances. We have already seen that the household’s potency is at risk from adulterous affairs of women, but not those of men. Non-human elements out of proper hierarchical order can also affect the flow of potency to the household. We have seen that the house is conceptualized with domestic animals located below the house. Should an animal such as a dog climb up to the roof of the house, this violation must be addressed ritually. Should the world of evil spirits (nɛ̀q) invade the space of the house (for example by making the rice steamer moan-

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see Chapter 6), ceremonies must be carried out. Thus, this hierarchical spatialization extends beyond the human world. In fact, the house site itself may be jinxed by a draining force, indicated by continuous illness in the house or other misfortune such as a house fire. Such bad potency requires a relocation of the physical house itself. As a spatial totality, the household can also exclude people from its space as part of its own processes of incorporation of members and exclusion of non-members as a protective device that protects the flow of household potency. These processes of exclusion can be quite powerful and heart-wrenching as in the case of an unwed pregnant daughter (a danger to her natal household’s patrilineal line) who was forced to leave her parents’ household with no place to go. Or also the case of divorced women who are not allowed to return to live in their natal parents’ household. Those who become social outcasts such as the parents of twins suffer a great deal when they are not only discarded from their household but also their village. Less dramatic cases are the temporary exclusion of adopted family members and other outsiders (such as servants) at the time of household ancestral offerings, moments which reaffirm who is and who is not in the household totality. The non-members must leave the household at these times. These exclusionary processes, along with certain other rules concerning outsiders (such as the rule that outsiders may not carry a knife into someone else’s house64) mark the dangers presented to a household by outsiders and thus the political nature of these processes. We have seen similar spatial exclusionary processes in relation to the household’s fields when ‘ethnic’ outsiders are excluded at rice threshing.

Summary Relations between totalities and questions of autonomy and resistance This chapter illustrates that spatial practices at the level of the household are parts of processes of political incorporation (of household members) and non-incorporation (of outsiders). The household, just as the village, is constructed as a hierarchical totality that contains within it all the elements of the universe. But how can both the household and the village represent the totality of the universe for the Akha? As mentioned earlier, to some extent this is a moot question in that the ‘universe’ represented is one that combines the important opposing elements to generate fertility. Theoretically, this can be done anywhere, any time since it is a system of relations. Thus, ‘universe’ is defined not as physical control over all the spaces of the earth and cosmos (as it might mean in modern western conceptions) but rather as the relational combination of the forces generating potency. The combination

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creates a totalizing context. Whoever is able to do that is a universal ruler (whether lowland king, Akha dzø̀ma, or household head). It is the ability to align with (and control) the forces of the universe in such a way that the rest follows. For example, control over, or encompassment of, all the spaces of the earth might be one consequence. Nevertheless, the construction of such a universe or totality, at whatever level, has consequences for its hierarchical relationship to other totalities. There is some degree of recognition within the system that other totalities, other contexts exist. For most contexts, other totalities (outside the household or village), as extensions of the ‘periphery’, are viewed as draining of the potency of the totality in question, as we have seen in the village’s relationship to the muang. While a center-periphery pattern and hierarchy is contained within the totality of the house, there is a second level of peripheralization which is the periphery outside the protective sphere of the house. Household boundaries divide the internal sphere of protected order from the external sphere of dangerous disorder. I have already mentioned the case of the boulder within a household compound that was divined to be the cause of serious illness in the house. The compound’s fence was reconstructed so as to place the boulder on the outside of the fence, outside the house compound so that its draining influence would not be within the household’s sphere (See Figure 5.10). In another example, the eaves of one house may not overlap another house, thus remaining two different spheres of influence, neither draining of the other. At the inter-village level, another village experiencing an epidemic may be seen as a potential draining force to one’s own village. The skin of a dog in a threatening posture is stretched and hung at the village gates to ward off this threat from other villages (see Figure 5.12). When chasing illness-causing spirits out of the village in another ceremony, villagers said that they were sending these spirits to my land, the land of the mǝ̀, thus reflecting the draining influence they could have on other totalities. Perhaps most important is the household-village relationship. In some contexts, the household is incorporated into the village in an encompassment form of hierarchy and potency flows from the village center. This is clearly the case in the rituals of dispersion and aggregation we have discussed in the village chapter such as house construction, first planting and first harvesting.65 In other contexts, however, such as household ancestral offerings, the relevant center is that of the household, with its potency emanating directly from the line of ancestors at the ancestral shrine, giving the household a degree of autonomy and access to potency that it does not have in the first set of contexts. If one looks at the movement of ancestral offering food, for example, the dzø̀ma is one of the last to receive it. He is here associated with things that are peripheral and possibly draining to the household, such as

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Figure 5.12 Dog skin at gate

members of other households, just as the eaves of other households might be. The construction of ‘inside and outside spirit chanting’ (see Chapter 6) clearly refers to the household as the domain of the ‘inside’ (= ancestors) where potency is accumulated. The village cannot be referenced in such a way, and ‘inside’ chanting cannot occur at the village level. This indicates contexts when the household does not need to be incorporated into a village encompassing hierarchy in order to receive potency. Thus, the household as a unitary phenomenon contains within it contradictory statements about access to potency.66 Furthermore, the spatialization of the house can even be used to express the draining potential of the village. The extended, uncovered porch of the house is used in a ceremony combating an illness that the Akha call ‘affliction by the dzø̀ma’. The Akha hold a ceremony for the sick person afflicted by this illness at the periphery of the house on the uncovered porch where a meal is prepared for ghø̀ dzø̀ dàjan, the ‘nine guest dzø̀ma’ who are the ‘spirit-owners’ of the dzø̀ma. A table is set up there with a full place setting for each of the nine, including nine sets of chopsticks, for a meal for these spirit guests so that they will no longer afflict the sick person. This associates power of the dzø̀ma with the periphery, recognizing his negative draining power. The possibility of dealing with this and other external draining powers through exchange offerings is discussed in Chapter 6.

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Contrastively, the spatialization of the village can express a potential draining effect of households. For example, Lewis (1970b: 628) states that the shadow of a house cannot fall upon the village swing and a house site ‘cannot wrong the spirit of the village sacred water source’ (Lewis 1969a: 135), practices which I interpret as potential impositions of the household’s sphere of influence/potency on the village. It must be pointed out that in the spatial construction of hierarchical, potency-generating totalities at the levels of household and village, the contradictions we have exposed raise questions of political resistance. Whether or not we want to admit a conscious resistance such as seems to be the case when illness-causing spirits are sent to lowland societies, we have to recognize that the construction of semi-autonomous potency-generating spheres in Akha society has the consequence of resisting full political incorporation, whether it is of the household into the village polity or the village into supra-local polities, such as those of the lowlands. The message being sent through these practices is about the design of the cosmos, but it is also about through whom/what cosmic potency is channeled. This resistance to political incorporation is implicit in and achieved through non-discursive practices – the practices of spatialization discussed in this book. The degree of autonomy that the Akha household has in its ability, through spatial practices, to resist (to some extent) village-level incorporation may be reflective of a relatively egalitarian social order. In fact, both the construction of alternative potency-generating totalities, and the recognition that other totalities have ‘power’ on their own is an egalitarian recognition of mutual influences. Thus, in some sense, at the village level, the Akha are placing the lowland muang into an egalitarian framework, and constructing the political world as relations among equals (the opposite of what the lowland polity does).

6 Chanting to Produce the Inside and Outside

In the beginning people and spirits (nɛ̀q) lived together in the same house and shared the same fields. They had the same mother. People nursed from the two breasts on the mother’s front while nɛ̀q drank from the nine breasts on the mother’s back. However, they fought and argued and ended up living in separate places. (Akha origin story)

Introduction In the village chapter we have seen how the Akha separate and valuate uplanders (themselves) and lowlanders (others). Through spatial and other forms of totalization, the Akha village becomes a microcosmic totality that accesses cosmic forces of the universe. Being hierarchical in nature, this totality can be viewed as a political technology, supplying ranked positions both within Akha society and between the Akha and outsiders. In a sense the autonomy and superiority of the Akha way of life over that of outsiders rests on an insider collaboration: those within must follow the hierarchical patterns laid down by the ancestors. As we have seen in the household chapter, these spatial patterns also exist at the level of the household, which itself can become a totality that can access cosmic power on its own. Here the insider/outsider distinction can at times refer to household members vs. non-household village members, and Akha semiotic practices can express tensions between the village and household domains. In this chapter, we look at a set of ritual practices called ‘spirit chanting of the inside and outside’. These ceremonies concern themselves with spirits of the inside and spirits of the outside (see also my discussion in Tooker 1988). We will find that ‘inside-ness’ is prototypically associated with the household (and its ancestral and reproductive spirits) in its capacity as a productive and reproductive unit, although the village can represent a relative degree of insideness. In addition, household and village autonomy and tensions are reflected in, and created through, these ceremonies. We will also find that the dangerous spirits of the ‘outside’ are placed in a similar structural position to human out-

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siders (non-Akha, especially lowlanders).1 Essentially this is a construction that makes a ‘peripheral’ group ‘central’ by giving it access to forces of life (potency) and the ability to ward off evil outside draining influences. Thus it developed in an intergroup context. As we will see, the inside/outside distinction is created and enacted in numerous, complex, holistic, and culturally creative ways, sending clear messages about a protective Akha inside and a dangerous nonAkha outside. This is a type of political technology that reflects and maintains the pre-modern autonomy of the Akha. Similar constructions appear to be characteristic of a number of societies in Southeast Asia in the precolonial era,2 although here I am restricting myself to the case of the Akha of Northern Thailand for the period early-mid 1980s. They produce and reproduce an internal sphere of society as safe, protected, prosperous, fertile, and potent. By contrast the external is constructed as dangerous and draining of potency and fertility.

Inside and outside forces and ‘potency’ Akha society can be characterized as a ‘care-taking’ society since everyone is taking care of someone else. Ancestors, perhaps the prototypical inside caretakers, take care of their descendants, living people take care of their children (and other living people, including house guests), living people take care of their elders and ancestors (by feeding them, making them comfortable, etc.), people take care of their animals and crops and so on. The concept of jɔsán, ‘owner’, includes this care-taking function. There is a constant concern with filling the physical and spiritual needs of others whether it be food, clothing, shelter, appropriate respect ceremonies, the need to call back some soul-substance, etc. This protective ‘inside’ care-taking produces prosperity in crops, fertility in people, and the productivity of livestock. Appropriate hospitality and giving, including the performance of ceremonies with their attendant feasts, rewards the giver with social prestige, while those who are ‘stingy’ or focused more towards their own needs are looked down upon. As inside spiritual beings, ancestors are a special channel to the protective and powerful forces of the supramundane world and thus are especially prestigious beings in Akha society. Such forces can affect one’s health, one’s lifespan, one’s mental state, in short, one’s fortunes in general, and so they are frequently thought about. When things are going well, the ancestors should be thanked. For example, if a family had an especially prosperous year with their crops, they might carry out some sacrifices for the ancestors. When something goes wrong (ill health, for example), these supramundane

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Figure 6.1

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Bride receiving blessing from elder

influences must be seriously considered, and sacrificial offerings may be required. Akha formulaic names of three great ‘spirit-owners’ represent their concern with the potency/well-being of three ‘inside’ realms that are important for the reproduction of Akha society: crops (kájɛ́ ‘spirit-owner’), people (bíjɛ́ ‘spirit-owner’), livestock (djèjɛ́ ‘spirit-owner’). As mentioned in Chapter 3, this ‘potency’ is seen as emanating or flowing (hydraulic metaphors are often used) through interior (inside) contact points connected to the cosmos. There is a degree of protective intimacy that is invoked in the concept of an interior potent point such as the ancestral shrine. The social connectedness projected onto inside protectors is not projected onto those outside the society who are seen as asocial beings. Outside forces, including wild animals of the forest, evil ‘outside’ spirits, and lowlanders, can only cause trouble. Akha complain of how they have to buy their meals when they go to the lowlands. A variety of outside spirits can cause all kinds of mishap and misfortune, even death. Outside spirits are seen as only draining of one’s potency: one’s health, soul-substance and fortune, and so they must be avoided. The same is true for wild animals, some of which (bears and tigers, for example) must be feared for their potential to take human life, others (various varieties of wildcats, for example) for their ability to drain families of their livestock, and others (birds, rodents, and insects) for their ability to take crops. This is all the more reason to incorporate oneself into the

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internal social hierarchy of Akha society and, as far as possible, to break off relations with outside forces.3 In the context of spirit chanting, inside ceremonies usually appeal to ancestral spirits contacted through a household ancestral shrine that represents the patrilineal line. This is the point through which potency flows down and out from the supramundane world to the household. As appeals to household ancestral spirits, they parallel in many ways the routine annual set of twelve ancestral offerings carried out by each household. The ‘inside’ is specifically concerned with the fertility of three spheres in Akha society: that of rice/grain, people, and domestic animals. At times, the notion of the ‘inside’ is concerned with the fertility of these three spheres in a general way and not always specifically in relation to ancestors. Thus, other, non-ancestral ‘inside’ spirits associated with fertility and continuity of the line are sometimes referenced (such as the ‘spirit-owners’ [jɔsán] of rice, people, and animals).4 Spirit chanting of the outside is a way of dealing with evil spirits of the forest/‘wild’ and the underworld, those that not only can block the flow of potency/fertility but also can contaminate with an outside draining force. Ancestral spirits are supposed to guard over and take care of their descendants (although sometimes asking for offerings), and represent a revered continuous line of ancestors extending back to the first human, often sixty or more generations, with the last three generations taking particular care of their descendants. By contrast, outside spirits are chaotic, disorderly, and tyrannical. A number of these outside spirits are seen as powerful, high status beings, in much the same way as the Akha view powerful political rulers. In fact, ‘outside spirits’ attack, impound or imprison Akha ‘souls’ similarly to the way outside political powers have been attacking Akha people for centuries. They can only take and drain, not give. Thus, the nature of the relationship to each is clearly asymmetrical. As one can see in Appendix B, there are multiple outside draining forces. Lowland dominant groups form only one and even then, not always directly in these sets of representations. Others include: agricultural pests (such as maggots and rats), blood loss (and menstrual blood which is especially draining to males), certain natural phenomena (such as the sun, lightning, wild animals, illness, deformed infants), evil spirits, emotional states (anger, desire), black magic, illegitimate births, the dead, violations of social hierarchy, and forms of entrapment and impoundment. A common reaction to outside draining forces is to reverse the directions of the flow of whatever force is relevant. Thus, for example, noises emanating from outside forces (such as evil spirits or wild animals) toward the inside are considered draining of potency (see cases in Appendix B). The response to them is villagers creating noises themselves,

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such as clearing their throats, which move from the inside (village) out. Akha also shoot off guns (Figure 6.2) at the annual ceremony to chase spirits out of the village. This ‘expulsion’ pattern reappears throughout Akha outside ceremonies. By contrast, inside ceremonies could be viewed as a way to tap into good potency or ‘increase’ forces to have them flow towards (or through) one’s self/family/village (inside). Figure 6.2 Shooting a gun to chase spirits

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Introduction to spirit chanting of the inside and outside Spirit chanting is an integral part of Akha society. It is required for the establishment of a new ancestral shrine in a new household. It is one of the few times in which descent and alliance groups are delineated through the offering of contrastive types of meat in bowls (khm̀mà tjì-ǝ) to represent different kin relationships.5 Thus, it has relevance to the basic social groupings of Akha society. Equally important is its usage in re-establishing balance between the world of humans and the world of spirits when they get out of balance. The topic of this chapter is that of spirit chanting (nɛ̀q tó tó-ǝ) of the ‘inside’ (làqkhǿ) and ‘outside’ (làqnjí).6 In Bear Mountain Village, the Akha performed these spirit chanting ceremonies frequently. They are performed in the cases of illness or affliction by spirits, cases of impurity, and as well in cases where a build-up of gỳlàn is desired. In all these cases, the spirit priest (bǿmɔ̀) serves as an intermediary between ordinary humans and the worlds of the spirits, whether ancestral or otherwise. He is the ritual officiant and does the actual chanting. In Appendices A and B, I have listed the various types of ‘inside’ chanting and ‘outside’ chanting and the occasions that call for them. I approach these ceremonies by focusing mainly on the pragmatic construction of the inside and outside. I focus on pragmatic techniques and use illustrations. Many examples of ceremonies actually observed can be found in the appendices. To further set the context of this discussion of inside/outside spirit chanting, I note that some of the purposes for which it is carried out (especially curing) may be accomplished through other means and by consulting other specialists apart from a spirit priest, especially a shaman (njípà) or even non-specialists, such as elders. The ritual complex concerned with shamanism differs significantly from that of the spirit priest. Ceremonies performed by elders or a family member are of a smaller scale than those performed by specialists. The officiant selected and the level of ritual carried out depends on such factors as the type and seriousness of the illness, the age of the affected person (elders requiring more elaborate ceremonies than those younger), the economic situation of the family in question, personal preference for a particular shaman or spirit priest (as well as her/his availability), and the results of divination.7 Some of these factors are discussed in the cases below. In general, an illness or affliction must have reached a fair degree of seriousness before spirit chanting (nɛ̀q tó tó-ǝ), which is costly in terms of loss of livestock, would be considered. In addition, inside and outside chanting is only part of the spirit priest’s repertoire. Inside and outside ceremonies are conducted in situations that can be seen as rectifying an imbalance that has occurred

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between the human and spiritual worlds, or ensuring a future balance. They include these four types of occasions: 1 illness; 2 impurity (sometimes associated with 1); 3 violations of zán (zán bàn le-ǝ) (these also may concern 1 and 2);8 4 desire for good health, well-being, good fortune (gỳlàn), as in the establishment of a new ancestral section. The spirit priest also conducts other types of ceremonial chanting for the following five occasions: 5 death/funeral; 6 paying tribute to the spirit priest's ‘owner’ (jɔsán); 7 installation of another spirit priest; 8 installation of a jajɛ́àma (‘fertility mother’); 9 installation of a blacksmith. My discussion of the inside/outside chanting is not meant to be exhaustive. The ceremonies I have selected to discuss here are particularly clear examples of the utilization of the inside/outside axis for the following reasons: 1 It is clear to an Akha whether one of these ceremonies is of the ‘inside’ or ‘outside’ type. 2 They contain textual sections that are called khǿ nɛ̀q gáma (‘the path of the inside spirits’) and/or njí nɛ̀q gáma (‘the path of the outside spirits’). 3 They require ritual paraphernalia that clearly marks something as either of the inside or outside. 4 They are carried out at locations that signify the ‘inside’ or the ‘outside’. The semiotically marked division between ‘inside’ (làqkhǿ) and ‘outside’ (làqnjí) recurs throughout Akha society,9 but the following discussion focuses on how it is applied to the domains of village and household. That it is not applied to the level of the muang underscores the point that Akha identity does not incorporate a notion of supra-village political organization. Furthermore, the manner in which the inside/outside division is applied to the levels of household and village differs. This divergence indicates that this division is not merely replicated at each level, but is also transformed in ways that serve political purposes and reflect political tensions.

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‘Inside’ and ‘outside’ spirits In the context of spirit chanting, ancestors are called ‘inside spirits’ (khǿ and other (malevolent) spirits are called ‘outside spirits’ (njí nɛ̀q). This terminology partially accounts for villagers’ frequent overlapping of the terms nɛ̀q (‘spirits’) and àpø̀pì (‘ancestors’) in that an ancestor is also a type of spirit. However, in most contexts, the term nɛ̀q is used alone without prefix to refer only to the malevolent outside spirits. A spirit priest explained to me the overlap by saying that since we cannot see the people who are our ancestors, Akha sometimes say that they ‘turned into nɛ̀q’(nɛ̀q pjə̀q í-ma), although they are not really nɛ̀q. This same spirit priest explained to me that nɛ̀q were those who separated from human beings in the past according to an Akha origin myth, while àpø̀pì (‘ancestors’) were the ‘souls’ (sàqlá) of our mothers and fathers that died. The most important characteristic of ancestors that makes them part of the ‘inside’ is that they fall into the realm of ‘people’ (tsɔ́hà), rather than the realm of ‘spirits’ (nɛ̀q). This division between (both living and dead) people and spirits, and not the one between ancestors and spirits, is the fundamental one. It emphasizes a continuity between living and dead Akha, and a discontinuity between Akha and non-Akha whether they be human, animal or spirit. Since ‘inside’ is defined in this way, we will find that inside spirit chanting, which is performed under unusual circumstances, takes on many of the characteristics of the normal ancestral offerings that are performed twelve times a year as part of the annual ritual cycle. Both types of ceremonies take place at the household ancestral section which is associated with proper fertility in terms of progeny for crops (especially rice), people and livestock. The offerings given must always be ‘pure’ (jɔ sjɔ́). The regular annual offerings are viewed as paying normal respect to the ancestors so that they continue to watch over their descendants’ health and prosperity. However, apart from these occasions, ancestors may also be punitive (punishing their descendants for infractions or negligence) and demanding (asking for sacrifices when they want to eat). In the latter case, they are spoken of as begging (sjá dzà-ǝ) their children for food. In either case, the ancestors are viewed as deserving whatever they ask for. Although inside spirit chanting is normally referred to as a kind of tó-ǝ (‘chanting’), one villager described it as a lɔ́-ǝ, the same verb that is used to describe ancestral offerings (àpø̀ lɔ́-ǝ). He said that when our ancestors are angry with us, we have to lɔ́-ǝ them with pigs. In general, the terms lɔ́-ǝ (‘to honor’) and tu-ǝ (‘to pay respects to’) are used to describe the relationship between the offerers and the ancestors (as well as other inside spirits), while other terms, such as tjàq ínɛ̀q),

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ǝ

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(‘to pay off’) and tó dzɛ-ǝ (‘chant to get rid of’), are used to describe the relationship to outside spirits. One main difference between the two types of ceremonies is that, in normal ancestral offerings, the household head (or a ja jɛ́ àma) is the officiant, while in spirit chanting, a specialist and intermediary, the spirit priest (bǿmɔ̀), is required. However, a spirit priest cannot chant for his own ancestral section, reiterating the separation of the roles of intermediary and descendant. Outside rituals include offerings to other numerous spirits apart from one’s own ancestral spirits, usually seen as spirits of the underworld. The outside spirits are negative spirits. They are cannibalistic and desire to eat meat often. Their attacks may be unprovoked. They are seen as the cause of improper fertility, and also of illness. The offerings to them may or may not be offerings of the ‘pure’ (jɔ sjɔ́) type, depending on the desire of the particular spirit in question. They also differ from the inside offerings along other axes, as we will see. The living household members themselves are poised between the two forces of the inside and outside. A house without ‘inside’ protectors (an inside force pushing out) is subject to invasion by an outside force. For example, villagers were concerned with the imbalance that my house represented in that it did not have an ancestral section. ‘Don't nɛ̀q [i.e. ‘‘outside’’ spirits] come into your house?’, they asked. While the outside spirits are often seen as emanating from the underworld, the ancestors are often (although not always) seen as dwelling ‘above’.10 Thus, the household is, in some sense, also between the ‘above’ and the ‘below’. When everything is going as it should (i.e. when it is not pulled in one or other of the two directions by something such as illness), the household is in the middle, balanced, a conceptual emphasis that I have discussed in previous chapters, and that, as we have seen, is reflected in spatial terms. The two sides cannot be seen as symmetrical in nature. That is, the inside is both positive and negative while the outside is only negative. The inside is both benevolent and punitive, the outside is only punitive. Indeed, punitive is not even the correct word since its attacks are often unprovoked. The ancestors watch over the manner in which zán (customs) is carried out (and punish and reward on that basis),11 while nɛ̀q represent amoral forces that do not follow zán. They can, however, be controlled by zán- procedures passed down from the ancestors (and thus the inside) that give human beings the edge over uncontrollable forces. The asymmetry in the nature of the inside and outside is reflected in the types of offerings that can be made for each. ‘Inside’ offerings include a set of annual rites through which the household members honor their ancestors. In addition, offerings can be made for special occa-

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sions such as illness or the desire to build up the good will of the ancestors. Outside offerings, on the other hand, are not made regularly and are only made when affliction arises, or when one desires to ward off affliction ahead of time. Thus, in both its relatively positive valuation and in its provision of the means to deal with both inside and outside forces, the inside is in a hierarchically higher (even encompassing) position in relation to the outside.

Framework of an inside chanting Through divination or merely through a desire to carry out a certain inside ceremony,12 the Akha fix which type of ceremony is to be performed. On an auspicious day for the household (ánan jɔ mỳ, lit. = ‘good day’), a family member (usually a pà member)13 goes to call the spirit priest to let him know that they would like him to come and chant.14 This has usually been informally arranged ahead of time. The first step, upon the arrival of the spirit priest at the house which is holding the ceremony, is to prepare the sjì né tìq-ǝ meal for the spirit priest on the men's side of the house. For this meal, a chicken is sacrificed. This is an introductory sacrifice to the larger sacrifices that will occur later and represents a payment to the spirit priest (and his jɔsán, spiritual ‘owner’) for having come. Elders of the village are also called to join in this feast. The jɔsán of the spirit priest must be fed first, then the spirit priest himself, and finally the elders and other guests. After this meal, the paraphernalia and sacrificial animals are brought out to the appropriate place on the women's side of the house where the ancestral section is located. Various bowls and other paraphernalia have been laid out on a winnowing tray (záma) by a member of the family. After anointing the sacrificial animals three times with water at the head, feet and mid-body,15 the spirit priest kills them, using his special knife (làqjɛ̀),16 and lays them to the side of the winnowing tray, a pig closest to the tray, then alternating chickens and pigs. He also rearranges the bowls and cups on the tray into their proper order for chanting. The spirit priest sits on a stool in back of the winnowing tray, but facing the ancestral section and starts chanting. At various points throughout his chanting, he stops to offer from the tray or from the animals (by pointing to them in three places – head, feet and mid-body) to the spirits. When chanting is complete, the animals are taken away to be prepared for the larger ritual meal. It is said that just the ‘soul substance’ (sàqlá) of the animals is given to the inside spirits and people are allowed to eat the body. Numerous guests are invited, both male and fe-

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male. The elders are fed on the raised sleeping area on each side of the house, males on the male side and females on the female side. Younger guests are fed in the lower part of the house, also on each side, although the number of non-elder female guests was never very great. Men dominate ritual feasts. The eating order is as follows: first bits of food to the spirit priest’s jɔsán, then bits of food to the spirit priest himself, then elders, then the younger guests. After the meal, the guests drift off in a leisurely fashion. The next morning, a small feast, called jɔ̀ sjɔ̀ bàq-ǝ (‘gathering the next morning’) with a chicken sacrifice is held, and elders are called. Structurally, this can be seen as a counterpart to the initial sjì né tìq-ǝ meal, which also involves a chicken sacrifice. Figure 6.3 An inside chanting

Skeletal framework of an outside chanting Outside chanting is undertaken as the result of divination, an event that necessarily requires outside chanting, or the decision of the dzø̀ma (when it is to be held at the level of the village as opposed to the household level). Thus, the first point of contrast with inside chanting is that outside chanting (for njí nɛ̀q) may be held at both the household and village levels, while inside chanting is held only at the household level.17

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The spirit priest is called, or may have already been called if the inside ceremony was held first. Again, the opening sacrifice and meal (sjì né tìq-ǝ) is held. It is not repeated if it has already been done for an earlier inside chanting. When inside chanting is held in conjunction with outside chanting, it is usually held first. This is the case for the illness and good health ceremonies, but in important other cases,18 the order is reversed. When the two are held together, outside chanting is carried out after the midday meal of inside chanting. When outside chanting is held alone, it is carried out right after the opening meal. When it is held alone and done on behalf of a household, the spirit priest may proceed directly to the outside chanting (after having chanted a bit at the doorway of the house, a step which is included in all cases of outside chanting) if he comes from the same village as the household itself. If he has been called from another village, some inside chanting must be carried out before he can do the outside chanting. I see the significance of this procedural difference to be that it marks the village level as containing a degree of ‘inside-ness’ in relation to the outside and to other villages.19 In a village other than his own, the spirit priest's inside-ness must be established before he can chant in relation to the outside. Without having done this, he would be an ‘outsider’ trying to establish relations with the outside. The household prepares the ritual paraphernalia and sacrificial animals that are carried to the outside location. This location varies according to the particular type of ceremony, but it is never inside the house Figure 6.4 An outside chanting at level of household

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structure. In this negative sense, then, our point that ‘inside-ness’ is part of the complex that forms the Akha household is reiterated. The spirit priest goes to that relevant outside location to chant. When the chanting is complete, the disposition of the animals depends on the Figure 6.5 An outside chanting at level of village

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type of ceremony held. There are important rules concerning who can and who cannot eat the meat of ‘outside animals’ (njí sjà). Other ritual paraphernalia, apart from the animals, is discarded outside the village. The following ceremonies require both an inside and an outside chanting: 1 sá dan dan-ǝ , ‘bringing about well-being’; 2 zɔ̀q djɔ̀ sjə̀-ǝ, ‘leading around the household’; 3 jɛ́ sjɔ́ ḿ-ǝ, ‘making pure, prosperous’. In addition, certain types of affliction, such as lengthy menstruation, also require a dual ceremony. It is in situations of the full establishment of household boundaries (such as in the sá dan dan-ǝ ceremony) or of severe affliction (in which, in fact, the household boundaries must be fully re-established)20 that a dual ceremony is carried out.

Categories of outside chanting and the meaning of khɛ̀, ‘opening’ There are many types of chanting for ‘outside spirits’ (njí nɛ̀q).21 This is because the types of outside spirits are numerous and more varied conceptually than the inside spirits, and because there is a multitude of types of afflictions that they can cause. As a result, I will only be able to discuss these ceremonies in terms of a few general types. One way of ordering the types of outside chanting is in terms of the types of spirits that are addressed in its refrain (mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀-ǝ dɔ̀). This order, in terms of degree of seriousness, is that of m̀ tjàq (described as a situation when nɛ̀q have made something bad happen to us, as opposed to a situation where a soul goes wandering on its own),22 then dɔ́ (which refers to ‘bad omens’ of which there are many types), then khɛ̀ (a term that means ‘opening’).23 Thus m̀ tjàq ! dɔ́ ! khɛ̀. Two levels of outside ceremonies relate to this tripartite ordering. Those ceremonies of the level representing more serious illness or affliction reflect a situation where khɛ̀ has come about (khɛ̀ doq lá-ǝ). In less serious afflictions, there is no khɛ̀. Thus, in the refrain for these less serious illnesses, reference is made to m̀ tjàq and dɔ́ (in that order), but not to khɛ̀. In the more serious afflictions, reference is also made to khɛ̀, after the first references to m̀ tjàq and dɔ́ are made. (In fact, both m̀ tjàq and dɔ́ must appear in every outside chanting.) The meaning of khɛ̀ is somewhat obscure. It literally means an opening, such as in the term ghoqkhɛ̀, or passageway before the door of the house. Villagers describe the ghoqkhɛ̀ as the place where people come and go. The latter is conceptually different from the doorway itself (lághoq), but is linguistically formed using the second syllable of that term.

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The syllable is also found in the term mɛ̀khɛ̀ which refers to the opening of the mouth, both in people and in pots and bottles. Another common context in which the term is used is in reference to the east, nánma doq lá-ǝ khɛ̀ (‘the opening out of which the sun rises’), and west, nánma ga án í-ǝ khɛ̀ (‘the opening into which the sun falls’).24 I have also heard inside chanting called khǿ khɛ̀ tó-ǝ ‘chanting the inside opening’, and outside chanting called njí khɛ̀ tó-ǝ, ‘chanting the outside opening’. It is interesting that, in this latter linguistic context, the domains of inside and outside are seen as apertures. In this sense, both the inside and the outside are contact points with the supramundane world: one (inside) which allows for the flow of potency/fertility and the other (outside) as a point into which potency can drain/be absorbed and where improper fertility/potency can contaminate by flowing in (thus reversing the flow of good potency). I was told that nɛ̀q make khɛ̀, that is, they make something bad, such as an affliction, happen to a family or village. It is as if their influence creates an opening to the spirit world, an opening that should not occur. In discussion with the spirit priest, he said that ‘when we do ceremonies like khɛ̀ ghɛ-ǝ, it is like closing the door on nɛ̀q. We won't allow them to come. We guard the path, just as soldiers (dànò) guard it’.25 Part of a text for outside chanting runs as follows: ‘khɛ̀ bjø kỳ nɛ̀ tsø̀ nja’ ‘With the dog,26 we block up the khɛ̀ hole’.

The pragmatic construction of the ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ In Akha society, the ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ are pragmatically constructed contrastively through the use of multiple discursive and non-discursive techniques in spirit chanting such as: 1 the spatialization of the ceremonies: this would include both the locations attributed to inside and outside spirits and the locations where the ceremonies, particularly the exchanges with the spirits (some kind of contact point), take place; 2 the temporal dimensions of inside and outside chanting; 3 the social entity that the ceremonies reference; 4 the types of ritual paraphernalia used in each, including the exchange goods; 5 the types of sacrificial animals for each; 6 the types of ritual procedures/non-discursive movements followed; and 7 the textual structure of the two types of chanting.

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Spatialization

According to the Akha, inside spirits dwell in a location different from outside spirits. The differing locations are reflected in, but not coterminous with, the sites/points of contact with these two types of spirits. Ancestral spirits, for example, are spoken about as dwelling in the supramundane world in ‘the ancestral place’, sometimes spoken about as being a village in which the ancestors live in houses just as living people do. At the funeral ceremonies, the dead are led back to their ancestral home through spirit chanting and are told not to dwell with the living. As mentioned earlier, the outside spirits are seen as emanating from the underworld, and the ancestors are often seen as dwelling ‘above’. When a spirit priest was chanting at a funeral, a villager pointed to the sky and told me that the priest was leading the dead person to the land of the ancestors, which was hɔ́taq khàn, ‘the land (country) above’. Thus, for example, in the ritual texts for outside spirit chanting, the spirits are told to climb up or come upstream (daq-ǝ) in order to receive the offerings. Also, the sacrificial animals are told to fall ‘below’, while the human souls are told to come ‘above’. The oral texts that are chanted in inside ceremonies proceed through nine ‘joints’ of inside chanting called khǿ nɛ̀q daq-ǝ, ‘climbing (going up) the inside spirits’, representing both a generational movement back in time (through ancestral generations) as well as a spatial movement upward. The endpoint, known as sḿ bɛ (‘three beginnings’),27 or alternatively as Àpø̀ sḿ bɛ íkán (‘the ancestor of three beginnings’ house’), moves through Sḿ mí ó, the first human (i.e. non-spirit/human) and all the figures in that household’s genealogy up to the present. This part of the text also includes the stories of creation of the earth and sky by the figure Djabɛalàn.28 In fact, whenever one goes up the path of the inside spirits (khǿ nɛ̀q daq-ǝ), one must include the creation stories. This necessity emphasizes the connection between inside-ness and the fertility and continuity of the various lines of life-forms – plants, people, and animals – lines which were started by Djabɛalàn, at the place/time of Sḿ 29 bɛ. Although the connection to sḿ bɛ (‘three beginnings’) was not expressed, this is also supposed to be the living place of the three ‘owners’ (jɔsán) of crops (ká),30 people (bí) and animals (djè). These are the ‘owners’ of the fertility-potency and continuity of the lines of crops, people and animals (in the Akha order of importance),31 and thus represent important aspects of ‘inside-ness’. Indeed, these figures are only found in inside chanting, not in outside chanting. Ancestors are contacted at the household ancestral shrine, the most interior (and intimate) point in the house. Offerings for chanting are placed in bowls and cups on a large winnowing tray on the house’s

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raised sleeping area (women’s side) just below the household ancestral section, in the same place where normal ancestral offerings are performed. Ancestors are called to come and eat offerings made to them. Household potency flows from the ancestral world to the living world through this point of contact, thus flowing from the inside out. By contrast, in outside chanting no tray is used and the offerings for outside spirits are in banana leaf packages placed on the ground. In addition, small posts are constructed on the ground (see below) and these appear to be the contact point with the outside spirits. As noted above, outside spirits are associated with the below and the spirits are told to climb up or come upstream (daq-ǝ) in order to receive the offerings. Also, as mentioned, the sacrificial animals are told to fall ‘below’, while the human souls are told to come ‘above’. Outside spirits are associated with places located outside the village, either in this world (mí taq pɔ, lit., ‘the world above’) where people live (such as rivers, trees, hot springs, etc.), or in the other world (mí oq pɔ, lit., ‘the world below’) where spirits live (which has its own peculiar geography).32 A number of these outside spirits are seen as powerful, high status beings, in much the same way as the Akha view powerful lowland political rulers. In fact, ‘outside spirits’ attack, impound or imprison Akha ‘souls’ similarly to the way outside political powers attack Akha people. The various contact points for these spirits start at the household doorway (thus never inside the house) and progressively move out to the village gates and to the forest, with offerings being placed either directly on the ground or in banana leaf packages on the ground. While inside chanting is an attempt to call potency and well-being in, outside chanting serves the purpose of moving bad potency out and also preventing bad potency from flowing in. For the Akha, it is important to keep the inside forces and the outside forces separate. In outside chanting, for example, there is a section referring to the origin story in which people and nɛ̀q separated. The latter refers to the original fields of people and nɛ̀q, to the mother of people and nɛ̀q, to the original shared house of people and nɛ̀q, and to how they fought and separated. The force of this section is to tell both people and nɛ̀q to remain separate, and not to come to where each other lives. Another ritual complex illustrates the inside/outside orientation in relation to the household. Part of the ceremonies undertaken for the unusual tragedy of the birth of twins is that called khǿ ja njí ja pjaq-ǝ, ‘tearing apart the inside and outside poles’ in which two sets of crossed sticks are erected at the household ‘passageway’ (ghoqkhɛ̀) and then torn apart at the appropriate time during spirit chanting. The ‘inside sticks’ are the ones closest to the house and the ‘outside sticks’ are the ones further out. The tearing apart separates the inside and the outside.

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Summary: spatialization and dominant lowland groups There are parallels between outside spirits and dominant lowland groups. Outside spirits are even likened to powerful lowland rulers who demand tribute offerings, raid Akha villages (like outside spirits might), or put Akha in prisons. Outside spirits live beyond the village gates in a ‘separate’ space established at the beginning of time when spirits separated from people, much like the way the Akha view the upland/lowland divide. The Akha spirit priest, who presides over spirit chanting of the inside and outside, reminds the outside spirits to stay away in their separate space. For centuries, the dominant political groups in this area have adapted to a lowland wet rice lifestyle and lived a way of life distinct from that of uplanders. Outside spirits are spatialized/located ‘below’ and downstream, just as lowlanders are. The Akha village gate serves to represent the contact and separation point between both outside spirits and lowland peoples.

2

Temporalization

The hierarchical assertion of the forces of the inside over those of the outside (along with their disjuncture) is produced in a multitude of non-discursive ways in these rituals. One way is the temporal precedence that the inside takes over the outside. Beginning with divination, the desires of inside spirits must be determined first before those of outside spirits. For most combination ceremonies that have both inside and outside chanting, the inside chanting must be done first. Even when an outside ceremony is done alone, there is a bit of chanting done at the doorway and on the porch of the house, so that the outside is referenced to the inside which is the first and the encompassing category. Even before this, there is the opening sacrificial meal (sjì né tìq-ǝ) that is held inside the house so that the spirit priest always proceeds from inside the house in question, combining a temporal with a spatial precedence.33 After chanting outside, the spirit priest is not allowed to go inside the house (i.e. the direction cannot be reversed), so that the movement is from inside-out and not from outside-in, paralleling the direction of gỳlàn. In at least one outside ceremony (not a khɛ̀ tjàq), I was told that the family members also were not able to leave the house during the outside chanting. Each of the nine ‘joints’ of the textual sections of inside chanting (see below) are told that, if they let the relevant human(s) be well, they will be given food to eat before the humans eat. They will be given the first fruits of any crop harvested, for example, and also will be given meat

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from animals killed before humans eat any. This language differs from the mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀-ǝ dɔ̀ (refrain) for outside spirits. The outside spirits are not told that they will be given first fruits or first tastes, and are in fact offered remains, such as the feathers or fur of the animals sacrificed. In the previous section I have mentioned the special connections between the inside and the beginning of time. Also, inside the house, the ancestral shrine is located near the djmzə́ post, the first post to be planted when constructing a house. There is a space-time connection throughout the construction of inside and outside domains, with the inside coming first and the outside coming last.

3

Referencing social entities

All inside spirit chanting is performed on behalf of a household,34 what I have previously called the ‘productive’ unit, a fact which provides the first point of contrast with the outside ceremonies which may be performed on behalf of either a household or village. It is interesting to note that inside spirit chanting is not done on behalf of any larger descent group, in spite of the fact that these are ancestral ceremonies. Those households in the same sublineage (pà) as the household sponsoring the ceremony, however, must co-observe ceremonial abstinence on the day when inside spirit chanting is being done there. This restriction applies only to those sublineage households within the same village.35 Because of this rule relating to spirit chanting, the pà is commonly referred to as those with whom one lan dan tàq-ǝ (‘shares ceremonial abstinence’), or simply tàq-ǝ (‘shares, is connected to’). Close pà members usually help out in ritual preparations and in preparing the feasts that coincide with the rituals. Additionally, alliance and descent relationships are delineated in inside ceremonies through differing roles for, and through the offering of contrasting types of meat in bowls (khm̀mà tjì-ǝ) to, those guests in different types of relationship with the household sponsoring the ceremony, notably those in one’s own group, one’s wifegiver groups, one’s wife-taker groups, and non-kin relationships.36 In this sense, various descent, alliance, and potential alliance and descent relationships are indexed in inside chanting, although they are not directly linked to inside-ness. This presents us with the picture that ‘inside-ness’ is particularly related to the household, its spatial focus being at the àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q (ancestral section) where the inside ceremonies are carried out. Degrees of ‘inside-ness’ extend out from this focus to include, first the household heads who are the usual direct offerers to the section and who are next in line to occupy it, next, all of the household members,37 and finally, as

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a limiting point, to those of the same sublineage within the same village. Thus, the village also references a final degree of ‘inside-ness’. Outside spirit chanting may be performed on behalf of a household or a village, thus in contrast to inside spirit chanting which is performed only on behalf of a household. This relates to the fact that village territory may be seen as peripheral to inside ancestral territory, yet central in relation to outside (especially forest) spirits and other nonAkha beings. No outside chanting is done on behalf of a larger descent group, although the rules of sublineage co-abstinence apply when a household is performing an outside ceremony, just as in the inside case.

4

Exchange goods/ritual paraphernalia

Just as ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ ceremonies differ significantly in their spatialization, so do they differ in the nature of the material goods that are part of these ceremonies. These material goods serve to construct the complexes of the inside and outside. Inside chanting The ingredients of the bowls and cups that must be prepared on the tray for inside chanting as offerings to inside spirits such as ancestors are listed in Table 6.1. In addition to these ingredients, there is also a bunch of branches with bø̀søq leaves. The spirit priest takes the leaves off the branches and puts them in three piles on the tray.38 The tray also includes the ‘money bag’ (pù bɛq)39 that is kept in the ancestral storage basket (àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q pùtú), the stick to crack the egg(s), and a piece of cloth. The spirit priest places his fan, part of his own ritual paraphernalia, on the tray. Actually, this is a pared down (minimal) version of the ritual paraphernalia required for inside ceremonies. Each particular type of ceremony may require even further paraphernalia, relating to that ceremony’s purpose and context. Since my intent here is to contrast inside elements as a whole with outside elements, I have left out the additional, variable paraphernalia. The reader must keep in mind, however, that any particular ritual complex cannot be understood without these additional elements.

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Table 6.1

177

Inside offerings

Bowls

Cups

1. djalɛ (rice balls, 3 balls) [made with hɔ̀ njɔ̀, ‘sticky rice’] 2. tjɛ́ lǿ (rice flour) & egg 3. hɔ̀ njɔ̀ (sticky rice, cooked-sàq-ǝ) & egg with white thread tied around it*** 4. tjɛ́ lɔ̀ which is tjɛ́ pjú (‘white’ rice = raw husked rice) with salt and ginger**** [5. cooked rice & meat (with broth?)]*

1. djíbà -2 or 3 cups (khm̀) of ‘whiskey’ from the djíbà djísì (fermented rice bamboo section), i.e. not the normally distilled liquor (djísàq)** 2. làqpɛ́ (tea with ginger) 3. ‘pure’ water (ítjùq jɔ sjɔ́) 4. gùtjí (a type of onion, similar to scallions) with water and ginger and salt

* I have seen the latter in some, but not all, inside ceremonies. Since the sacrificial animals have not yet been cooked, this must be the chicken meat from the sjì né tìq-ǝ meal. My field notes indicate the definite presence of this item in a zǝ́sán ḿ-ǝ (children’s) ceremony, but it is missing in another inside ceremony I recorded. ** I have seen both two and three cups of ‘whiskey’ on the tray. I believe that the number of cups is related to the number of djíbà djísì (fermented rice sections) erected and thus animals sacrificed, since the whiskey is taken from the djíbà djísì (fermented rice sections), and the presence of a djíbà djísì indicates that a sacrifice has occurred. One djíbà djísì must be erected for the sjì né tìq-ǝ chicken that is sacrificed initially, and one for each pig that is sacrificed later. Thus, an inside chanting with the sacrifice of one pig would have two cups of whiskey on the offering tray. *** The white string around the egg in the sticky rice bowl is later tied around the wrist of either the sick person in the case of illness or the household head (jɔsán) in other cases. **** The bowl of tjɛ́ lɔ̀ (#4) will be cooked later along with the meat from sacrificial animals.

Figure 6.6 Inside offerings

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Comments on the ingredients The two eggs on the tray appear in bowls with rice, but rice of very different types. One type (tjɛ́ lǿ) is powdered and uncooked, processed by pounding. The other type (hɔ̀ njɔ̀) is whole and cooked, thus also processed but by cooking. I later discuss the different rice processing trajectories and how they are used in Akha rituals to mark ritual meaning. The elements of djalɛ (rice balls) and tjɛ́ lǿ (rice flour) mark ceremonies of the tu-ǝ (‘pay respects to’) form.40 In the case of inside spirit chanting, the priest is paying respects to (tu-ǝ) the ancestors on behalf of the household members. These two elements may have a somewhat narrower meaning since I was also told that they were particularly designated for the female ancestors (called either àma, ‘mother’ or àpì, ‘grandmother’). This designation was contrasted with that for the liver of the sacrificial pigs, sjàtsàn (or in the context of ritual, called pìtsàn), which is offered to the male ancestors (called àda, ‘father’ or àpø̀, ‘grandfather’). In fact, when the livers of sacrificial animals from inside ceremonies are ‘read’, they are brought over to the male side of the house. The associations of women with rice and men with meat runs throughout Akha society. The element of bø̀søq41 leaves indicates an inside ceremony since the leaves are placed in the household ancestral section after the spirit chanting.42 When the spirit priest begins chanting, he takes the bø̀søq leaves off their stems and places them into three piles on the tray. After chanting, a male of the household (usually the household head) receives these leaves with cupped hands43 from the spirit priest, and places them in the household ancestral section. Such leaves would never appear in an outside ceremony. They were described to me as leaves from a type of tree whose products are not eaten by people or animals,44 and thus may represent the Akha concern with offering to ancestors things that are jɔ sjɔ́, ‘pure’ in the sense of being untouched, uneaten by anyone before they are given to the ancestors. The bø̀søq tree is also one of the first trees to appear in Akha creation stories. Ancestors, elders, and other jɔsán come first in the Akha hierarchy. Thus, ancestors, and in other circumstances certain ritual specialists, use things that come ‘first’ and as well are to be the ‘first’ to use anything offered to them,45 something that contrasts with outside offerings. In addition, the ‘pure’ water is used by the spirit priest to wash the bø̀søq leaves. Outside chanting The two main types of paraphernalia for all outside spirit chanting46 are two banana leaf packages (pàq tju) and two plant types (sísaq, mɛ́tjɛ́).

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Banana leaves are commonly used for packaging in Akha society (and indeed in all nearby societies). They are readily available and fold into convenient containers. However, for outside spirit chanting and for other types of zán, the manner in which they are to be prepared is specified by zán. The banana leaves are to be cut in the form of two rectangles which are then crossed. The contents are laid on them and then the sides folded up to form a package which is closed by a bamboo strip that is twisted around the top (see Figure 6.4). Here we can already see the first point of contrast with inside chanting. In inside chanting, offerings are in bowls and cups and are placed on a large winnowing tray on the raised sleeping area, while in outside chanting, no tray is used and the offerings are in banana leaf packages placed on the ground. These are the packages typically used to carry rice to the fields when one will be gone for the whole day, or, alternatively, when one is about to undertake a long journey and will need food along the way.47 Thus, they represent a departure from the household, the location where rice is cooked fresh. In a sense, they are telling nɛ̀q that they are not welcome in the household, the provisions for their journey away from the household have been prepared. In inside chanting, by contrast, the ‘inside spirits’ are treated as welcome guests at a meal prepared with bowls and cups. Nɛ̀q are not welcome guests and are fed on the ground. Another important point of contrast is that no liquids are offered, such as would be the case when drinks (such as whiskey, tea, or water) are poured for guests, and as are offered in inside spirit chanting in their ritual form. Of the two packages, one is called tjɛ́ tju (‘rice package’) and contains husked rice (tjɛ́ pjú), broken rice (tjɛ́ gỳ),48 cotton,49 and money.50 On one occasion of an outside chanting called ba djɔ luq (the purpose of which is to separate the ‘soul’ of a living person from that of a fiancé(e) that has died), I was emphatically told that no outside chanting could be done without the package of tjɛ́ gỳ tjɛ́ pjú. The other banana leaf package is called khàpỳ khàlɛ́ and contained exactly that, namely, rice husks and ashes. The ashes must be taken from the fireplaces of both the male and female sides of the house, as each side has its own fireplace. The two types of ashes are called njḿma khàlɛ́ (women’s side ashes) and bɔqlɔq khàlɛ́ (men's side ashes), after the names of the two sides of the house. Before we proceed to the two plant types, I would like to contrast the contents of the banana leaf packages with the offerings for inside chanting. The most obvious point of contrast is that the rice products in outside chanting are either waste products (i.e. rice husks, broken rice), products unfit for human consumption and/or not processed properly (unhusked rice, partially husked rice, broken rice), or fit a third some-

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what contrasting category – that of uncooked51 rice (husked rice)52 -also unfit for human consumption at this stage. Thus, none of these rice products are found in a meal prepared for a guest as is the case in inside chanting. The package with rice husks and ashes particularly fits the category of waste products, products to be disposed of.53 In the text that accompanies outside chanting, the ashes are spoken of as purifying the house, while the rice husks are spoken of as purifying the rice storage house (tjɛ́ djí). Thus, disposed of and waste goods are closely associated with the creation of purity. As previously mentioned, it seems as if, if one remains pure or creates a pure state, one will be untouched by the outside forces. The other important contrast with the contents of inside chanting is that outside chanting includes items commonly and historically involved in trade with outsiders (note that cooked food was never commonly traded or sold among the Akha, as it is among the Chinese).54 This is true, for example, in the other banana leaf package. Both husked and unhusked rice were common commodities with standard prices throughout the hills during my fieldwork of 30 baht per pi [Thai = pip]55 for unhusked rice and 90 baht per pi for husked rice as it took three pi of unhusked rice to produce one pi of husked rice after processing. Labor could be (and often was) exchanged for rice, as one person-day of labor was conveniently valued at 30 baht or one pi of unhusked rice. These types of exchanges occurred both among Akha themselves and with non-Akha, although exchanges involving money were more common with outsiders. Likewise, raw cotton was a common commodity, its commoditized nature appearing in ancient ritual texts. Money and silver were and are also exchanged, silver often in the form of old coins such as Indian rupees or coins from French Indochina. These are melted down to form Akha jewelry. In addition, the spirit priest scrapes the silver coin three times with his ritual knife in an act of disposal. The relinquishing of these trade goods means that a bargain56 has been struck. The ‘soul’ of the ill or afflicted will be restored in exchange for them, or those not yet afflicted will be protected from future ills. The question that is important here is: with whom does one normally trade these goods? Not usually fellow villagers as kinship ties, informal arrangements, and borrowing until one is able to repay in kind is the normal course of things. Trade of a monetary kind usually occurs with outsiders – non-Akha, non-subgroup, non-kin, and as in this case, ‘outside spirits’ (njí nɛ̀q). We cannot neglect the remarkable parallels between the ‘outside spirits’ and outside groups that occur in this example as in many other examples relating to outside nɛ̀q, parallels that serve to create Akha self-identity.57

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Inside offerings do include cooked rice, both regular and stickysomething that would be appropriate for a guest, while outside offerings include no cooked rice. We do find uncooked rice in inside chanting, but in specially marked forms. Thus, the uncooked (husked) rice (tjɛ́ pjú) in inside chanting is mixed with ginger and salt to form the ritual dish known as tjɛ́ lɔ̀. The extra ingredients (spices) mean that it is rice being prepared for cooking,58 while, by contrast, the tjɛ́ pjú in outside chanting has no spices added, as it is not being prepared for cooking, but for trade (note that none of the types of rice in outside chanting have spices in them). The other uncooked rice in inside chanting is of two types, but types that are related. They are called tjɛ́ lǿ (rice flour) and djalɛ (rice balls). Despite the fact that they are versions of uncooked rice, they are processed, and processed in a form to be presented to a respected ‘other’.59 Thus, tjɛ́ lǿ is rice60 pounded until it is broken and at least partially in a powdered form so that is like a flour. In at least one case from my field notes, it was pounded along with salt. In every case listed, it is placed in a bowl and a boiled egg with a string (that will be later used in wristtying) wrapped around it is nestled in it. This ‘broken rice’ in some ways parallels the broken rice used in outside ceremonies (tjɛ́ gỳ). However, the latter rice is rice broken in the process of husking, while tjɛ́ lǿ has already been husked. In addition, tjɛ́ gỳ was not broken intentionally and its breaking indicates that the rice itself or the previous processing of it was of an inferior quality. Normally, tjɛ́ gỳ is removed from the rice that is fed to people. In addition, no spices are added to tjɛ́ gỳ. Tjɛ́ lǿ, on the other hand, is broken intentionally to form a flour that is a special offering dish for a person or people of respect. It also is the first step61 in making djalɛ, the rice balls. The rice flour is mixed with water, salt and sesame62 and rolled into balls – three in the case of inside chanting – which are placed in a bowl. The mixing with water parallels the steaming of cooked rice. Thus, djalɛ, too, represents rice that has been processed in a prescribed way (i.e. with water and spices) for a special meal for a guest.63 The two spices used – salt and sesame – are the same two spices added to the sticky rice (hɔ̀ njɔ̀) which is offered at the regular annual ancestral offerings.64 However, the combined items of tjɛ́ lǿ and djalɛ are not part of any ancestral offering,65 and their combination in a single ceremony indicates a ceremony of the tu-ǝ (‘respect’) form, as opposed to a lɔ́-ǝ (‘honor’) form. Their presence in inside chanting indexes the fact that the nature of the ceremony is different from that of a regular ancestral offering even though both may be considered ‘inside’ ceremonies in that they are offerings to ‘inside spirits’.

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The form of both of these types of rice represents the intention connected to an offering of food to a respected ‘other’ or ‘others’ (in this case, ancestors), the opposite of the intention represented by the types of rice in outside chanting (i.e. as unprocessed, incompletely processed or waste rice). We can think of it as a process of incorporation or attachment as opposed to the dissociation or detachment (severing of ties) that is characteristic of outside chanting. We should also note that rice whiskey (djíbà) is offered in inside chanting, while not in outside chanting, and that this is also rice that has undergone processing (fermentation).66 Two other items are in a relatively ‘raw’ state in the outside ceremonies, while in a more processed state in the inside ceremonies. These are the silver money and cotton. In inside chanting, the silver money is kept in a money bag (pùbɛq) that is part of the paraphernalia of the ancestral section. It is laid out in the tray of offerings. Thus, it is in a retained and protected form, a form that is meant to bring ‘good fortune’ to its owners. In outside chanting, the money is in a banana leaf package and part of the coin(s) is scraped off in an act of disposal. While mere raw cotton is offered in outside chanting, the inside offering tray includes a piece of cloth – thus cotton that has been retained and processed into a useful form. I now turn to the two plant types found in outside chanting. They are called sísaq and mɛ́tjɛ́ (the longer name for it being mɛ́tjɛ́ tjɛ́ma), and contrast with the main plant type in inside chanting which is bø̀søq. I have already discussed bø̀søq. That these two plant types form a pair is illustrated in the way the Akha list them as part of ritual ingredients of outside chanting. They are stated in the same breath, almost as if they formed one word, sísaqmɛ́tjɛ́. Their shapes are quite different. Sísaq is leafy and cut with stems attached, while mɛ́tjɛ́ is a long grasslike plant. I was told that mɛ́tjɛ́ has a flower which is red in Burma, while white in Thailand. Although I did not see this, Lewis (1968: 198) states that the Akha eat the fruit and shoots of the mɛ́tjɛ́ plant, as well as its tendrils (Lewis 1970a: 516). The latter is an important statement in that what I was told about the inside plant bø̀søq was that neither people nor animals ate it. This would mean that the plant connected to ancestral inside offerings was ‘pure’ in the sense that any previous use or consumption was ruled out. In fact, if mɛ́tjɛ́ is not available, there are at least two plants that can be substituted for it in outside chanting, and both are well used by the Akha. They are zàqpý bɔduq, a type of bamboo bush of which the Akha eat the shoots (See also Lewis 1968: 357 and 1970: 516), and ùdjí, the long thatch grass that the Akha use to make the roofs of their houses.

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Note that the long, grasslike shape of the plant is retained in the substituted version. In the accompanying chanting, the plant is still referred to as mɛ́tjɛ́. The stems of the sísaq plant are separated from the leaves and used to form three posts called kuq that are erected on the ground in front of the spirit priest. Above the three posts are laid three piles of leaves, one pile for each post and one each of each type of leaf in each pile (thus for a total of three of each type of leaf).67 These posts with their accompanying leaf piles seem to be the point of contact with the outside spirits as the various offerings are cast at them in the course of chanting.68 The posts are formed by notching the top of a stem such that there are four notches, then two bits of stem are lodged into the notches perpendicular to each other. The notching of the posts resembles that done in hunting rituals when a major wild animal is caught. Bits of fur of the animal caught are placed on a single post,69 just as bits of fur of the sacrificial animals in outside chanting is cast towards the kuq. Although in the case of hunting the ritual is called pù tsoq-ǝ70 (as opposed to kuq tsoq-ǝ in outside chanting), the Akha themselves often mentioned it in the course of describing or performing the construction of posts for the outside ceremonies. As we have seen earlier, the ‘wild’ (as opposed to the domesticated) at times becomes equated with the ‘outside’ (as opposed to inside) forces. The hunting case does not exhaust the use of similar notched posts in Akha society. They are also used to mark fields that one plans to work for the next agricultural year, as well as to mark the center of a new village. In the field case, a post is placed in a central location, the area intended to be worked proceeding out from the post in the four notched directions. Another usage occurs in the annual ceremony known as khm̀pì lɔ́-ǝ, ‘offering to the field spirit’ which is performed in the field when the rice has sprouted to a certain height. In that ceremony, the basket in which the sacrificial chicken was carried and which has been smeared with the blood of the animal is placed over a similarly notched post called the khm̀pì zakhǝ. The mouth, or ‘opening’ (khɛ̀, a term we have come across earlier), of the basket must face east. In fact, in the hunting ritual mentioned above, the post is buried in the ground under the mouth of the animal that has been killed.71 Thus, the notched posts seem to represent a contact point or ‘opening’, a khɛ̀ in the senses described earlier. As in the earlier statements of the spirit priest, the Akha are concerned with guarding the khɛ̀, guarding the path so that ‘outsiders’, whether they be outside spirits or other farmers searching for land to work, do not come through. Khɛ̀ does not only refer to openings to outside forces, however, as we have seen inside chanting called khǿ khɛ̀ tó-ǝ ‘chanting the inside opening’.

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Thus, the post which is the khɛ̀ to the field spirit in the khm̀pì lɔ́-ǝ ceremony represents an ‘inside opening’ as spirits connected with rice are inside spirits. The point of contact with inside spirits in inside spirit chanting is the ancestral section (àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q), which is, as I have noted, next to the djmzǝ́ post. In contrast to the bø̀søq leaves of inside chanting, the sísaq, mɛ́tjɛ́ leaves cannot be brought inside the house. In an outside ceremony the afflicted person or household head stands inside the door of the house and brushes the leaves which are held by the spirit priest outside the door. This brushing motion represents a casting away of the outside elements. The door is then shut with the brusher inside and the spirit priest outside. The spirit priest then begins some short chanting on the porch of the house, chanting which is a preliminary to the main outside chanting that will be done at another location (either the ghoqkhɛ̀ of the house or the lɔ́kàn of the village). Thus, bø̀søq leaves represent retention (even being stuffed inside the ancestral section itself at the center of the house), while the sísaq, mɛ́tjɛ́ leaves not only must remain outside, but also are cast away outside the village at the end of chanting. While the bø̀søq leaves are washed in ‘pure’ water during inside chanting, cleansed for their retention, the ‘outside’ leaves are spit upon, an act of disgust and expulsion. Before we conclude this section, we must also note that the axes of processed/unprocessed, retained/disposed of, and untouched/touched are not the only axes of distinction that are utilized for ritual paraphernalia. To some extent, an axis of ritual/mundane is also used, and it, at times, overlaps with some of these other axes.72 ‘Ritual’ versions of items are used in inside ceremonies, and mundane versions73 are used in outside ceremonies.74 I call certain items ‘mundane’ even though they are used in outside ritual because they are also used outside of the ritual sphere in everyday life. What I am calling ‘ritual’ items are confined to the ritual sphere. For inside ceremonies, this represents an enfolding of ritual within ritual, further distancing the inside from the outside. In inside ceremonies we have, for example, the ‘ritual’ versions of tea (described below), whiskey (from the bamboo section as opposed to normally distilled), water (from the sacred village water source as opposed to the ordinary village water source), a purifying liquid (a type of onion [gùtjí] mixed with water, ginger and salt as opposed to ordinary water), rice (sticky rice as opposed to non-sticky rice, as one axis), and animals (‘pure’, jɔ sjɔ́ as opposed to not pure, mà sjɔ́). Often, inside paraphernalia represent a ritual or sacred version of mundane things that has no counterpart in outside ceremonies. This is the case, for example, with tea, whose ritual version has a ritual name

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(làqpɛ́) that distinguishes it from the name for ordinary tea (lɔ́bɔ̀) and which is made by adding ginger to ordinary tea, but whose mundane version does not occur in outside ceremonies. Thus, the ritual/mundane distinction does not directly distinguish inside from outside ceremonies by reference to a single item in its two versions, but distinguishes them in relation to a third domain – that of non-ritual activity. Sometimes, however, outside ceremonies also contain the mundane versions of elements found in inside ceremonies. As we have seen in the case of rice, the outside versions do represent the mundane versions of rice (i.e. those that have not undergone special processing such as with djalɛ or tjɛ́ lǿ in inside ceremonies). In this case, the ritual/mundane, processed/non-processed axes overlap. In both cases, however, inside ceremonies include an intensification of meaning, an intensification that serves to create Akha notions of self identity. Keeping others separate Both the goods offered to outside spirits and the manner in which they are given draw additional covert parallels between outside spirits and outside groups of people, especially dominant lowland groups, and the intention to keep them separate is a kind of resistance to the outside. The goods for the outside spirits are thrown on the ground and spit at, some in banana leaf packages as if packed for a journey away. Certain goods from outside ceremonies are not allowed to be taken inside the house and must be thrown away in the forest. The outside spirits are offered waste products, such as broken rice, rice husks, and ashes, as if, in a performative way, the outside spirits will become waste and be expelled just as the Akha remove these wastes from their houses, and just as they stay removed from lowlanders. The goods exchanged in outside spirit chanting are those of a market economy, normally associated with the lowlands. The objects exchanged are those that participate in that type of economy as commodities, goods such as rice, silver and cotton, and terminology such as ‘pay off’ and ‘bargain’ is used. This contrasts with the goods of inside chanting which include prepared meals and sewn cloth for ancestors/elders which are part of an embedded subsistence economy and which reflect and create enduring social obligations as part of the Akha internal social hierarchy. The intent of the outside offerings are to ‘pay off’ the outside spirits, and put an end to any future exchange or obligations between the two sides, keeping them separate. Thus this exchange does not represent a resistance to a market economy per se, but rather is the usage of the market exchange as a metaphor for breaking off relations since no obligation ensues.

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The construction of ‘ritual’ versions of goods, used only in inside ceremonies, while the mundane versions (used in both outside ceremonies and the market economy), such as the two versions of tea, can be seen as the use of ritual and the sacred in the construction of the inside. The ritual versions do not participate in a market economy and refer to a complex set of internal Akha practices and meanings, part of the process of the construction of Akha self-identity.

5

Sacrificial animals

The animal repertoire for Akha spirit chanting includes the following animals: buffalo, pig, duck, chicken, goat and dog. These are all domesticated animals. Thus, animals that are ritually sacrificed originate from the inside (i.e. the domesticated sphere), whether they are part of inside or outside ceremonies. These lines from a sá dan dan-ǝ (outside section) ritual text reflect this point: what we get outside can’t be used in ceremonies (no wild animals can be sacrificed); what we get inside are used in ceremonies (the animals we raise ourselves); what we get outside can’t be used in our yearly sacrifices; what we get inside can be used in our yearly sacrifices. (Hansson 1984: 96) This cultural ‘rule’ reiterates the access of the Akha to potent ‘inside’ forces that can be channeled to control the ‘outside’. The Akha frame the repertoire of sacrificial animals from within the ‘inside’ (domesticated) category, yet within that repertoire, they mark these animals differently to represent the ‘inside’ or the ‘outside’. Thus, the ‘outside’ is encompassed by the ‘inside’ through this semiotic process, a point consistently reiterated in Akha meaning systems. Here I outline briefly the usages to which domestic animals are put in Akha sacrifices. The buffalo is used only for funerals of elders (who will become ancestors). The duck is used in some ‘soul-calling’ ceremonies. The pig, duck, and chicken are all used for inside ceremonies, while the pig, chicken, goat and dog are used for outside ceremonies. Within inside ceremonies, the number and type of animals to be sacrificed is usually determined by divination. However, because of the domesticated/wild division and the conventional break-down listed above, the questions that may be asked in divination concerning which animals should be sacrificed to appease the requests of the spirits are already constrained. Thus, an animal such as a dog, which may appear

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in outside chanting, would not be a legitimate animal of request for an inside spirit. Nevertheless, within the group of ‘inside’ animals, there is some leeway. For certain inside ceremonies, however (not including làqkhǿ ḿ-ǝ which I discuss below), the quantity and type of sacrificial animals is completely predetermined and thus not asked at all in divination. For example, any family wishing to do the ýkhɛ̀ djɛq-ǝ ceremony would have to sacrifice four pigs and a duck. The pig is the sacrificial animal par excellence of inside chanting. The two levels of the làqkhǿ ḿ-ǝ ritual are marked by the number of pigs sacrificed (one or two). The pig appears in an inside ceremony according to certain rules, however. For each pig sacrificed, there must also be sacrificed a chicken of the opposite sex. The two form a pair. The pairing makes the chicken into a kind of auxiliary animal. In fact, in divination, while the number and sex75 of the pigs that the inside spirits wish to receive is asked, the number and sex of the chickens is not, since it is a foregone conclusion. This type of ‘pairing’ of pig and chicken does not appear in outside chanting, as we will see.76 Thus, although pigs and chickens may appear as elements in outside chanting, they are elements that are marked differently from the pigs and chickens that appear in inside ceremonies.77 The type(s) of animal offered in outside chanting are circumscribed to some extent as well. Some leeway is given to divination. However, one will hear statements such as the lɔ́kàn (village gateway) spirit (nɛ̀q) likes chickens, or one must sacrifice a dog and two chickens for a khɛ̀ ghɛ-ǝ ceremony. Divination can answer questions concerning the type, number, sex, coloring, and purity of animals that must be offered in outside chanting – but within the prescribed guidelines. The types of animals offered in outside ceremonies also vary according to the level of the ceremony. Thus, a ‘minor’ outside ceremony such as làqnjí tó dzɛ -ǝ or m̀ tjàq tó dzɛ-ǝ might require the sacrifice of only a single animal, while a ceremony at the khɛ̀ level would require a minimum of three animals. The mɔ́ dzɛq dzɛq-ǝ (adult)/zɔ̀q khɛ̀ ghɛ-ǝ (elder) ceremonial hierarchy also means that a single animal is sacrificed for the first, while a minimum of three are sacrificed for the second. Household and village also represent progressively important levels as can be seen in the animals sacrificed for the zɔ̀q khɛ̀ ghɛ-ǝ and zɔ̀q djɔ̀ sjǝ̀-ǝ as opposed to the pu khɛ̀ ghɛ-ǝ and pu djɔ̀ sjǝ̀-ǝ ceremonies. Thus, at the household level of these ceremonies, there is one dog and a ‘pair’ of chickens, while at the village level, there is one pig, one dog and a ‘pair’ of chickens, reflecting the increased danger as one approaches the domain of the outside spirits. There are a few clear-cut contrasts that can be made between the animals sacrificed in inside chanting as opposed to those sacrificed in out-

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side chanting. The first is that the goat and dog appear only in outside chanting, while the other animals (pig and chicken) appear in both types. I was told that for any ceremony in which the meal is to be eaten inside the house, a goat could never be present. The goat was only for those ceremonies in which the food is eaten and/or thrown away outside. While the dog78 does not appear in inside ceremonies, it does appear in certain other ceremonies, such as some soul-calling rituals, in which the meal is eaten inside the house. In this sense, the goat is a stronger marker of the domain of the ‘outside’. The dog is a marker, also, but to a lesser extent. It is unclear to me why the goat in particular should be such a strong marker of the outside. They do wander along the hilltops outside some Akha villages. No Bear Mountain Village Akha raised goats, so I could not closely observe the particular characteristics of the way the Akha raised such animals. The dog, on the other hand, is a guard animal for the household. Usually tied up during the day and unleashed at night to protect from any intruders entering the household compound while people are sleeping (thus perhaps paralleling the nocturnal activities of spirits),79 the dog barks at any (non-Akha) stranger approaching the house. I myself was bitten twice during fieldwork by dogs of other households. Dogs are particularly stirred by non-Akha and they seemed to recognize the nearby Lisu by their distinctive clothing. When dogs were barking loudly during the day, Akha at home looked out of their houses to see which ‘Lisu’ or ‘Chinese’ had arrived. Interestingly enough, the Akha said that while people normally could not see spirits, dogs could.80 A night of loud dog barking was often attributed to the presence of spirits. For specific afflictions discussed earlier, there is also the ceremony in which a dog skin is stretched out at the village gate with its mouth open. Thus, the dog is a particularly relevant sign to mark contact between people and spirits (and people and outsiders). One important difference between the sacrificial animals in inside and outside ceremonies is that all animals offered in inside ceremonies, including the annual ancestral offerings, must be ‘pure’ (jɔ sjɔ́) (as determined by coloring, placement of feathers or fur on the body of the animal, and other traits), while those for outside chanting may be pure or impure depending on prescription, or often the whim of the outside spirit that is being appeased. The purity requirement applies to all the inside ritual paraphernalia and participants, as well. This difference reflects the fact that inside spirits represent a moral order, while the outside spirits represent the amoral (although not necessarily immoral) order – the world of unregulated whim and desire. It also reflects the intensification of ritual elements the further one moves to the inside.

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A recurring element that appears in some81 but not all outside chanting, and not in inside chanting, is the ‘pair’ (dzm) of chickens known as nà nà zán khò. One of the chickens in the pair must be white – a color associated with impurity, and the two chickens must be of opposite sex. This ‘pair’ would never appear in inside chanting both because one is impurely colored (i.e. must be ‘white’) and because the two chickens are an offering to two ‘spheres’ that reflect relations with the outside. One sphere, which receives the black chicken, is that of nà nà which stands for nà nà té-ǝ, a phrase that means ‘to break off relations because of a fight or argument’, or nà nà sù-ǝ (for sù-ǝ, see Lewis 1968: 268: ‘for there to be lots of trouble’) and its reference is to the original arguing between people and spirits over stealing each others’ things, arguing which separated them forever. The other sphere, which receives the ‘white’ chicken, is that of zán khò nɛ̀q, the sphere of the spirits of children who died before they were named. An example would be stillborn babies. These children cannot take their place in the genealogical line of recited ancestral names, cannot become ancestors, nor can they live with the ancestral spirits. The ritual text accompanying this offering speaks of them as all alike, not tall or short, but of the same length, like the sections of bamboo, thus unlike named ancestors The text also states that they live in the ‘below’ (gy), but that they can ‘climb up’. In addition, the text says that they are particularly clever (jɔ gán), and can speak - even to the point of being able to spirit chant (nɛ̀q tó-ǝ) better than the spirit priest himself. Because of this, they are called upon to aid the spirit priest in his dealings with the outside spirits.82 What is interesting about these two spheres is that, in different ways, they represent the antithesis of the ancestral ‘inside’ sphere. Nà nà reflects the original separation between people/ancestors and outside spirits, and zán khò reflects the separation between people who are capable of becoming ancestors and those who are not. In sum, the spheres of the inside and the outside are marked through the types of sacrificial animals used for each type of ceremony. While the logic of selection of animals is not always clear to an outsider (and indeed may only make sense internally through relational contrasts), it is clear that this cultural creativity has been applied to create difference that is significant to the Akha. In this construction of difference, the outside becomes associated with the wild, the realm beyond the village gates, the dangerous, the impure, the amoral and chaotic, non-Akha, evil spirits, and those not attached to an ancestral line of continuity. The inside (realm of Akha people) becomes associated with the opposite – all that is protective and orderly in the world.

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Other ritual procedures

Perhaps the most important procedural contrast in terms of the way inside and outside spirit chanting is conducted is the manner in which offerings are made to the relevant spirits. Ancestors are always treated with respect, the offerings laid out before them (below the ancestral shrine and on the raised sleeping area on the women's side of the house) and given in a reverent, deferential manner. The offerings, apart from the sacrificial animals, are given in bowls or dishes. This attitude contrasts with the attitude of contempt that is expressed in offerings to outside spirits. Through chanting language, outside spirits are lied to or ‘fooled’ into thinking they are being offered more than they actually are (see below). Their offerings are thrown at them (thrown towards the posts, kuq). They are even spit at83 in the course of outside chanting. Outside offerings are placed on the ground or given from banana leaf packages. It is clear that inside spirits are welcome guests (incorporated) while outside spirits are encouraged to leave (expelled). Inside spirits are told they will be offered the ‘first fruits’ of any crop and are treated with respect, while the outside spirits are treated with contempt, their offerings being cast at them. For a number of items, they are given what may be called ‘final fruits’ – the waste products such as rice husks and ashes, or the scrapings and edges (periphery) of things (silver filings, fur, feathers).84 In the refrain for outside chanting, the spirit priest says: ‘From one animal, we will give you many feathers (or pieces of fur)’. Inside spirits are actually offered cooked bits of meat from the body of the animal. Note that this is a further center-periphery contrast, the inside spirits being offered meat from the body of the animal, while the outside spirits are offered things from the periphery of the animal (feathers, fur, piece of ear). The particular verb used for each type of ceremony reflects this difference in attitude and, by implication, the social positioning of the receivers of goods. Inside, one lɔ́-ǝ (‘honors’)85 or tu-ǝ (‘pays respect to’), while, outside, one tó dzɛ-ǝ (‘chants to get rid of’) or tjàq nɛ̀-ǝ (‘pays off’ through offerings).86 I was also specifically told that one could not tu-ǝ outside nɛ̀q. This social positioning of inside spirits as one of ‘us’, incorporated in ‘our’ social hierarchy as opposed to outside spirits who are imposing their ‘power’ until they are bribed to be gotten rid of (like government officials?), or struck a bargain with for a mutual (and final) exchange (like market vendors?) is also created and reflected in the nature of the goods exchanged (see above). Incorporation (or ‘domestication’) is produced through the anointing of inside animals with water three times on three different parts of their bodies (head, mid-section, feet) as is the case for the chickens of

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the annual ancestral offerings. This action represents a collection or drawing in of the various parts of the body into a totality. Outside animals, as well as animal ‘rejects’, are not anointed, and are expelled instead of being incorporated.87 The incorporation/retention theme persists in other dimensions of inside chanting. Thus, in inside chanting, the blood of the sacrificial animal that is knifed through the throat must be collected in a bowl or pot and placed next to the offering tray. This contrasts with the expulsion effects of outside chanting where the blood is allowed to flow freely on the ground and may not be collected. Paralleling this inside retention of ritual offerings is the retention of the liquids used in chanting. After the chanting is finished, the liquids are all poured into a single cup, and may be used by the sick person to anoint his/her body. Outside liquids, by contrast, are poured away. The idea, of course, is to retain good potency and to expel dangerous forces. This idea pervades both the labeling and treatment of the meat from inside and outside chanting ceremonies. Meat from inside chanting is called ‘inside meat’ (khǿ sjà) as opposed to ‘outside meat’ (njí sjà), which comes from outside chanting. In inside ceremonies, the food is eaten inside the house. This contrasts with the location (or even the possibility) of eating for outside ceremonies, as we will see below, and parallels the contrast in ritual locations for each type of ceremony.88 There is a retention/disposal contrast in relation to the meats of inside/outside chanting that parallels that found for sacrificial blood and libations. Inside meat is kept to be eaten, while ‘outside’ meat follows a regulated disposal route. In this regard, eating itself is symbolically marked (both metaphorically and metonymically) as a form of retention. Actions such as the disposal of food and spitting can be seen as the metaphoric/metonymic marking of expulsion. There are no restrictions on who is allowed to eat inside meat, with the exception of those restrictions referring to the ‘offering of meat in bowls’ (khm̀mà tjì-ǝ) sub-ritual which I have mentioned above.89 In outside chanting, all ritual paraphernalia and offerings except for the animals must be thrown away outside the boundaries of the village. This includes the leaves used as well, and thus contrasts with the retention of the bø̀søq leaves in the ancestral section at the end of inside chanting. If the animals from outside chanting are very small and without much meat, they too are disposed of outside the village boundaries. If the animals from outside chanting are large enough to eat, their disposition follows certain rules that concern the contamination of outside meat (njísjà) with improper fertility. At least for the household khɛ̀ ghɛ-ǝ ceremonies for adults90 (and variations thereof such as the mɔ́ dzɛq dzɛq-ǝ ceremony), if no special affliction/impurity (tàndì)91 is associated with the ceremony (as put by the

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spirit priest: ‘if there is nothing ‘‘bad’’ (mà mỳ-ǝ djè)’), family members may eat the outside meat. Within the household khɛ̀ ghɛ-ǝ ceremonies, however, a distinction is made between khɛ̀ tjàq (‘cooking khɛ̀’) in which the animals are cooked at the household passageway and eaten on the covered porch (but note: not inside the house), and khɛ̀ sjǝ (‘carrying khɛ̀’) in which the animals must be carried away by the spirit priest or some other person who is allowed to eat the meat. In khɛ̀ tjàq, anyone92 is allowed to eat the meat, while in khɛ̀ sjǝ, certain categories of people may not eat it. This is a distinction within the outside, representing degrees of outside-ness. Thus, ‘inside meat’ is eaten inside the house, the ‘outside meat’ from khɛ̀ tjàq is eaten on the covered porch of the house, while the ‘outside meat’ from khɛ̀ sjǝ is taken away from the house altogether. Figure 6.7 Cooking outside meat on the ground outside

In the text for khɛ̀ tjàq, the spirits are lied to, they are told that there is food cooking in a ceramic pot ‘just like they cook at the hɔ̀kà (the space between the fireplace and the central house partition between the male and female sides)’ (see Figure 5.8), even though the meat is actually cooked outside the house in the ‘passageway’ (ghoqkhɛ̀). While the spirits are told they will be given some of this meat, they are not, as outside spirits are never given any of the actual ‘body’ (àmɔ́) of the animals but are only given feathers or fur, as mentioned above. In the text for khɛ̀ 93 sjǝ, on the other hand, reference is made to the domain of lɔ́kà, the domain of rivers and ravines which is located well outside the village.94

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Those who are not allowed to eat outside meat in the situation of khɛ̀ and other outside chanting that results from a special affliction are household members and those of their sublineage (ádjǝ̀). In addition, one is not allowed to eat outside meat that comes from a sublineage of one’s wife-giver groups, either the àmánàda (wife’s brothers’) sublineage, the mother’s brothers’ sublineage or the father’s mother’s brothers’ sublineage.95 This, of course, means that wife-takers (expressed to me as mìdzé mìma) may not eat ‘outside meat’. Just as fertility and gỳlàn passes from the wife-givers to the wife-takers (and not in the reverse direction), so does infertility or improper fertility such as is associated with outside meat. Thus, anything affecting fertility moves in one direction- the same direction that the woman moves in. So, for example, one could eat outside meat from chanting done in one’s wife-taker groups since the contamination would not pass from them to oneself.96 Although the spirit priest receives a payment (písjà) in terms of meat, if he falls into one of these categories, he is not allowed to eat it. This was the case once when the dzø̀ma of Bear Mountain Village performed some outside chanting for the house of his (dead) younger brother's children. No one in the household could eat it, and he could not eat it. His ‘helper’ who was of a different sublineage took the meat at the end of chanting. The helper was, in fact, Jɛ́tjìq, who was in an àghø (MB) relationship to the dzø̀ma. Note, then, that he was able to take the ‘outside’ meat from his ‘wife-taker’, and possibly was selected that day as ‘helper’ for that reason. The particular restrictions placed on the eating of outside meat vs. inside meat reflect the dangers (and negative potency) of outside forces, especially its ability to affect fertility and reproduction of the lineage (through either the male line or the line of wives it received from another lineage). After all, reproduction occurs with these couples (males and their wives from other sublineages) and not with the couples of males and their sisters (whom they give away). The fertility of the latter is not in danger since they are not the source of lineage reproduction, explaining the ability of wife-givers to eat outside meat from their wifetakers. A final procedural contrast between inside and outside chanting concerning the distribution of meat is the required ritual payment to the spirit priest (písjà). In it, the spirit priest receives four ribs of the animals from ‘inside’ chanting and five ribs from those of ‘outside’ chanting (if the animals are large enough and if the spirit priest is allowed to eat the meat). This is an even-odd contrast. The significance of even-odd contrasts in certain contexts of Akha society lies in the fact that even numbers represent couples (and thus productive, auspicious units), while odd numbers represent ‘non-couples’ or ‘singles’, which are inauspicious. sjǝ

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We find in the annual ritual control of grubs and grasshoppers (to protect the rice crop) that only an odd number of insects may be caught since their extinction (non-propagation) is desired. In our case here, couples (the even number four) are associated with the ‘inside’, the productive unit or the unit of proper fertility, while singles (the odd number five) are associated with the outside, the domain of improper fertility, associated with the Akha desire to extinguish the outside spirits.97

7

Textual structure, speaking to inside and outside spirits

Akha oral speech genres A complete study of oral textual structure in Akha society would have to consider all of the varieties of texts that fall into what the Akha call ‘types of speech’ (dɔ̀). These would include songs (à tjí gú-ǝ), spirit chanting (both of the spirit priest and shaman) (nɛ̀q tó tó-ǝ), poetic chants (sjà ziq ziq-ǝ), proverb-like language (dɔ̀dà dà-ǝ), texts that are appropriate to particular ritual occasions (such as the àghø ghø-ǝ at funerals or the à ho ho-ǝ at rice planting), the language of blessings (gỳlàn sjá-ǝ dɔ̀), and others. I will not be able to consider all of these here, but will make some general remarks about Akha speech genres. The language of all of these different types of oral texts was described to me as dɔ̀dà, ‘ancestral verse’. This language differs from that of ordinary speech, and contains all the properties and archaicisms that have been frequently described for ritual language in numerous other societies. While the spirit priest and other specialists are privileged in their ability to recite this language in certain contexts and in certain forms, ordinary villagers may gain a knowledge of it, if they so desire. Often, when a villager wanted to make a statement about something in a more eloquent way than normal, he or she would switch into this language, reciting some relevant proverbial expression for the point he/she wanted to make. Songs were clearly common property, as were the ‘poetic chants’. Some villagers even prided themselves on their knowledge of the language of spirit chanting, in spite of the fact that they were not spirit priests. There are significant differences between this type of speech and ordinary speech, including alternate vocabularies. To give an example, the word for ‘water’ in ordinary speech is ítjùq, while one of its forms in ritual speech is ý. I studied this language primarily with the spirit priest. Ordinary villagers did not understand the meaning of all the language of the texts, but there were also sections of text that the spirit priest himself could not explain. Both of these points relate to the inconsistencies of explanation that I note below.

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‘Sections’ (tsỳq) of ‘ancestral verse’ are repeated in different genres according to certain rules of combination, a process that in some ways parallels the rules of combination of ritual elements. Thus, these ‘sections’ form a kind of macro-vocabulary from which the ‘grammar’ of texts draws in its constitution of particular textual types. For example, there are textual ‘sections’ that concern annual seasonal changes. These same sections (often in the exact same language) may be found in spirit chanting, songs, and sjà ziq ziq-ǝ (poetic chants), among others. The màn khø̀ tjɔ-ǝ (‘horse thief’) story, for example, forms a ‘section’ that is found in the language of songs for the month of tjɔla, found in the season of the swinging ceremony. This same story is found in the spirit chanting known as zí ghɔ̀ tó-ǝ (‘chanting to separate the lifespans’) done on the occasion of a marrying a new husband or wife after the former one has died.98 Aspects of the creation story concerning the origin of clouds are found both in inside spirit chanting and in song language for the month of tsàngɔ̀, which is the month of rice planting and thus the month when the rainy season (and clouds) begin. By mention of these textual overlaps, I do not mean to underplay the differences in types of texts. Similar textual ‘sections’ (modules) are vocalized in very different ways, the spirit priest’s similar to a rhythmically monotonous chanting99 while the shaman's is closer to a lilting song. The rhythm of each genre is an important criterion of identification.100 In addition, the meaning of the textual sections/modules is colored by the very different contexts in which they are found. A section describing movement out from the household, through the village to the paths outside the village and beyond, might consist of the exact same ritual language in two different contexts, but in one context, the movement reflects part of the shaman’s journey to the spirit world during a shaman trance (njípà sjí-ǝ), while in another context, it reflects a woman’s taking leave of her natal household when she marries, as found in a poetic chant (sjà ziq ziq-ǝ) during a marriage. In a third context, it can stand for the journey of the ‘soul’ (sàqlá) of someone who has just died to the world of the ancestors, as it does in funeral chanting. Nevertheless, we must consider the possibility that the repetition of textual sections in different contexts may reflect a level of meaning that is constant throughout, noting of course that meaning is also constructed by the other elements that distinguish different contexts. Textual structure: inside and outside texts The main spirit priest of Bear Mountain Village described the inside and outside spirit chanting texts as consisting of two main parts.101, 102 One part is the ‘path’ (gáma) that the spirit priest follows. There is a path of inside spirits (khǿ nɛ̀q gáma) and a path of outside spirits (njí nɛ̀q

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The inside path consists of nine ‘joints’ (tsỳq), while the outside path consists of three ‘joints’. The two different paths (and their related joints) appear in different types of ceremonies, according to whether the ceremony is one of the inside or outside. In addition, other tsỳq, ‘joints’ that relate to the particular ceremony in question (i.e. apart from its inside/outside identity) are added to the two main ‘paths’, and contextually situate the ceremony even further. These ‘paths’ (gáma) include a spatio-geographical notion that is indeed part of the conception of the path in chanting, but it is not the whole conception. This notion is the way that ordinary villagers (and indeed the spirit priest himself at times) tend to think of the spirit priest’s chanting. They likened it to a path to the fields or to another village, for example, with the idea that you reach certain landmarks along the way.103 If one looks at the language of chanting, however, or if one questions villagers (specialists or non-specialists) about the path, a physical trajectory is not so clear. That is, it is not clear that one moves from point a to point b to point c in a continuous spatial sense, as one would move if walking to the fields, for example. Instead, there seem to be conceptual leaps between the tsỳq (‘joints’, which we might first call ‘landmarks’) on the path that cannot be likened to human bodily spatial movement along a route. Nevertheless, the use of a notion of a path seems to serve as a mnemonic device both for the specialist and non-specialist alike.104 The other main part of the structure of these texts is called mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀ǝ dɔ̀. It is shorter than the ‘path’ language, and can be likened to a refrain. It is repeated between the various ‘joints’ of the path. Unlike the ‘path’ language, however, it differs from ceremony to ceremony, and is based on the particular spirits in question, and the particular aim of the ceremony. This is so largely because this dɔ̀ (language) is the offering of the sacrificial animals and other goods to the relevant spirit(s) in order to get what one wants. Thus, it includes language that tells the spirit(s) to exchange the animals offered for the human they are holding (in the case of illness, for example).105 This part was also described to me as mɔ́ bí-ǝ, ‘giving the animals’. gáma).

The inside path (khǿ nɛ̀q gáma) In his oral recitation at inside chanting the spirit priest proceeds through nine ‘joints’. This is called khǿ nɛ̀q daq-ǝ, ‘climbing (going up) the inside spirits’. Thus we note that movement associated with the inside is up (auspicious) and the number of joints is the Akha auspicious number of nine. The nine joints are: 1 mɔ́ doq 2 gydjm 3 gysán

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4 5 6 7 8 9

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gylòq sḿmɛ́ dzánmí njadjm njasán njalòq

Following njalòq, the place known as sḿ bɛ is reached. One is not allowed to spirit chant unless one can reach sḿ bɛ. The mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀-ǝ dɔ̀ (refrain) is said for each joint. Thus, it is said nine times, once after each joint. The first joint, mɔ́ doq, literally means ‘the animal(s) coming forth’. It is an opening statement, described to me as the waking and calling of the ancestors to tell them that sacrificial animals and goods will be given to them. It also sets the setting, listing the names of the household heads, male and female (njḿsán àma, njḿsán àda), and in the case of illness, also the name of the sick person. The gy/nja series of joints in one respect represents the ancestors extending back temporally. Thus, the djm ancestors are the last lineal couple connected to the household to have died (thus often called ‘mother’ and ‘father’). We have seen that the term djm refers to the ancestral section and to the main house post near which it is located, called the djmzǝ́ (see house chapter). The sán (from jɔsán, ‘owners’) ancestors are the next generation back (FF and FFWi). As noted above in the làqkhǿ ḿ-ǝ section, I have heard of a single pig sacrifice referred to as being offered to the djm ancestors, with a double pig sacrifice as being offered to both the djm and sán ancestors.106 I have not heard of inside spirit chanting specifically for the lòq ancestors. This latter term means ‘to guard, watch over, protect’. Presumably, they are the next generation back (FFF and his wife). After the third generation back, ancestors are not mentioned in a specific way (with the exception of the listing of male names in the patrilineal genealogies), and their identities are merged,107 at least for the purposes of a particular household. This is in line with a villager’s statement I mentioned previously (see household chapter) that it is three generations of ancestors that look over the household. As used in ritual, wife-giver relationships are also reckoned for three generations (djmghø, maghø, and pìghø). We must note, however, that the djm/sán/lòq series, which purportedly extends back through three generations in time, is repeated, once in terms of gy and once in terms of nja. The term gy stands for ‘below’ and nja for ‘above’. The whole series of gy ancestors are addressed before the series of nja ancestors, as we can see in the list of joints above.

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I was told that this was because one always starts from below and moves up. The phrase ‘climbing the inside ancestors’ reflects this upward movement, but it is a different type of movement from that of extending back generationally in time. Instead, it is a movement from ‘below’ to ‘above’, with an enfolding of generational movement within it. This second aspect to the movement raises a problem if both types of the djm (first level) ancestors (i.e. both gydjm and njadjm) are to be grouped together as a single generation. The movement ‘upward’, then, does not neatly align with a movement back through lineal generations. One interpretation of this non-alignment is that the series of ‘joints’ condenses two statements. That is, there is both a generational movement back in time as well as a spatial movement upward. The fact that they appear together in the same series (albeit as seemingly separate movements) makes a statement that they are equivalent, since the overall movement of spirit chanting is seen as a single one. This linking of degrees of generational ascendancy with spatial ascendancy reiterates some of the points I made earlier on the upper/lower dimensions in the construction of the household, particularly as they relate to the location of the ancestral shrine. In a context other than that of inside spirit chanting,108 I was given an alternative representation of the series. I was told that gydjm is one generational level and njadjm is another level, in fact the next in line to gydjm. Pictured in this way, the whole series would represent a set of six couples instead of three. This picture would account for the separation of the gy and nja sets in the ‘joints’ for inside chanting, but would not account for the order of the joints as they appear there, since technically njadjm should follow gydjm. Then gysán would follow njadjm. As the ‘joints’ are listed above, the gy and nja sets are separated and placed in different parts of the spirit chanting. In one representation made by the spirit priest in a discussion we were having about funerals and the journey to the afterworld,109 the series was represented in just such an order, i.e. as: – gydjm – njadjm – gysán – njasán – gylòq – njalòq On this occasion, he bent bamboo strips (ánè) into the following form:

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Interestingly, this form resembles the natural environment in which the Akha have lived for centuries, that of a series of hills and valleys. It is important here to note that one Akha textual tradition, ‘descent of the dwelling places’110 follows the migratory path of the Akha back ‘up’ to China, listing dwelling places along the way such as villages, regions and especially rivers. In this construction, ancestors are literally located ‘upland’ or ‘upstream’ since China is the land where the ancestors dwelled and from which descendants ‘descended’.111 There is not a perfectly clear picture in villagers’ minds (including that of the spirit priest) of the meaning or movement in the gy/nja series of inside chanting. Explanations of it are inconsistent. The basic structure that remains throughout the explanations, however, is that there is a division of ancestral levels into those of the above and the below, and that there is a generational reference extending back in time. Since these are the spirits connected to the household ancestral section, we can see that a (patri-) lineal descent ideology does not strictly apply. Instead, generationally lineal factors combine with dual oppositions, such as that of the above and the below,112 including an alternation in the lineal aspects. We may consider this to be the replication of an alternation at different lineal levels. Complicating the picture even further is the fact that some of the dual oppositions (alternations) themselves contain lineal aspects, such as in the movement from the below to the above, and at some times (but not all), the overall lineal (descent) structure is seen in terms of this other lineal movement. Thus, the most ancient ancestors are sometimes seen as more ‘above’ than more recent ancestors, and certainly are seen as ‘above’ in relation to their living descendants. This can be viewed as a super-positioning of the above-below dualism on the whole set of ancestor-descendant relations. In addition, in some contexts the whole ancestral path (including all the below/above movements) is presented as a ‘middle’ path and contrasted with the two negative paths of the ‘above’ and the ‘below’ (see my earlier mention of this in the household chapter). Note that the two side paths are sloped, not level like the middle path. This is the case in funeral chanting where the spirit of the dead is admonished not to take either of the two side paths (of the above and the below),113 and is told instead that only the middle, longer path leads to the world of the ancestors. This movement to another level has similarities with the superpositioning mentioned above and can be viewed as a kind of nesting process. Proceeding to the middle of our list of ‘joints’ for inside spirit chanting, we find the joint sḿmɛ́. This is a term representing the àghø, mother’s brother. In a broad sense, it represents the category ‘wife-giver’. During this part of spirit chanting, the spirit priest tells the story

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of the origin of the àghø.114 According to the story, in the past, the Akha did not have an àghø and went searching for one. A large river separated the Akha from the àghø, and the Akha were afraid to cross it. They called the àghø from their side of the river. The other side, the land of the àghø, is described as being as huge as an elephant, and in general, the àghø are praised for all their positive qualities, especially physical strength. They are told that the Akha cannot do zán without them. They are told that the zà ǿ (ZS) will not be big, strong, and healthy without them, and that so much depends upon them, including the Akha’s gỳlàn (‘good fortune’). The àghø are told they will be treated with utmost respect if they come to live with the Akha. For example, when visiting, they will be given a large seat and a large turban. Needless to say, this must have convinced the àghø to come, as they now partake in zán. In part of this story, the àghø (MBs) are represented as coming from the sky (m̀), while the zà ǿ (ZSs) come from the earth (mítsà). Here we have another above/below contrast, nested within the overall structure of the inside ‘joints’. This contrast mirrors the flow of gỳlàn which comes down from the àghø to the wife-takers, much as a river flows downward and thus represents an inside contact point with supernatural potency that the Akha have access to.115 In this context, the àghø are seen as ‘higher’ both spatially and in terms of importance (hỳ dzɛ̀-ǝ) than the wife-takers, in this case represented as the ZS.116 I was told by one villager that this is so because the ZS (zà ǿ) comes from his mother, i.e. from the àghø (mother’s brother). ‘The sister’s son cannot exist without the mother's brother.’ And in another statement: ‘If there is no mother’s brother, the father’s sister’s children (also zà ǿ for males117) will have no ‘‘good fortune’’ (gỳlàn)’. Although the àghø are seen as from the above, in the textual structure, they are found between the gy series (below) and the nja series (above). This places them in the middle,118 which is significant in terms of their relationship to fertility. They provide the women who in turn produce children for the group of wife-takers. They additionally have influence in the form of gỳlàn flowing from them over that fertility and the general well-being of the children (ZS) produced. What is interesting for our purposes here is that the ‘joint’ relating to the àghø is a joint of khǿ nɛ̀q, ‘inside spirits’. Thus, the wife-givers are seen as, in certain respects, part of ‘inside-ness’. There is no joint in inside spirit chanting for wife-takers. The coupling of an ‘in-(descent) group’ with a wife-giver group parallels the coupling of husbands with their wives as represented at the household ancestral section. Indeed, the spirit chanting that we are discussing takes place at that location. We have seen this coupling image, in its simplest form, of a man as a base with a woman from an outside group to form an ‘inside’ (central)

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and offspring-producing couple, appear throughout our discussion. Among living people, those in the household who represent this coupling most strongly are the njḿsán àma (‘house owner-mother’) and the njḿsán àda (‘house owner-father’). Ritual prescriptions and proscriptions mark off this reproductive unit. The preservation of its fertility in a proper manner over the course of generations is the aim underlying those prescriptions and proscriptions. In a sense, proper reproductive ability is what creates ‘inside-ness’. The next tsỳq or ‘joint’ is called dzánmí. I was told that this does not in any way refer to dzánmí àma, the house site spirit, although the names are similar. Instead, it refers to the lifespan (zí) of the person or people in question.119 Thus, the spirits are told not to ‘break the lifespan’ (zí tsɛq-ǝ) of this person or these people. The ancestors maintain influence over the zí of their descendants. For example, if it is determined in divination that someone’s lifespan is not good (zí mà mỳ-ǝ), this necessarily means that that person is being afflicted by ‘inside spirits’. The endpoint, known as sḿ bɛ (‘three beginnings’),120 or alternatively as Àpø̀ sḿ bɛ íkán (‘the ancestor of three beginnings’ house’),121 moves through Sḿ mí ó, the first human (i.e. non-spirit/human) and all the figures in that household’s genealogy up to the present. When the present is reached (genealogically), the bø̀søq leaves can be put in the ancestral section.122 In addition, the sacrificial animals are given to the ancestors. This part of the text also includes the stories of creation of the earth and sky by the figure Djabɛ alàn. In fact, whenever one goes up the path of the inside spirits (khǿ nɛ̀q daq-ǝ), one must include the creation stories. This necessity emphasizes the connection between inside-ness and the fertility and continuity of the various lines of life forms – plants, people, and animals – lines which were started by Djabɛ alàn, at the place/time of sḿ bɛ.123 As mentioned earlier, although the connection to sḿ bɛ (‘three beginnings’) was not expressed, this is also supposed to be the living place of the three jɔsán (‘owners’) of rice/grain (ká),124 people (bí) and livestock (djè). These are the ‘owners’ of the fertility and continuity of the lines of crops, people and animals, and thus represent important aspects of ‘inside-ness’. These figures are only found in inside chanting, not in outside chanting. The term jɔsán (‘owner/provider/protector/caretaker’) refers us back to the continuous chain of caretaker/cared for relationships that permeates Akha society. With sḿ bɛ we arrived at the place of the first Akha, Sḿ mí ó. This emphasizes the significance of the temporal movement back in time to the point of Akha origins. Touching base with this origin point seems to be significant for the restoration/release of gỳlàn to the living present. This origin point will be an important point of contrast with the trajectory of the outside.

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The structure viewed in another way The overall structure of inside spirit chanting was described to me in an alternative (other than path and refrain) way. That other way was a chronological tripartite structuring into these three parts: 1 nɛ̀q dàn bɛ-ǝ (‘beginning nɛ̀q’) 2 mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀-ǝ (offering the sacrificial animals and goods) 3 sḿ bɛ doq lé-ǝ (‘coming out at the three beginnings’) The first part is an introductory section. This would include things like purifying the offerings (záma sjɔ́-ǝ) and calling upon previous generations of spirit priests for help (pí ngà ngà í-ǝ). What I described above as the nine joints of the inside path are chanted in step two. Note that mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀-ǝ dɔ̀ actually refers to the refrain between the joints. Perhaps it was selected to represent the whole section because the reason to chant the inside path is to offer the animals and other goods to the ancestors in order to get what one wants in return. The inside path leads into part three. This representation is thus consistent with the previous one. The outside path (njí nɛ̀q gáma) As stated earlier, the ‘outside path’ (njí nɛ̀q gáma) that the spirit priest chants has only three ‘joints’ as opposed to the nine found in the ‘inside path’. However, the second representation of inside spirit chanting that is under the section ‘The structure viewed in another way’ is exactly the same for outside chanting. That is, there is an overall tripartite structure for both under which the ‘paths’ (with nine or three joints) are encompassed. For outside chanting, this tripartite structure is as follows: 1 nɛ̀q dàn bɛ-ǝ (‘beginning nɛ̀q’) 2 mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀-ǝ (offering the sacrificial animals and goods) 3 khɛ̀ le dzǝ́-ǝ (‘to go past khɛ̀’) This representation of the structure is exactly the same as that for inside chanting except for the last part in which one ‘goes past’ khɛ̀ instead of ‘coming out’ at sḿ bɛ. Sḿ bɛ refers to creation stories and the origin of ‘inside’ lines of the continuity of life, especially that of humans. On one occasion, the spirit priest emphasized that the outside texts would not include dɛ̀q lé-ǝ dɔ̀ (lit. = ‘to bring to life language’), i.e. the creation stories. By contrast, khɛ̀ is closely related to the point of separation of humans and spirits (see my earlier discussion of the meaning of khɛ̀), and in that sense is a kind of origin point for (outside) spirits.125 It also thus emphasizes dis-

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continuity instead of continuity, and the need for separation from outside spirits. At sḿ bɛ, the relevant person’s genealogy is recited, while at khɛ̀ one reaches the genealogy of nɛ̀q (nɛ̀q tsỳq). The latter is not recited in outside chanting, however as it may only be recited in funeral chanting. The first part (nɛ̀q dàn bɛ-ǝ, ‘beginning nɛ̀q’) of outside chanting is made relevant to the particular nɛ̀q in question. Before the first mɔ́ sjɔ̀ 126 recited (note that there are three sjɔ̀-ǝ (refrain), there are two sections in outside chanting because there are three joints in the outside path). One section is called nɛ̀q gàn gàn-ǝ (lit. = ‘a lot of nɛ̀q’) and in it the spirit priest proclaims how strong he is (‘like a tiger’, ‘if the spirit priest is short of breath, his breath will get strong as the wind’, ‘if the spirit priest’s voice becomes weak, it will get as loud as the sound of heavy rain’) and how he will protect the sick person. The other section is called m̀ bàn mí bàn tsé-ǝ (‘assessing violations of sky and earth’) and in it the spirit priest lists various levels of social domains from the sky127 down to the household (zɔ̀q) and the names of the figures responsible for handling violations that occur at any of the various levels. These levels (which have been mentioned earlier) are: – m̀ (sky) – mítsà (earth) – míkhàn (country, region) – pu (village) – pà (patrilineal sublineage)128 – zɔ̀q (household, family) The figure that handles cases at the level of ‘region’ is called khaqma, a word referring to a ‘strong man’ figure (see Tooker 1988, zoqla text, Appendix B), while the one who handles cases at the level of the village is called mɔ̀lɔ́, referring to the eldest person in a village (and perhaps as a reference to the village council of elders). The smallest unit at which violations are handled is the household, and the spirit priest is the figure who handles these. This, of course, serves as a legitimation of the spirit priest’s authority for the actions he is about to take. Even in the case of illness of an individual, it is the household that is viewed as the source of violation (bàn-ǝ), not the individual. Thus, an individual’s relations with the outside (and thus place within the inside/ outside distinction) is mediated minimally through the household. An individual cannot relate directly to the outside because an individual does not constitute an inside unit. Minimally, couples (as reproductive units with the potential to serve as vehicles for potency to flow) do.129 Instead, an individual is part of the inside, and, depending on context, this inside is either the household or the village.

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When I asked the spirit priest what came after the last level (zɔ̀q bàn he at first hesitated, then said ‘mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀-ǝ’, thus entering a new section in the recitation. This would indicate the movement out of the nɛ̀q dàn bɛ-ǝ section of the overall structure (and the end of recognized social domains) and into the mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀-ǝ section. The ‘path’ of ‘joints’ whether nine (inside) or three (outside) is included in this second part of the overall structure. With the mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀-ǝ, we reach the three joints of the outside path. They are: 1 mɔ́ doq (same as in the inside path) 2 zán khò 3 khɛ̀ sjɔ̀-ǝ tsé-ǝ),

Here, the three joints seem to refer to the topic in the recitation that appears just before the spirit priest has to recite the refrain (mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀130 ǝ). As previously mentioned, the refrain changes form according to the particular ceremony in question and the particular nɛ̀q that is/are afflicting. In general, the refrains in outside chanting consist of imperative statements which call for the sacrificial animals to be exchanged for the (souls of) people. They include statements such as: ‘Animal hair is warm, human hair is itchy!’ ‘Animal blood is sweet, human blood is bitter!’ These are performative statements which are viewed by the Akha as an attempt to fool spirits into thinking the humans are undesirable while the animals are desirable. These refrains also include other performative statements such as: ‘may the animals fall below and the humans come above!’, reflecting the higher/lower status location of people/nɛ̀q that we mentioned earlier. Additional textual sections that relate to the particular ceremony being carried out may be added on to the ‘path’. The first joint of the outside path is an opening joint, as in inside chanting. After the first refrain (mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀-ǝ) the spirit priest recites two sections, one called dza pí ka-ǝ131 which refers to the place names (especially those of rivers) where various spirit priests of the past came from, and the second called dzm tjɔ132 in which the recitation follows back the route to the places of these original spirit priests, the first and highest place being called Nala, the name of a large river, probably in China. This further asserts the spirit priest’s authority through his connection to a long line (genealogy) of spirit priests extending back to the time (and authority) of the ancestors. Again, special power seems to come from the connection to the original ancestral sources. Then we reach the section of nà nà, then zán khò (see my earlier discussion of these terms), after which we have the second mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀-ǝ. After this refrain, there is a section called lán tsàn, a term which is

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homophonous with the term for the forested belt that in the past, was reserved around an Akha village.133 The text of this section discusses how the nɛ̀q is holding the sick person and that the spirit priest will release this hold. Note the reference to the ‘outside’ domain through invoking the village boundaries. Following this are sections that refer: 1) to Àpø̀ ùjɛ́ and his/her lost silver and gold, 2) to how only the ears of animals are offered to nɛ̀q [ fooling], and 3) to elements of the origin story in which people and nɛ̀q separated. The latter refers to the original fields of people and nɛ̀q, to the mother of people and nɛ̀q, to the original shared house of people and nɛ̀q, and to how they fought and separated. The force of this section is to tell both people and nɛ̀q to remain separate, and not to come to where each other lives. In certain ceremonies, a section follows in which the spirit priest puts out a small fire by pouring water over it, saying that he is putting out the fire of ‘bad things of thirty khɛ̀’ (see my previous discussion of the meaning of khɛ̀). After this we have reached khɛ̀. The refrain (mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀-ǝ dɔ̀) for the joint of khɛ̀ sjɔ̀-ǝ immediately follows. Presumably, everything after this refrain would fall under part three of the overall tripartite structure called khɛ̀ le dzǝ́-ǝ, ‘going past khɛ̀’, as we have finished the last mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀-ǝ which relates to the third joint of the outside path. At this point, there is more njí nɛ̀q dɔ̀ (‘outside spirit language’) that refers to weakening nɛ̀q and restraining them from coming to where people live. Again, it warns nɛ̀q of how strong the spirit priest is (i.e. he can drink from nine rivers and not vomit; he can chew nine stones, but his teeth are still sharp; he can eat a spear, but his tongue does not hurt; he can make fire in water; he goes to a huge ‘elephant’ lake, but still can swim; he is quick to escape the clutches of nɛ̀q, etc.). This text states that the spirit priest will defeat nɛ̀q, both nɛ̀q of the above and nɛ̀q of the below.134 Here we have a clear assertion of Akha access (through the spirit priest as mediator) to a power that is stronger than that of the outside and that can overcome it. An interesting set of imperatives follows that concerns fertility and the desire to make nɛ̀q infertile and unable to proliferate. This relates to our previous discussion in which inside forces are associated with proper fertility and potent propagation of the Akha lines of rice, people and animals while outside forces are associated with improper fertility or even infertility. Some of the exclamations, in typical parallel couplet form135, are as follows: If nɛ̀q doesn't have a wife,136 don't die! [i.e. because then can’t proliferate] If nɛ̀q is married, then die!

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If nɛ̀q doesn't have children, then live! If nɛ̀q has children, then die, and may the children of nɛ̀q die also! Where the sun shines, let fire burn nɛ̀q! Where it's raining, let lightning strike them! When going to cut a tree for a coffin, may they cut it for two nɛ̀q! [i.e. may two nɛ̀q die at once] Nɛ̀q should cut off their own heads with their own hands and kill their own children! If nɛ̀q doesn't die from one side of the knife, may it die from the other! If nɛ̀q doesn't die from one side of the spear, may it die from the other! A concluding statement to this section is: ‘Let the spirit priest’s children increase like many blades of grass!’, thus contrasting the infertility called upon nɛ̀q with the fertility and health called upon forces of the inside. A final section called njí nɛ̀q tó sà-ǝ dɔ̀ (‘speech at the end of outside chanting’) follows. It refers to the power of all the various ritual specialists, especially the power over nɛ̀q. For the spirit priest, it says that the words he chants are not his personal words, but words that have come from past powerful generations. Again, he says that he will win over nɛ̀q, whether chanting inside or outside: khǿ pí í ngɛ, khǿ-án ghà. njí pí í ngɛ, njí-án ghà de. The words and position of the spirit priest come from the inside. He even refers to ancestral generations. Yet these inside techniques may be used to control both the inside and the outside, and in that sense encompasses both, reflecting the hierarchical relationship between the inside and the outside. Thus, inside is higher than outside, but the spirit priest’s knowledge (which comes from the inside) is higher than both. Summary: inside and outside texts The language and structure of Akha inside oral texts refers to a movement upward in space and backward in time (through Akha ancestral generations) to an original power source that may be accessed through this language. The language of outside texts, by contrast, implies that there is an alternative power source – that of nɛ̀q, or outside spirits, which can afflict Akha. The spirit priest calls upon his own power, gained through knowledge of zán and the chanting language to combat

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the outside forces. The inside forces are associated with fertility, the life force, health and reproduction (through male and female couples), while the outside forces are draining of these same things. The reaction is to attempt to drain the outside forces of their own fertility and strength (see the language to affect negatively the reproduction of nɛ̀q). By making offerings (and fooling them into thinking that the offerings are more than they are), they are persuaded to withdraw their sphere of influence away from the Akha so that the Akha are not afflicted, reproducing a mythic original separation of people and spirits. Yet there is a conceptual overlap of the land of nɛ̀q and the land of lowlanders. As one villager (with a smile on his face) told me during a shaman ‘outside’ ceremony in which a secondary village gate was constructed and the nɛ̀q were sent outside the gate: ‘We are sending the nɛ̀q to your land (meaning the land of the muang)’.

The coding of potency: the pragmatic construction of the ‘household’ and ‘village’ As previously noted and as appears in the list of outside ceremonies in Appendix B, outside chanting is conducted at either the household or the village level. The textual language for outside chanting is similar for these two levels, but there are significant features that contextualize the particular ceremony for one of these two domains. This contextualization constructs the social entities of household and village through both linguistic and non-linguistic practices. Thus, village level ceremonies contain language referring to the ghà tsàn lán tsàn, the forested belt around the village, while the household ceremonies do not. Additionally, the names of the paraphernalia and spirits connected to the village gate (lɔ́kàn) must be recited in the village version of the ceremonies. Village boundaries are particularly marked by the spirit priest’s reference to wild animals (not referenced in the household version) which are forbidden to enter the village (along with nɛ̀q). It is important to note that similar techniques are used to performatively create (‘imagine’) political entities of very different kinds and scales. Thus, both ‘village’ and ‘household’ are constructed using parallel metaphorical and metonymical codes that I discuss below. Nevertheless, the existential differences in the nature and scale of the entities offer a resistance to a complete replication of codes, a resistance which reflects political tensions between the two social domains. As we have seen, each entity is marked by a focal center. Thus, the house of the dzø̀ma serves as a conceptually central location for the ‘inside-ness’ of the village, just as the ancestral section (àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q) is the central location of ‘inside-ness’ for the household. Two137 annual cere-

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monies, integrated into the annual ancestral offerings, called dzø̀ jan lɔ́honor the jɔsán of the dzø̀ma, much in the same way as the regular ancestral offerings honor the jɔsán of the household – the ancestors. These jɔsán fit into what I have previously described as the jɔsán relationship – that is, they are of the past (elder) and are protectors/caretakers of the present dzø̀ma. In addition, they must be honored (lɔ́-ǝ), as any jɔsán must be. During the dzø̀ jan lɔ́-ǝ meal, they are fed food from the table on the raised area on the men's side of the dzø̀ma’s house where the male elders eat. During this celebration, the village elders (tsɔ́mɔ̀) are honored and fed snacks as they visit houses, as part of the village hierarchy, parallel to the honoring of ancestors in the household hierarchy. The location of the khɛ̀ ghɛ-ǝ ceremony for each level (household and village) code their boundaries in structurally equivalent ways. Thus the main boundary point (and the point at which outside chanting takes place) for the household is represented at the ‘passageway’ (ghoqkhɛ̀), while that for the village is represented at the ‘gateway’ (lɔ́kàn). These are both the points of khɛ̀, the vulnerable ‘opening’ of each level, subject to violation from the outside. There are two ceremonies paralleling the khɛ̀ ghɛ-ǝ ceremonies done at both the household and village levels, but done for an even greater state of seriousness. These are the zɔ̀q djɔ̀ sjǝ̀-ǝ ‘leading around the house’ and the pu djɔ̀ sjǝ̀-ǝ ‘leading around the village’ ceremonies. They are done when many household members are sick or when many village members are sick, respectively. The main spirit priest of Bear Mountain Village knew how to perform these ceremonies, but said he had never had the occasion to do so, since such an occasion would arise so rarely. Like their khɛ̀ ghɛ-ǝ counterparts, the ceremony done at the household level must include an inside ceremony, while that done at the village level does not. Again, like its counterpart, the village level ceremony begins with an opening meal for the spirit priest at the house of the dzø̀ma, and with some short chanting on the porch there, just as would happen in a typical outside ceremony with no inside ceremony accompanying it. At the household level, when it is time for outside chanting, the spirit priest begins chanting at the household passageway (ghoqkhɛ̀) and, in the course of the chanting, circumambulates the house to return to the passageway where the sacrificial animals are cooked and eaten. He stops at two other places in the course of chanting: the two corners on the women’s side of the house (note that the ghoqkhɛ̀ is on the men’s side of the house). He spoke of these three stops (ghoqkhɛ̀ and two corners) as the places where he mɔ́ sjɔ̀-ǝ (said the refrain). We recall that the mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀-ə language was the refrain in spirit chanting and that outǝ,

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side spirit chanting includes three ‘joints’ between which a refrain occurs. Thus the three spatial breaks around the house co-ordinate with the three textual breaks (and presumably three vulnerable openings). At the village level, the spirit priest proceeds from the house of the dzø̀ma to the village gate located above the village (dzé hù pɔ), then around the village, stopping, again for the mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀-ǝ once at the village gate on the cemetery side, then at the village gate on the ‘edge’ side (pu 138 and finally back to the upper gate where the animals are cooked dzé), and eaten. In each type of ceremony, the relevant unit is circumambulated. In fact the term djɔ̀ refers to movement in a circle, and so we have a linguistic and ritual basis for viewing both the household and village in terms of a center-periphery scheme. In this parallel coding, the household ghoqkhɛ̀ is equivalent to the upper village gate. Both are the starting and the finishing points of the outside chanting. They are also the places where the meals take place. In other village ceremonies that I recall, chanting was done at the upper gate. In addition, chanting at the ghoqkhɛ̀ is done on the upper side of the house, paralleling the ‘upper’ nature of the first village gate. It is also important to point out that the ghoqkhɛ̀ is associated with maleness, being on the male side of the house. The upper village gate is most often associated with the male figure of the dzø̀ma. The village swing is located near this gate. At the time of the swinging ceremony, the household swings are located in their ghoqkhɛ̀. By this logic, the back corners of the house (female side) would have similarities with the two other village gates – that facing the cemetery and that on the ‘edge’. In contrast to the upper gate, the other two are lower, just as in many contexts, the female is lower than the male. This parallel spatial coding that constructs the Akha political entities of household and village has its limitations when it faces the different natures of the units involved. Thus, along with these parallel constructions are other significant markers that encode difference. This is reflected in the fact that outside forces afflict each unit in different ways. Thus, the household may be afflicted at the rice steamer and the djíbà djísì (fermented rice bamboo sections, associated with the ancestral shrine), while the village may be afflicted at its associated paraphernalia (see Appendix B for khɛ̀ ghɛ-ǝ ceremonies at the level of household and village). Perhaps most significant is the fact that spirit chanting of the inside is performed only at the household level. Thus, even when a ceremony for affliction or ‘good fortune’ is done at the village level, (as in pu khɛ̀ ghɛ-ǝ or pu djɔ̀ sjǝ̀ -ǝ) it is only an outside ceremony. The continuity of the Akha patrilineal ancestral lines (inside-ness) is not reproduced at the village level, but at the household level where lines of ‘couples’ of

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ancestors and their descendants are found, along with the lines of rice and domesticated animals. In relation to this reproduction, the village seems to serve as an additional buffer against outside forces, under the guidance and protection of the dzø̀ma. He and his household also stand for the conglomerate of all the households when outside chanting on behalf of the village as a whole must take place. Thus, in the purification rites for the birth of twins which I witnessed, the pu khɛ̀ ghɛ-ǝ ceremony took the form of a kind of village làqnjí tó dzɛ-ǝ ceremony. The dzø̀ma’s house was the base for the preliminary rituals done before the spirit priest went outside the village gates with a group of male elders to do the outside chanting. The ‘opening ritual’ of sjì né tìq-ǝ was held at the dzø̀ma’s house, as were the rituals done at the doorway. In the pu djɔ̀ sjǝ̀-ǝ ceremony, the ‘opening meal’ and the porch chanting are carried out at the dzø̀ma’s house (thus his porch is in some sense the ‘porch’ of the village), before proceeding to the village gates. Nevertheless, a separate source of power seems to emanate not from the ancestral lines, but from the lines of dzø̀ma, which have their own (non-kinship-based) genealogies, as it does for the spirit priest who calls upon an illustrious line of spirit priests for his power in chanting. This village-based power is reflected in the dzø̀ma ceremonies mentioned above (such as dzòjan lɔ́-ǝ) and the various village-centered ceremonies such as the annual ritual cycle (which is closely connected to the fertility of the fields and forests). This power can take a negative turn, however, a turn that reflects real tensions between the household and village. As mentioned earlier, there is an affliction indicated in cases where a person has been sick for a long time, where a lot of curing ceremonies have been undertaken, and the person has not gotten better.139 It is an affliction by ghø̀ dzø̀ dàjan (‘the nine guest dzø̀ma’),140 and its cause is determined through divination. These are the jɔsán of the dzø̀ma. The spirit priest of Bear Mountain Village told me that these were the ‘greatest’ (hỳ dzɛ̀-ǝ) nɛ̀q by which we could be afflicted. In spite of the connection to the dzø̀ma, the curing ceremony for this affliction is held at the household of the sick person. In it, a sow is sacrificed and when the food is prepared, a table is brought out onto the open porch of the house. The table is laid with the food and nine sets of chopsticks for the nine (spiritual) dzø̀ma guests, and is accompanied by nine stools. The food is taken out of the dishes and allowed to drop on the ground – a gesture of feeding the nine guests. After this meal, the table is brought inside the house where the elders eat. Even though the affliction is by dzø̀ma, they are entreated at the patient's house, specifically its periphery, as represented by the open porch. The open porch also represents the house’s opening to the com-

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mon village space which is peripheral to the house itself, but which is the domain of dzø̀ma. Both the possibility of affliction by power associated with the dzø̀ma and the action of peripheralizing it in relation to the household are clear indicators of difference and possible sources of tension between these two social domains, as I have previously mentioned at the end of the household chapter.

Conclusion Although in this chapter I have pointed to tensions between household and village in Akha society, clearly the most important tension is that between the village (as a microcosmic representation of Akha society) and the outside world. Although outside spirits are not consciously seen as equivalent to outside people by the Akha, these two entities are placed in a similar structural and sometimes even existential position.141 A first set of (metaphorical) convergences is the parallels one can draw between them, including such things as the fact that both lowlanders and outside spirits are avoided and warded off through bribes and pay-offs, the fact that outside spirits capture Akha souls in prisons, the fact that the relationship to outside spirits and lowlanders is politically tense and can involve fighting142 (such as the original separation fight with spirits and the use of symbolic weapons [spears, guns, airplanes] to deal with outside spirits). For example, the ultimate leader of Thai lowlanders is the Thai king who was once represented to me as dànò jɔ hỳ (the ‘biggest/most powerful soldier’). We recall from the previous discussion of village boundaries the yearly ‘spirit chasing’ ceremony called ká jɛq jɛq-ǝ, in which young boys run through the houses, terrorizing the spirits with their tɔqma, carved wooden clubs, and carved wooden rifles. Weapons, warplanes, and rifles are associated with the village gates as protection against evil spirit ‘armies’. The ‘message’ in all the dealings with outside spirits is to avoid them as much as possible, to stay spatially removed from them, and to expel them to a separate spatial domain (by any means, even deception) when they do invade. In its various forms, this performative message defines what constitutes danger, where danger is located, the direction from which it emanates, and how to deal with it. An Akha male elder, suffering for a long time from an incurable stroke, told me that he had done every Akha offering. He now assumed that this was really quite a ‘foreign’ spirit afflicting him since even Akha spirit experts could not get to the bottom of this. Recognizing me as non-Akha, he questioned me numerous times if I knew which spirit was afflicting him. It must be an ‘other’ spirit (àtjɔ̀ nɛ̀q), associated with some other ethnic group.

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Figure 6.8 Gate with airplane

Figure 6.9 Gate with rifle

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Somehow I felt blamed. Tapp (1989: 153) points out an interesting remark by the Hmong that a mountain peak was geomantically determined to protect ‘the village against thieves and officials (mentioned in the same breath)’. A second (metonymic) set of convergences concerns the fact that a significant number of ‘outside’ ceremonies have as their initial cause some kind of negative relationship with non-Akha. It was not uncommon, for example, to find the situation I describe below. On 19 January 1990 in Bear Mountain Village, I came upon a spirit priest chanting in an outside ceremony that was being carried out to ward off the spirit of a violent death, the death of a villager’s father who, while living closer to the Burmese border, (where the forces of Khun Sa and the Wa were fighting each other) was captured by Ávàq (Wa) soldiers who dragged him from his house (‘without time to put on a shirt’) to the forest where he was bound and shot. In another case, an Akha man told me that, when he was young and sent to lowland schools, the elders would tie his wrist when he came back to the hills so that his ‘soul’ was not lost in the lowlands. I cannot recount the numerous other examples here, but just mention the case of soul loss upon visiting the lowlands or ending up in a lowland jail, loss which requires spirit chanting. Finally, outside spirits are further associated with outsiders by the fact that they are sent away to afflict outsiders. This is clearly seen in the statement of the villager who says that the bad spirits are being sent to the lowlands to bother people there instead of the Akha. The way outside spirits are constructed and related to in these nondiscursive practices reflects the way the Akha are treated by outsiders and has ramifications for the way the Akha treat outside people. I am claiming that these spatio-ritual practices provide a model or pattern for dealing with outsiders that the Akha draw upon in real life dealings with non-Akha. This pattern has been integral to the constitution and reproduction of the Akha as a distinct society for a long time, and appears to have been adaptive. It is not a discursive ideological model, but is constructed in complex non-discursive ways (especially through the processes of spatialization) that do not crystallize into a discursive form, but nevertheless provide powerful, unconscious (and perhaps even more powerful than discursive forms) cues for how to deal with outsiders. These cues derive some of their power from their affective dimensions. For example, the Akha experience shear dread when the outside sjaq spirit (spirit of a terrible death) has struck a village. They also indicate disgust (for example, through spitting) when outside afflictions are mentioned (such as the birth of twins). Disgust also appears when exchanges with outside spirits are made, as mentioned above. I am suggesting in this chapter that holistic practices of this form (a form that seems to be found more generally in Southeast Asia) have po-

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litical implications in that they both reflect and sustain a particular mode of political relations between societies, and thus may be characterized as a type of political technology that engineers and reproduces a condition of social distance between societies. In this mode, individual societies maintain a degree of autonomy from each other, a condition that contrasts with the mode of the bureaucratic state. This condition of social distance was desired by both the dominant (centers) and nondominant groups (local centers). Thus I am also making the point that a holistic approach to culture, an approach that has been under attack lately, can be relevant for particular historical and political conditions. Much has been made of the ubiquity and insidiousness with which the ‘modern’ state expands into nonmodern political systems. The latter must also be understood as having their own effective political technologies. In another article (Tooker 2004), I discuss transformations in Akha spatial practices (and models for dealing with outsiders) that have been occurring with the expansion of capitalism and the nation-state into the Northern Thai uplands since 1985. I suggest there that in the bureaucratic state (colonial or post-colonial nation state; capitalized or socialized) political technologies of the state effect the redefinition of ‘insiders’ and ‘outsiders’ in an expansionary process. In this redefinition, the holistic nature of the construction of the societal inside and outside changes and its elements segregate out. Elements that were previously considered ‘outside’ are redefined as inside the local society. The next chapter demonstrates the pragmatic usage by the nonmodern Akha of such holistic constructions of the societal inside and outside to resist incorporation in supra-local political structures through spatial semiotics. At the same time, in the next chapter I critique previous models of the premodern polity in Southeast Asia as being unduly influenced by elite (political center) interests.

7 Rethinking the Cosmic Polity

In this chapter I focus on the Akha construction of spatio-political totalities in a regional context, especially in relation to discussions of the ‘cosmic polity’ in lowland Southeast Asia.1 I bring rarely drawn attention to the similarities in upland and lowland spatial practices. I claim that a similar set of spatial codes can be used in alternative and resistant ways to index different political interests and to construct alternative polity forms, including nonstate forms. I return us to the examples of Akha reversals of lowland hierarchies that we have seen in both the village and inside/outside spirit chanting chapters, and to the examples of household reversals of village hierarchies that appeared in the household chapter. Through these discussions, I provide a critique of previous models of the Southeast Asian premodern ‘cosmic polity’. I will argue that the ‘mandala’ and other spatialized concepts associated with the ‘cosmic polity’ in Southeast Asia (such as ‘exemplary center’ and ‘sinking status’, ‘galactic polity’, ‘concentric circles’, ‘nested emboxment’, etc.) are key concepts with a similar form that have dominated theories of premodern Southeast Asian political and social structure.2 I claim that previous approaches to the mandala polity have been defined from the perspective of dominant political groups, and thus are top-down or centerout models. As a result, theorists have inadvertently reified this perspective in a set of analytical concepts that reaffirm existing power structures. As such, they have skewed our understandings of the mandala away from that of a socially enacted set of spatial codes that communicate and index hierarchical status between individuals and groups, both dominant and nondominant. Reynolds (1995) has called for a critical reassessment of how we view the past in Southeast Asia, including our view of the Southeast Asian ‘state’. He suggests that the elitist models of the Southeast Asian state that exist derive from colonialist and nationalist attempts to create a ‘noble past’ and justify themselves, and postcolonial attempts to create an ‘authentic’ Southeast Asia. Citing Scott, Reynolds (439) also points out that the source materials available on early states are elitist and textual. Again, echoing Scott (Scott 1992: 7), Reynolds sees these previous models as too static, eliminating conflict (1995, 427, 439). To some extent,

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Reynolds is asking for too much from early historians of Southeast Asia in that they are limited by their source materials and often must make informed speculations about the local level. There are some alternative avenues to pursue, however. Hutterer, for example, calls for confronting these interpretations with the archaeological record as a corrective (Reynolds 1995: 425). In this chapter I argue for the relevance of contemporary ethnographic fieldwork for providing alternative interpretive approaches. While we certainly cannot assume that present-day conditions are the same as those in earlier Southeast Asia, we can draw from present-day fieldwork for alternative models and processes that can be considered in a re-reading of the historical record. These models may then be pursued or thrown out, depending on the evidence. I see this chapter as contributing one alternative way to view the workings of the ‘cosmic polity’ in Southeast Asia, derived from materials collected among the Akha. Implicit in previous approaches to the ‘cosmic polity’ is an encompassment model of hierarchy whereby higher levels in the political structure encompass lower ones. This ‘totalizing’ view draws attention away from alternative presentations and possible contestations of that hierarchy that might appear at the lower or peripheral levels of the hierarchy, such as I find among the Akha. Mandala is a term that has been used to describe lowland polities in Southeast Asia and thus carries lowland (political) and Indic (religious and linguistic) baggage. To avoid imposing lowland terminology and concepts on the uplands, something I am arguing against in this chapter, I will instead refer to a set of spatial signs that combine with a geomantic notion of the movement of potency from a raised center outward. As we have seen, key spatial signs in this set are: center/periphery (equivalent to interior/exterior) relations, upper/lower, and front/ back. This set of spatial signs as indicators of the movement of potency and thus hierarchical status can be found in both upland and lowland societies, although used differently in each. Here, I explore practices from the Akha to see what these ‘centrist’ models look like from the periphery. My findings indicate that the set of spatial signs is used differently in different contexts, representing contextual shifts in hierarchical status. These contextual shifts are related to different indigenous political domains and structural relations between political domains. Here I specifically focus on the three domains of muang (an external, supra-local political unit), village polity, and household. For these domains, in different contexts, the spatial codes take alternative forms, even to the point where the codes can be used to deny incorporation in muang or state-level ‘mandala’ polities and assert an alternative village polity.

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Thus, Akha enactments of these spatial codes are not a lower level replication of what happens at the center of the mandala polity. This conclusion supports the point made by others that dominant hegemonies are never totally controlling (Scott 1985), and has implications for our understanding of spatial practices among other nondominant groups in Southeast Asia. By focusing on the status indexing functions of spatial signs in our analyses, we provide a more complex understanding of the workings of indigenous political systems than those offered in interpretive and structuralist approaches to the ‘cosmic polity’ which have emphasized the symbolic dimensions of signs, and also provide a more fruitful approach to discussions of alternative ideologies than those that appear in classic Marxist discussions of the ‘cosmic polity’ which focus on the meaning of a single mystifying ideology. Since these status indexing dimensions of the set of spatial signs need not be tied to linguistically and or culturally bounded communities, the approach I suggest continues the tradition of Leach (1954) (and more recently calls for approaches which take account of regional and global contexts) by moving us more toward an understanding of societal discourses that are based on the interrelationships between societies as parts of larger political-economic systems.3 Thus even practices that have usually been construed as ‘holistic’, that is, internally constituted and as meaningful within a bounded sociocultural whole (such as ritual practices) articulate with larger political discourses. Nevertheless, they can be used to create a holistic sense for the actors within the society.

Parallels in upland and lowland spatial coding of political domains, and alternative usages The differences between upland and lowland societies in mainland Southeast Asia have been drawn extensively (see Leach 1960-1961 for a classic expression of that divide, and its long historical continuity). These are differences in religious systems (world religion vs. animism), modes of subsistence (irrigated rice vs. dry rice), and politico-economic systems (kingdoms/states vs. tribes, stratified vs. egalitarian). It is not the point of this chapter to carry out a general discussion of similarities and differences between upland and lowland societies in Southeast Asia. It is one point of this chapter to say that, despite the differences, the similarities have been inadequately recognized.4 While the Akha material demonstrates that there are clearly different types of political systems operating in the uplands and lowlands (since Akha political organization in recent history stops at the village level and resists supravillage political incorporation), we must remember that these systems

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have been in long-term historical interaction and mutual constitution with each other. Thus, we cannot view these types of political organization as isolated. Leach (1954) has pointed out that political models exist in people’s minds. The Akha are very much aware of, and make statements about, alternative political models. Despite the differences in political-economic systems, I am claiming that this long-term intergroup context has produced similarities in the symbolics of power. If we consider that human signification is in no simple way a reflection of a society’s political economic conditions, we can see Akha power symbolics as participating in larger Southeast Asian discourses that also occur in lowland society. At this level of signification, Akha power symbolics reflect larger intersocietal processes and communicate both hegemonic and resistant relationships between different types of political systems. These power symbolics are not the prerogative of lowland kingdoms. We find alternative uses appearing in stateless, egalitarian societies. In these uses, the spatial signs of the village domain are not incorporated into those of a larger external polity. Below I discuss lowland parallels in usages of the spatial codes I have been discussing for Akha society. In some cases, there is even overlap in semantic content. I also raise the question of the meaning of these parallels and provide an interpretation. The first parallel lies in a common notion of the infusion of a cosmic potency in space and the geomantic properties of that potency. Thus, potency is conceptualized as moving directionally from a raised center outward and downward, in a pattern that for the lowlands has been described as a ‘mandala’. By ‘center’, I do not necessarily mean a geometrical center, but rather a focal point which serves to set up an interiorcore/exterior-periphery continuum of hierarchy/power. For example, a household ancestral spirit shrine need not be located in the geometrical center of the house, but power radiates from it out to peripheral areas. In this respect, I regard certain geometrical representations of the mandala as a formalization of a more basic pattern. For example, the mandala is typically described as a pattern with five points, one in the center and four others in the four cardinal directions. I believe this can be broken down into a more basic raised core/lowered periphery pattern that is used extensively throughout Southeast Asia. The specific form of four cardinal directions is not necessary. The form is that of radiation from a center out in all directions, with ‘dangerous’ peripheries being defined differently in different cases. I have discussed the inapplicability of the pattern of four cardinal directions for both Akha and lowland Tai cases elsewhere (see Tooker 1990). In certain Akha contexts a pattern of four points can be detected: a center with three peripheral points, as in the spatial layout of the village, and the circumambulation of village and household where there are three per-

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ipheral stopping points. We can alternatively view the mandala, in its narrower, more formalized and more Indic-derived definitions as a subset of this more basic pattern that one could suggest extends from India Figure 7.1 Mt. Meru replica

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east, through Southeast Asia and possibly East Asia.5 How the mandala as a more formalized usage of a pattern originally based on nonformal practices emerged is an interesting question in itself, but not one to be addressed here. We can see the center-out movement of potency in both upland and lowland cases. In the Akha case, potency is seen to move from the person/position of the dzø̀ma (whose house in centrally located and who is associated with the upper part of the village) to the rest of the villagers. The clear parallel in the lowland societies is the movement of potency from the center of the kingdom (king) outward and downward. Attempts to adjust the design of the kingdom to the image of Mount Meru also follow this pattern. Examples of ‘mandala’ forms of kingdoms in Southeast Asia are the Mataram (Schrieke 1957) and Negerisembilan (de Jong 1952) polities (see also Snodgrass 1985, 73ff and Heine-Geldern 1956 for other examples). This notion of a ‘center-oriented’ polity has been well described (see Tambiah 1985b and Thongchai 1994). Apart from center-periphery and height relations, there can also be other spatial codes associated with this movement, such as front-back, and right-left. Similar spatialization can be found in lowland groups. For a Tai Lü case, see Renard (1990: 47): ‘Throughout the daily lives of the Lü, they order their actions in terms of high and low objects and things to the right and left. This keeps the Lü oriented to basic universal forces and allows them to proceed through life satisfactorily.’ The association of the lowland king with the directions of the east and the sun (see Heine-Geldern 1956: 8) as a particularly auspicious direction is true for the Akha as well (see Tooker 1988: 333ff, lines 126, 137, 188, 230).6 The second parallel is in the notion of potency itself, one of the strongest connotations of which is the notion of fertility (of crops, people and livestock – see also Kirsch 1973 for other upland groups). Just as the Akha dzø̀ma is responsible for tapping this cosmic potency for the sake of the fertility of the village, so is the lowland king responsible for the kingdom. The dzø̀ma is responsible for the human fertility of the village and, by implication, for encouraging (properly channeled) sexual activity. When village adolescents had not been gathering at the village courting yard for some time, the dzø̀ma made a proclamation that ordered them to gather. That night and after, the adolescents gathered again, with their usual singing, dancing, and pairing up for nighttime adventures. In oral texts, the land is spoken of as being barren without the presence of the dzø̀ma and among the population no pregnancies occur without him (see Tooker 1988: 356-357). Lowland kings as well were heavily associated with the fertility of the realm. Tambiah (1985b: 266) sees the king’s harem as an expression of ‘the king as husband of

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the kingdom.’ Heine-Geldern (1956: 13) describes Cambodian evidence that has the king sleeping nightly with ‘the serpent goddess of the soil’ and therefore as ‘spouse of the goddess of the soil’, thus linked to the fertility of the kingdom’s soil. The third parallel is that this spatial coding also sets up a set of hierarchical relations in a political domain. The spatial movement of potency (as a reflection of a graded cosmos) is an orientational scheme that is not equivalent to fixed territory as such, but is used to create or domesticate territories (protecting them from draining forces) and create social hierarchies and social equalities. It is moveable territory and is produced and reproduced in the course of Akha migration and in various other contexts in which social hierarchies get established, hierarchies that are related to structural conditions in Akha society. It involves a set of relational concepts, which, in theory, could be applied differently in different arenas and contexts. Thus we have seen that, through spatialization, hierarchical frames are set up at both the village and household levels in Akha society. Through similar spatial coding of the movement of potency, hierarchical frames are set up in the lowland kingdoms as well (Archaimbault 1971). These hierarchical frames are reflected in the regalia of the ‘rulers’. Thus, there are parallels between the ‘regalia’ of the dzø̀ma [‘throne’, mentioned in Akha oral texts as ‘the ruler’s seat’, ‘the ruler’s drink’, and the ruler’s headpiece (Tooker 1988: 333ff, lines 15, 16, and 231)] and those of lowland kings. At this level of analysis, a Dumontian notion of encompassing hierarchy is relevant (Dumont 1980: 239ff). Thus, the capital/center (in the person of the ‘ruler’) can stand for the whole domain, whether it be in an Akha village or a lowland kingdom. Finally, there are upland/lowland parallels in the notion that the sacred center (which is the contact point to cosmic potency) in the person of the ruler must be protected from external peripheral forces, and his/her purity maintained, and for the order of zán (in the Akha case) to be maintained. Thus, we see, in the selection process for an Akha dzø̀ma, a search for a person who has not been exposed too much to draining outside forces, and for the households of ‘impure’ persons to be located far from the village center. These are characteristics of at least some Southeast Asian lowland rulers that were expected to be the ‘unmoving central apex of the world’ (Errington 1989: 280), protected at the center of the kingdom, and also as protector of the order of dharma through noninterference, something we have already seen in our discussion of the diarchic nature of rule. A clear difference here between the role of the dzø̀ma and the role of the lowland king is that the Akha dzø̀ma does not play a role in warfare as, paradoxically, the lowland king does (see Tambiah 1985b: 267). We do not know whether this is a difference that developed historically or was never there. There is a

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‘warrior’ role that appears in Akha oral texts in the person of the khaqma, but this is a different person from the dzø̀ma. However, the dzø̀ma does play a role in the acquisition, and especially, domestication of territory. We see parallels at the level of the Akha household in the protection of the purity of the household heads at the time of ancestral offerings. This is also an aspect of encompassing hierarchy in that the household heads (lit. ‘owners’) stand for the whole household. We can see these parallel usages of spatial coding in more specific operation when we consider the practices known as rituals of dispersion and rituals of aggregation/incorporation as they occur in both upland and lowland cases. We have seen the Akha rituals of dispersion (of potency) from the village ruler, especially in agricultural rites. What in the uplands is a ‘First Hoeing Ceremony’, in the lowlands is a ‘First Ploughing Ceremony’ carried out by representatives of the king. The Akha dzø̀ma’s opening of the village’s sacred water source at the beginning of the rice planting season is paralleled in the lowlands by such rites as the royal opening of the irrigation canals in Bali. See Tambiah: The capital is the starting point for the performance of annual cosmic rites-rites of regeneration and purification-and in a ripple effect the graduated provincial centers replicate in temporal succession the same rites on a diminishing scale (see Archaimbault 1971). (Tambiah 1985b, 266) Archaimbault (1971) presents a Lao case of lowland rituals of dispersion from the local prince at Basak during the New Year’s ceremonies. These ceremonies (held just before the new rainy season) are conducted to rid the muang of evil influences and to recreate it anew with good influences. Ceremonial segments (such as sprinkling Buddha images and wrist-tying) start first in the center of the muang, called the ‘navel’, and are repeated in the households of villagers that belong to that muang. Evil influences are sent to the ‘periphery’ of the muang. Tannenbaum (1992) compares various Tai groups on the extent to which they have this sequencing of ritual activities in which the lower levels of the polity replicate actions first carried out at the center. The examples she mentions are: Condominas (1975) for the rocket festival and boat races in the Vientiane area; Archaimbault for the Lao (see above); Turton (1978) on Northern Thai sacrifices; Davis (1984) on Northern Thai temple festivals; and Tambiah (1970) on offerings to guardian spirits. She sees this sequencing as a ‘symbolic incorporation’ that indicates ‘political subordination’ (Tannenbaum 1992: 268). There are also such ceremo-

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Thai lowland First Plowing Ceremony

nies at the level of household which incorporate it into the village (Tannenbaum 1992: 261; Durrenberger 1980). Akha rituals of aggregation, such as ‘meals of respect’ and payment of food/game, at both the village and household levels incorporate smaller units (whether households or persons) into a larger political domain and recognize the status of the center. Nonincorporated individuals are restricted from entering the village/household at certain times of the year. Should they do so, they are required to pay a fine. Here we see structural parallels to the precolonial payment of tribute by outlying principalities to the center of lowland kingdoms, and the oath-taking ceremonies in which outlying nobles pledged fealty to the king. The ruler of the kingdom of Campasak in Southern Laos, for example, received oaths of allegiance twice a year from his subjects (Archaimbault 1971: 18), until he himself had to swear allegiance to the French. The principal tribute gift in the lowlands was a ‘gold and silver tree’ (Thongchai 1994: 82, 87, 90, 108), while Akha oral texts proclaim gold and silver as the original payment to the dzø̀ma (Tooker 1988: 333 ff). The Akha circumambulation rituals, in the construction/restoration of village boundaries, parallel similar lowland rites (and the political incorporation that results) in which the king circumambulates the capital ‘by which the king takes possession of the city and, by way of the symbolic analogies that tie them together, of the kingdom and the cosmos’ (Snodgrass 1985: 77; see also Heine-Geldern 1956: 3 for Siam and Cambodia). Similar processes of political incorporation have been documen-

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Figure 7.3 Tribute to Thai king

ted for other upland groups, such as the Lahu (Walker 1983) and are especially evident in oral texts associated with these rites. A selection from Walker’s translation of a village rite text reads: ‘Oh, May all the headman’s people ... be united by the same pure thoughts; may there be no fighting among us; may we all be of the same mind, both the big and the small, all of us’ (179). At the household level, incorporation is represented by placing one grain of rice for each household member into a hole. Likewise, household texts read: ‘oh just as these [entwined] candles do not separate, may husband and wife not separate, may the children not separate ...’ (190) and ‘let there be no dispute among any of the people [of this house]’ (192). Interestingly enough, both the village occupants and the household occupants are ‘collected’ by reference to their ‘four corners’ (194, 197): ‘[grant us that] within the four corners of this village there be no troubled thoughts’ (198). Finally, we must mention, for both cases, the dangers associated with the periphery of the political domain, and exchanges with evil forces at those peripheral contact points. All of these parallels in the use of the spatial codes can be demonstrated for the level of the Akha household as well (and I have mentioned some) with, of course significant semantic content differences and different indexing of hierarchical status. What is important for our purposes is to recognize that these similarities exist, in both upland and lowland societies, yet are used differently in each case. Again, this is not to say that there are no differences, as surely there are, especially in

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the semantic meaning of the spatial signs (i.e. whether potency is represented as coming from a Hindu-Buddhist cosmic Mount Meru or from Akha ancestors). It is also not to say that the Akha are imitators of lowland political rhetoric since the process of intersocietal borrowing should be viewed more as a complex historical interchange. The point here is to realize that these similarities are based on a similar process of the spatial coding of potency and therefore social hierarchy, and that they can be and are used differently in different contexts to both create social boundaries and to set up alternative hierarchical frames. Through these alternative usages, the lowland models define the exemplary center as the center of the kingdom whose glory radiates out to the peripheral areas that the Akha occupy. As I discuss below, using the same spatial signs, the Akha, through their dzø̀ma, redefine the center. In turn, at the household level, in certain contexts, even the Akha village center is redefined, and the relevant center shifts elsewhere – to the household ancestral shrine.

The village periphery and the reversal of lowland hierarchies Village spatial practices reflect and create a hierarchy within Akha society. This hierarchy plays out in terms of some labor extractive practices at the village level, such as in requirements to provide person-days of labor in the fields of certain ritual officials. However, as we have seen earlier in the village chapter, Akha also use spatial practices to redefine the lowlands as peripheral, thus reversing lowland hierarchies. Beyond the village gates is the realm of the forest, the wild, evil spirits, as well as the realm of lowlanders, including the muang.7 The realm outside the village gates is not merely a neutral unprotected area, but actually has a negative dynamic, that is, it can be dangerous and draining, thus extractive. Akha carry out protective rites for persons traveling beyond the village gates to the lowlands so that they do not lose their ‘soul-stuff’ (the potent and life-giving center of the person). Akha who are captured or arrested and taken to lowland jails are also susceptible to soul loss. Even when soul loss occurs for other reasons and manifests itself through illness, the imagery is that of an evil spirit capturing the soul, tying it up, and jailing it in a prison in the same way I have seen lowland authorities capture Akha for alleged criminal offenses. Here the parallel between the evil spirits of the forest beyond the village gates and the people of the muang is clear. We can note here that, through Akha spatial practices, the lowland centers undergo a transformation (actually a reversal) into a devalued, negative, and dangerous/draining periphery, a point that will become important in my discussion of the relationship between Akha and low-

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Soul calling ritual

land power symbolics. Thus, again, the production of space in Akha society is simultaneously the production of ethnic difference and ethnic inequality, in this case with the Akha in the superior status. In this production, the boundaries of peripheries, such as the village periphery or the periphery of the person, are permeable. Dangerous, misfortune-causing forces (either lowlanders or evil spirits) can penetrate the village gates, or one’s own life-force (soul-stuff) can overstep its own boundaries to be caught up with these evil forces. The latter is likened to the soul ‘wandering’ (bá-ə) off because it is distracted by some desirous object, such as a beautiful flower in the forest. Once the soul wanders away, it is then in the sphere of dangerous forces that can weaken it. Exchanges, such as sacrifices and offerings, are made at peripheral contact points such as at the village gates or household yard with these evil ‘outside’ spirits, exchanges which parallel similar exchanges with real, ‘outside’ people, as when lowlanders come to extort money or raid villages for domestic animals. They are able to appease or cajole these lowlanders in the same ways they would appease or cajole evil spirits at these peripheral contact points.

Reversals of village hierarchies In addition, as we have seen in the household chapter, a positive village hierarchy can undergo a reversal as well. In some household practices

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such as house construction, first planting, and first harvesting, the actions of the dzø̀ma ripple down to become the actions of the household heads, which in turn are followed by the actions of other household members, potency flowing with this movement. In others, however, such as household ancestral offerings, the relevant spatial center is that of the household, with its potency emanating directly from the line of ancestors at the ancestral shrine. If one looks at the movement of ancestral offering food, for example, the dzø̀ma is one of the last to receive it. He is here associated with things that are peripheral and possibly draining to the household, such as members of other households. Thus, in some contexts, even the top-down model generated within Akha society (i.e. village-level hierarchy) is questioned. Another example in which the dzø̀ma and the village level are indexed as peripheral is the case of ‘inside’ (làqkhǿ) and ‘outside’ (làqnjí) spirit chanting (Chapter 6). Spirit priests (bǿmɔ̀) conduct these rites to improve fortunes and to ward off misfortune. The Akha conduct ‘inside’ rites, which are offerings to ancestral spirits, at the level of the household and at the central axis of the ancestral shrine. They can conduct ‘outside’ rites, used to ward off evil spirits, at both the level of the household and the village. In fact, they can conduct ‘outside’ rites at any number of places at and beyond the periphery of the house, including the door, the ladder, the covered porch, the uncovered porch, the yard, the fence gates, the village gates, and the forest. ‘Inside’ rites do not and cannot reference a village center and its potency and instead reference the potency flowing directly from the ancestors to household members, without the intermediary of the dzø̀ma. Thus, in these contexts, the village is part of the periphery, a force that may only be draining to household fortunes. That the village center, in the person of the dzø̀ma, can be referenced as a dangerous and draining periphery, thus reversing the order of status relations that was established in the (village/extra-village) interethnic, upland/lowland context, is most clearly seen in the illness (mentioned earlier) that the Akha call ‘affliction by the dzø̀ma’. To combat this illness, the Akha hold a ceremony for the sick person at the periphery of the house on the uncovered porch, associating the dzø̀ma with the periphery, recognizing his negative draining power and his, at times, extractive role. Thus, we have seen two agents portrayed as extractive through spatialization – the lowland authorities and the village authority.

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The form of ‘cosmic polity’ models Yet how has the Southeast Asian ‘cosmic polity’ been constructed in previous discussions? While Coedès’ classic, Les États hindouisés d’Indochine et d'Indonésie, gave impetus to the study of state formation in Southeast Asia and the Indic influence in that process, it was the publication in English of Heine-Geldern’s ‘Conceptions of State and Kingship in Southeast Asia’ in 1942 that provided a model of both the Southeast Asian polity and its religio-cosmological underpinnings that would influence scholars for at least four decades (Heine-Geldern 1956). The most extended recent study that continues this model is that of Errington (1989). Note Heine-Geldern’s point of departure: According to Brahmanic doctrine the world consists of a circular central continent, Jambudvipa, surrounded by seven annular oceans and seven annular continents. Beyond the last of the seven oceans the world is closed by an enormous mountain range. In the center of Jambudvipa, and thus in the center of the world, rises Mount Meru, the cosmic mountain around which sun, moon and stars revolve. On its summit lies the city of gods surrounded by the abodes of the eight Lokapalas or guardian gods of the world ... (Heine-Geldern 1956, 2-3, my emphasis). He then goes on to describe the Buddhist form of this system and concludes that ‘the Brahman and Buddhist systems, in spite of differences in detail, agree in fundamental traits: their circular form and arrangement in concentric zones around Mount Meru. An abbreviated image of either of them thus had the same symbolic meaning for devotees of both faiths’ (1956: 3, my emphasis). He then discusses how Southeast Asian empires were built to reflect this pattern. The examples he uses are: the capital standing for the whole country and the king as possessor of the whole country (3); the capital as the magic center of the empire (3); and the capital shaped in the form of the image of the cosmos (i.e. Mount Meru, etc.) (3); and the provinces or vassal states also following the cosmic image (5). An important element, of course, in this model is that of hierarchy. While the king and the capital are replications of the cosmos, the provinces and vassal states (and their rulers) are lower level replications of the capital/king. As the magic center of the empire, the capital/ king is also the hierarchically highest status position in it. A later extension of this model (which Caldwell 1991: 115 claims ‘popularized’ the mandala model) is Anderson's (1972) discussion of Javanese conceptions of state power as a radiant light that diminishes as it shines down

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to the periphery. This ruler/realm relationship takes the form of an encompassment model of hierarchy à la Dumont. There is clear evidence that such models of polity arise from indigenous conceptions, and polities were established based on similar conceptions in parts of Southeast Asia (Anderson 1972, Heine-Geldern 1956, Shorto 1963, Moertono 1968, Pigeaud 1960-1963, de Jong 1952, Schrieke 1957, Coedès 1968, Wolters 1982, Tambiah 1977, Gullick 1958). In some discussions, there is reference to indigenous models of preBuddhist polities that are structured according to territorial spirit cults (Mus 1934, Condominas 1975) in a form similar to that which HeineGeldern presents as ‘Brahmanic’ or ‘Buddhist.’ These territorial cults are seen as corresponding to levels of political structure. However, we cannot assume that all polities used these forms in the same manner. Strangely enough, debates over the ‘cosmic polity’ tend to reproduce this form. These debates tend to center around a contrast between interpretive approaches (exemplified by the approaches of Geertz 1980 and Errington 1989), which claim to explicate indigenous understandings and structuring of the polity, and Marxist approaches (such as those of Tanabe 1988 and Howe 1991), which claim that the interpretive framework the previous writers have given us are ideological tools of the elite classes, but do not call into question the inherent encompassment model of hierarchy. Howe (1991), for example, claims that Geertz, Errington, and others have provided models of ideology that are indigenous models without recognizing their ideological basis. Thus, he claims that they have remained ‘trapped in the indigenous conceptual system’ (450), and labels their approaches as ‘the poetics of power’ approach (451), which do not recognize the ‘mechanics of power.’ In this lack of recognition, these authors have left out the manner in which the system is reproduced (i.e. the infrastructural elements), and have thus confused indigenous with analytic concepts. According to Howe, analytic concepts should provide a further analysis of ideology and its workings instead of merely replicating it. While Howe allows for, even sees as inherent, manipulations of the ideological system in a stratified society such as Bali, he does not illustrate these manipulations in any systematic way. From neither side of the argument is the form/content of the polity representations (what Tanabe calls the ‘folk theory’) called into question. Indeed, the hierarchical elements in the ‘folk theory’ are necessary for a Marxist interpretation of the theory as an ideological tool. For example, Tanabe describes the ‘folk theory’ as follows: the moeng spirits, at the apex, were believed to reign over a number of village spirits, while these in turn dominated the spirits of individual households ... I have shown how a similar symbolism

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reappears at the three levels of guardian spirit cults: domestic, village, and moeng. This recurrence by and large corresponds to the folk theory of contemporary Tai Lü peasants, where these three entities are seen as being similar in kind though hierarchically ordered. (Tanabe 1988: 9, 13-14) We must, however, be aware that there is an encompassment model of hierarchy inherent in all of these discussions. Condominas, for example, proposes a model of ‘emboxment’ by which higher levels in the social order encompass lower ones: L’expérience de l’organisation sociale et religieuse de la campagne lao ... m’avait suggéré l’existence d’un ensemble de traits communs aux populations de langue thaïe que j’ai cru baptiser, faute de mieux, ‘‘système à emboîtements’’ ... On a ainsi une société englobante et hiérarchisée: le phi müöng, le génie tutélaire de la principauté, ‘‘couvre’’ les différents phi ban, les génies tutélaires de chacun des villages que contient le müöng. On pourrait d’ailleurs, à la limite, inclure les phi hüön, les génies de chaque maisonnée faisant partie du village sur lequel le phi ban exerce son autorité. (Condominas 1980: 266-267) The emboxment proceeds from the various levels of the muang (supravillage political units) to the villages (baan), even down to the households (his ‘hüön’). Tambiah likewise applies a nested model down to the household level: ‘‘a feature of the traditional polity ... is the nesting pattern whereby lower-order centers and entities are progressively contained and encompassed by the higher-order centers or entities (as we have noted previously in the ascending order of pau krua, pau ban, luk khun ... pau khun)’’ (Tambiah 1976: 114). He elsewhere elaborates on this nested model: This principle of a decentralized constellation of units that replicate one another in that they show minimal differentiation of function, finds expression also among those units recognized as the building blocks of the internal structure of a muang, whether capital or provincial. Examples of these lower level components are the pau ban, ‘father’ of the village settlement, who is followed at the lowest level by the pau krua, the ‘father’ of the hearth (i.e. head of commensal household family). (Tambiah 1977: 74-75)

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Other examples of the replication of this model can be found in the work of Paul Wheatley (1971), in that of Clifford Geertz on the ‘theatre state’ in Bali, which includes a ‘sinking status’ pattern (1980), and in O’Connor’s usage of the emboxment model (O’Connor 1990).8 Despite internal dialogue and disagreement within this literature, such as Tambiah’s structuralist criticism of Heine-Geldern, Shorto, Wheatley, Riggs, and Geertz as providing models that are too ‘‘cosmologically’’ driven (Tambiah 1985b: 256), the top-down encompassment model of hierarchy holds for each model, whether they are purely cosmological, combined (cosmological cum political cum economic systems as in Tambiah 1985b), or ideological as in the Marxist presentations. As encompassment models of hierarchy, these models draw attention away from alternative presentations and possible contestations of that hierarchy that might appear at any of the lower or peripheral levels of the hierarchy, as has been demonstrated for the Akha case. A few relevant important critiques of these models have appeared. In his review of Geertz’s Negara, Schulte Nordholt also criticizes the theatre state model as too cosmologically based (as an ‘imagined reality,’ but not a ‘socio-political reality’ [1981: 475]). But perhaps more importantly he suggests that even as an ‘imagined reality’ it may have different versions that depend on the point of view and level of society from which one approaches it (i.e. elite vs. village level) (Schulte Nordholt 1981: 476). He asks: Whose image of the state is described by Geertz? Differences in this certainly existed between the elite and village level. Nevertheless, Geertz’ key informants seem all to be members of the elite ... Could it be that a ‘‘village conception’’ of the state differed substantially from the one which the elite wanted to realize? (Schulte Nordholt 1981: 476) Likewise, in Caldwell's discussion of Errington's Geertzian approach to Luwu, a precolonial kingdom in South Sulawesi (Errington 1989), he criticizes the top-down perspective that emerges from the use of elite informants (Caldwell 1991: 111). He suggests ‘the possibility of alternative interpretations of power and its relation to local epistemologies ... with radically different visions of self and society’ (111). Both Schulte Nordholt and Caldwell leave an opening for the possibility of alternative ideologies.9 Although the question of variable political incorporation has been raised by Tannenbaum (1992), who has compared Tai groups on the extent to which ‘emboxment’ (by which she means incorporation in a supravillage polity) holds, the literature on ‘emboxment’ has not seen the upland cases of nonincorporation as in articulation with the same

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politico-ritual processes one finds in the lowlands, albeit a resistance to them. In addition, the ‘emboxment’ discussion has limited itself to lowland groups precisely because that is the place where incorporation is more often seen. The fact that only the supravillage level is defined as a ‘polity’ is a further indicator of this oversight. Seeing ritual as ‘reflecting’ ‘the ideal relationship’ between units in political systems (Tannenbaum 269, 272, my emphasis), Tannenbaum does not include the possibility that ritual also expresses tensions and contradictions in the political system, expresses resistance to incorporation as much as assent to incorporation, and may construct alternative political models. Thus, I believe more could be made of the cases Tannenbaum mentions where Tai groups did not express political incorporation through ritual. In this book, I have looked at these types of alternative practices among the Akha from the perspective of an ethnic minority group at the margins of state systems. It is clear that an encompassment model of hierarchy does not hold because there are contextual shifts in the direction of hierarchical encompassment. These shifts expose methodological and theoretical assumptions in the more ‘centrist’ approaches to the ‘cosmic polity’.

Discussion and analysis: Critique of evolutionist approaches By linking mandalic spatial symbolism and ‘emboxment’ to complex statelike polities, previous approaches took what may be characterized as an evolutionist perspective, a perspective which does not adequately recognize alternative usages/statements of the cosmo-political symbolism in nonstate systems. An explicit evolutionary approach is that of Wheatley who claims that it provided the basis for a new level of sociopolitical organization that allowed for the transition from kin-based societies to more complex and functionally differentiated territorially based societies: providing the expanded ethical framework capable of encompassing the transformation from ascriptive, kin-oriented groups to stratified, territorially-based societies, and from reciprocative to superordinately redistributive economic integration, was a religious symbolization, which itself was becoming more highly differentiated ... (Wheatley 1971: 477, my emphasis) Wheatley emphasizes the integrative function of this cosmic scheme or ‘religious symbolization’: ‘There had evolved a new and powerful instru-

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ment for the organization of economic, social, and moral order’. (1971, 478). These sorts of evolutionary applications cannot adequately address the presence of the symbolism in different types of political systems. I would thus take issue with Errington's separation of ‘hill tribes’ and ‘Indic states’ (1989: 292) since my discussion illustrates that the statusindexing dimensions of potency are forged in an intergroup context in which each type of political system refers to the other. In addition, the Akha case shows that hierarchy is embedded just as much in their ritual space as it is in that of the lowland polities. The statement that ‘the ritual space of a very level hill tribe ... tends not to be hierarchical or centred’ (294) cannot be supported. I suggest that a notion of ‘centrist’ polities (as the Akha case could be described) be separated from politically centralized polities (such as states). We need to leave room for the possibility that upland tribal power and spatial symbolics can, in some cases, be similar to those in the lowlands but be used differently.10 Thus, they are not tied to complex political organization or Hindu-Buddhist world religion or Indic concepts. Most Akha, for example, did not practice a world religion, but rather a local religion, and the presence of similar symbolics there exposes the evolutionary assumptions in previous approaches.11

Critique of encompassment models of hierarchy Previous approaches (whether culturalist-interpretive or Marxist) also contain an implicit encompassment model of hierarchy. They explored the way the spatial/hierarchical pattern in the mundane world reflected the spatial/hierarchical pattern of the cosmic/supernatural world, usually with reference to Hindu-Buddhist (‘Indic’) cosmological systems of a mandalic Mount Meru at the center of the universe as the abode of the gods (and guardian deities) from which potency emanated to the kingdoms which were in turn patterned after that conception. Potency would come from the center (which stood for the whole) down to lower and lower levels of concentric circles: to lower nobles and their territories, to villages and their chiefs, and finally to individual households, as in the discussions of the Southeast Asian ‘cosmic polity’. These models of precolonial polity proposed by Heine-Geldern (1942), Wheatley (1983), Tambiah (‘galactic polity’ in the form of a center surrounded by satellites) (1977), Geertz (‘theatre state’ and ‘sinking status’ pattern) (1980), Condominas (emboîtement, ‘emboxment’) (1978, 1980) and Errington (1989), or even by Marxist approaches where the models are labeled as ‘ideology’, take the same form, namely, a vertical, totalizing top-down, center-out hierarchy of levels by which higher levels encompass lower ones. Thus, these approaches can be characterized as

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following a Dumontian style of encompassment hierarchy. While encompassment is a characteristic of indigenous models (such as the Akha dzø̀ma/householder relationship in rice rituals), the model itself is not encompassing, and must be related to specific contextual usages that have political and status implications of hegemony and resistance.12 In fact, the notion of encompassment is so inherently political (as it implies political hegemony) that it would be difficult to imagine general applicability of any single encompassment model. Politically speaking, encompassment always proceeds from a particular set of interests. In previous usages of the model, small-scale, village-level societies such as those of the upland groups, far from the centers of kingdoms (which were usually located in the plains near the irrigated rice fields or coasts), would be the furthest instantiation of the kingdom, the lowest status position in it, defined in relation to the glory of the center. Actually, the options that these models leave for peripheral groups is a choice of kingdoms; since they are on the fringes, they can attach themselves to whichever centrist polity appeared more advantageous. These top-down models do not work for the Akha case, and we need to explore further the usage of these cosmo-political signs among peripheral groups in other parts of Southeast Asia. The discussions of cosmic/ mandala polities need to be integrated with the discussions of the workings of these polities and their symbolics at their fringes. Thus, attention should be paid to the in-depth local level work of anthropologists. I reiterate that I do not mean to claim that my findings for the Akha automatically apply to all peripheral groups in Southeast Asia. I merely want to say that the Akha case suggests that we need new ways to think about the way polity is enacted among these other peripheral groups, an enactment that may be in dialogue with the enactment of polity in dominant groups. While here I am presenting a case of a peripheral group with alternative usages of the same set of cosmo-political signs as that of the dominant group, there are other possibilities, such as the usage of different sets of spatial signs in the two groups (see George 1991 for upland Sulawesi). The Akha material demonstrates that the Akha are not just a rung of replication of the sacred center of the kingdom, as would be expected in a standard mandala model of polity. Instead, through spatial practices, they index a different, alternative center of potency (whose content is defined differently), that of their own village polity, and reverse the order of hierarchy and status relations with the dominant polity, using the same symbolic spatial set as used in the lowlands. As Alting (1983: 263) has observed: ‘Contrary to what one would expect from members of a minority group who portray themselves as losers, the Akha feel themselves very much at the centre of the universe-disc (míXaŋ). The Chinese, Burmese, and Shan are cast as inhabitants of the periphery ...’

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These practices also produce the Akha as a geographic, economic, political, religious, linguistic, and ethnic entity. We can regard this phenomenon as a contextual shift in the use of spatial symbolics: the meaning of the spatial and power symbolics shifts depending on whether one is in an upland or lowland context. I must mention here that Dumont’s model of hierarchical encompassment contains two elements: 1) that in which the (superior) part can stand for the whole (which applies in the Akha case); and 2) an acknowledgment that there can be reversals of hierarchy between ‘levels’ (see also Parkin 2009: 50ff). In the latter case, however, the previously inferior element (now superior) cannot encompass the previously superior element, something that seems to happen in the Akha case. This may be because Dumont was dealing with the more hierarchical society of the Indian caste system while the Akha use these principles in an egalitarian framework.

Critique of semantic totalization: towards a pragmatic approach to ideology I am also claiming that previous studies focused on the symbolic meaning of the ‘cosmic polity’ (for example, that the king at the center of the kingdom represented gods at the center of the universe), and not on its usages in practice, usages which produce and index alternative hierarchical frames both within and between social groups. Their focus is on the relationship between embodiments of the model (such as a king’s palace or actions) and the cosmic pattern of the universe they were supposed to represent. I have elsewhere suggested (Tooker 1992) that approaching Akha rituals for their semantic-informational content may be misguided. One could add books such as Snodgrass’s The Symbolism of the Stupa (1985) to see a labored semantic approach which demonstrates how mystified the meaning of the spatial model is, and perhaps serves ideological purposes precisely because of its mystification. Snodgrass also assumes that there is a reference that needs to be discovered. The repeated reference to a particular cosmic pattern with Indic content ends up as a totalizing approach to meaning and hierarchy, that is, one that indexes a single contextual frame, that of the elite political center, often with a textual bias, and denies the structural tensions between the levels of political domains. Since the spatial codes have a status-indexing capacity that was not sufficiently acknowledged, the semantically based approaches end up reflecting the ‘meaning frame’ of the elite power centers, without an awareness that their discussions arose out of that frame. That is why I call them totalizing approaches.

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The reversal between upland/lowland power hierarchies is an important example of the potential of the spatial codes to set up alternative hierarchical frames, a potential that is further demonstrated in another contextual shift, that between the village level usage of the spatial set and the household usage. Patterns of village/household hierarchy that the dzø̀ma’s actions established get reversed by householders’ actions that spatially index the sacred center of the household (with its own set of spatial relational codes and inequalities, and its ancestral reference) as the point of entry of potency into the world. This is a reversal of the top-down hierarchy generated at the village level, and can be viewed as reflecting another set of structural tensions between levels of political domains. One could also portray intrahousehold hierarchy as a topdown model that could receive contextual challenges through a different usage of spatialization, although I am unable to address that topic here. By recognizing that there are contextual shifts in the hierarchical patterns represented spatially, shifts that are not exceptions but are systematic, we take what I am suggesting is a more appropriate approach to the meaning of the spatial codes. In the three Akha contextual frames of muang, village, and household, we can see different centers of potency being indexed according to the context. The indigenous model itself allows for this since the spatial frame for tapping cosmic potency is manipulable, and certainly not tied to notions of territory. The message being sent is not primarily a message about the design of the cosmos, but about through whom/what cosmic potency is channeled, a message that inevitably sets up a hierarchical frame. This is not to say that these alternative usages of the spatial codes can be arbitrarily produced and manipulated. For example, previous approaches could explain anomalies, such as the Akha case might be seen to be, only as deviations. Geertz (1980), for example, explains deviations from the ‘sinking status’ pattern in Bali as the result of the political manipulations of individual actors because of their desire for power. I, however, in presenting Akha examples, have suggested that there are systematic shifts (his ‘deviations’) of the hierarchical schemes that depend on contexts, very similar to the pragmatic shifts that meaning takes in different speech situations. These contexts and points of view are socially and culturally constituted from the structural features that relate the village polity to the outside dominant polity and the household production unit to the village polity, features that I have discussed at the beginning of this chapter. As such, they lie beyond the purview of individual actors. They are also communicating different and sometimes contradictory messages about who/what has access to potency. Thus, these contextual dimensions of the set of spatial signs provide a more complex understanding of indigenous conceptions than that previously offered in interpretive and structuralist approaches which have

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emphasized the symbolic meaning of the signs (based on a single cultural system), or that offered by Marxist discussions which take a totalizing approach to ideology as mystification. By relying on indigenous concepts of potency and by revealing indigenous complexes of power through competing and alternative symbolics, this kind of analysis can point to culturally relevant infrastructures of power, hegemony, and resistance, which are forged in relational and intergroup contexts. It is thus not surprising to find that muang level polities, not to mention states, have on certain occasions suppressed local village-level ritual cults such as those described here, or have insisted on their incorporation into state-level cults. See, for example, Condominas (1975) on an edict issued by a Lao king in 1527, Tanabe (1988: 11, 20, n.2) on pre-Liberation Yunnan Tai rulers’ suppression of village-level cults, and Tooker (1995) on post-Liberation state suppression of Akha village cults in China. Heine-Geldern’s mention (1956: 15) of the setting up of a bamboo hut as a ‘palace’ in the jungle in a Burmese rebellion of 1930-1931 makes the potential political dimensions of these rites all too obvious. Let me reiterate that the upland/lowland reversal of ‘power’ relations has to do with indexing sources of potency, not political power as rule by force. Thus, these practices are not communicating that the Akha have more ‘power’ than the lowland governments in terms of forceful rule. They are, however, claiming access to a form of ‘power’ which I and others (see above) have defined as ‘potency’ or ‘life force’, that they obtain autonomously, without the resources of the lowland government, and which may, in fact, be draining of that ‘potency’. This claim has implications for status relations between uplands and lowlands. In fact, much of this ‘potency’ is real, i.e. not just spiritual, since it can be seen in such actualities as crop production and human and animal population increase. In this sense, the potency indexing dimensions of the spatial codes are indexing an existential reality and reflect a degree of autonomy and resilience retained at the local level. That existential reality has been changing with nation-state and capitalist penetration and the Akha access to gỳlàn has recently been challenged.13 Thus, the situation I present in this book, as all cultural situations, is, of course, historically and circumstantially conditioned.14

8

Space, Life, and Identity

As a cultural anthropologist, my beginning framework is the cultural meaning of space in Akha society at the time of fieldwork (Chapter 3). Akha concepts of space differ from western concepts in that spatial directions have a different cultural significance and space has a dynamic nature: gỳlàn, the life force, flows through it and has a direction. To oppose this direction is to go against the life force. This life force – of crops, people and animals –, and the continuity of their lines, are of central concern to the Akha. The means to tap into that life force has been passed down to the Akha by their ancestors, and they do not need outside intermediaries. The Akha qualitative notion of space and the directional flow of potency associated with it gives meaning to multiple arenas of Akha life: from the small yet significant distinction between two different types of tea that contrastively mark the world of the inside as separate from the world of the outside and, at the same time, produce that separation, to the large scale spatial practices that create the boundaries of an Akha polity in opposition to lowland states that are dangerous and draining. Spatial practices are embodied knowledge, a powerful nondiscursive (and thus not fully conscious) mechanism for reinforcing a positive valuation of Akha identity (and its access to the life force through the ancestors), and for providing both a cognitive model and a visceral response for dealing with outsiders. After discussing some theoretical issues to take into account when exploring spatial practices in Chapter 1, I turned in Chapter 2 to a look at the historical and political-economic circumstances in which an integrative complex of Akha spatial practices developed. This placed Akha meaning systems within a broader framework of regional meaning systems and political economy which was also historical. Chapter 4 discussed how Akha concepts of space, when put into practice, were used to construct an autonomous Akha polity: the village that resisted incorporation in a supra-local polity. Chapter 5 looked at these same concepts and similar practices at the level of the household that both accedes to incorporation into a village and at other moments resists that incorporation. Thus, spatial practices can indicate contradictions and tensions within Akha society as well and cannot be reduced to state resistance alone. Both of the latter two chapters elucidated direc-

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tions of spatial complementarity that are culturally significant for the Akha: center/periphery, interior/exterior, upper/lower, the middle, level/sloped, east/west, front/back, etc.; and that are involved in the construction of microcosmic totalities that reproduce the orientation of the cosmos and the directionality of potency, the life-giving force of the cosmos. Chapter 6 looked at the pragmatic construction of an Akha ‘inside’ and a non-Akha ‘outside’. The Akha emphasize an inside/outside distinction that associates the inside with a protective, life-giving ‘us’ and the outside with a dangerous life-draining ‘other’. Movement of the life-sustaining force is from the inside out where it can push negative influences to the periphery. Similar practices are found in other parts of Southeast Asia and I have mentioned them throughout my discussions. In Chapter 7, I use this comparative eye to raise questions about previous constructions of the cosmic polity in Southeast Asia, constructions which now appear to have emerged from elite perspectives. I also raise comparative and methodological questions concerning how to approach these spatial practices, and what forms of resistance to supra-local spatial practices have been taken up by the Akha. These practices are spatial, cosmological, and ritual in nature and served to preserve a differentiated identity and ‘stateless’ condition, although in ways different from those that Scott emphasizes (2009). As mentioned, these practices were placed within an historical context and intergroup framework (Chapter 2). There is some evidence that the Akha may have been displaced from more choice lands and their own supravillage polity in China (see Wang n.d.), seeking refuge in the uplands. Certainly, over the centuries, they have felt the pressures of more powerful outside groups. In the uplands, they were able to regain local dominance and reconstitute themselves as central through a village level polity structure established by a moveable spatial framework that accesses an internal form of power.1 These spatial practices ‘worked’ to reproduce Akha society, not in a functionalist way, but in a manner that articulated with nonmodern conditions of interaction between uplands and lowlands using culturally significant spatial codes. These spatial practices, along with other cultural practices, served to produce Akha identity under conditions of dispersion and orality throughout the Southwest China and northern Southeast Asian borderlands, and of interaction with various other groups populating the same area with whom power inequalities existed. Under these conditions, the Akha created a system of independent access to potency or the life force, and maintained their collective identity. They also produced a powerful nondiscursive system that served as an integrative unifying force and protection against outside contingent forces. Thus, the degree of integration or apparent holism in Akha society can be viewed, not as

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a natural dimension of ‘traditional’ societies, but as part of both an internal unifying dynamic and as a political response and effective resistance to the outside. Although they are not the topic here, conditions under which the Akha live have been changing since the time period considered in this book. My intention here, however, was to consider conditions among the Akha prior to state control and the globalizing influences of nationstate integration and capitalist penetration. In my 2004 article, I discuss how those changes have threatened Akha local autonomy since 1985, and others have discussed recent changes to, and breakdowns of, potency/fertility cults in the uplands (see, for example, Hayami 2003). The Akha are slowly losing their ability to produce a localized isomorphism of ‘space, place, and culture’ through ancestral practices and to maintain this form of social reproduction (and protection) through lived experience. These changes are, in effect, a loss of potency or the life force (and thus Akha identity) to the dangerous, draining periphery. In terms of the third framework of space and identity construction we see that implicit, nondiscursive practices such as spatial practices play an active and critical role in the construction of social domains and collective identities. Space is thus not a passive, neutral receptacle but is actively produced. In fact, the pervasiveness of spatial coding in multiple dimensions of Akha life creates a holistic effect and provides an implicit schema for interpreting the world. While the indigenous system attempts, partly as a defensive mechanism, to produce a bounded culture by reference to interconnected internal meanings (a concept under critique in anthropology), there are intersocietal similarities and tensions at the core of Akha spatial practices. This unseen cultural ‘overlap’ and the tensions expressed in spatial practices are the result of centuries of interactions between groups. This finding echoes Lefebvre's view of ‘space as a social product that masks the contradictions of its production’ (Low & Lawrence-Zuniga 2003:30). Thus, Akha nonmodern spatial practices can be seen as a political technology, one that penetrates even to intimate realms such as the position one sleeps in at night. The rituals of dispersion and rituals of aggregation discussed in Chapters 4 and 5 are perfect examples of political technologies and show us that Foucauldian ‘spatial tactics’ (see Low and Lawrence-Zuniga 2003: 30) are not a phenomenon of the modern state, but apply also to the nonmodern. Lehman (2003), for example, suggests that founders’ cults (closely related to the spatial practices I have discussed here) were part of an effort to create rule over people in a context of underpopulation using Indian-style symbolic models of statecraft. Tapp (1989) also shows how a geomantic discourse about a creative energy is used by the Hmong to express their political relation-

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ships with outside, more powerful groups such as the Chinese. Thus, these spatial practices can be used in relation to both internal and external political dynamics.2 Spatial practices enabled the Akha to maintain and reproduce cultural autonomy in an historically migratory, multi-ethnic context of uneven power relationships. We must remember, however, that these spatial practices cannot be reduced to political practices, and cannot be reduced to simple state resistance or transparent power relationships between human groups of an ethnic or political nature. Even the Akha define the ‘outside’ cosmologically as not just other ethnic groups, but also as evil spirits and natural phenomena such as wild animals and earthquakes. One reading of the spirit world is as a reflection or projection of real human power struggles and thus as a deflection of direct human-to-human conflict. However, a reference to these other ‘outside’ forces such as spirits and wild animals are also a reference to a cosmo-natural world that is a potential danger to all humans. Interestingly, this transcendent dimension of Akha cosmology and practices serves as a principle that unifies humankind simultaneously with the principle that reflects and produces tensions between groups. But what is nonmodern about this nonmodern space? We have already seen differences in the cultural meaning and dynamics of space, differences that I have spelled out in this book. What about the supposed ‘isomorphism of space, place, and culture’ (Low & LawrenceZuniga 2003: 25) in nonmodern societies? An ‘isomorphism of space, place, and culture’ was never something that was assumed by the Akha. That is, it was not a natural setting in this migratory, nonmodern society. For them, the natural world, their ‘background setting’, was wild, dangerous and chaotic, something that needed to be tamed, domesticated. However, this isomorphism was something that was culturally produced and culturally valued by the Akha. Through their movements in the Southwest China borderlands, with the power of ancestral practices, they produced this isomorphism in a localized context wherever they established a village, their ‘imagined community’. Their need to recreate this isomorphism wherever they went indicates their astute awareness, even anxiety, that it did not exist as a natural given. One needed to maintain a connection to gỳlàn, potency, the life-giving force through spatial practices that produced that cosmic alignment and that protected them from dangerous outside ‘others’. Thus, we need to rethink our idyllic characterizations of any ‘natural’ nonmodern isomorphism in discussions of space. What about another modern phenomenon, that of ‘transnational spaces’? Of course, by definition, such spaces can technically only exist in the era of nation-states. However, the Akha have been mobile and widely dispersed for centuries in areas where other groups (such as var-

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ious Tai ethnic groups) have been dominant. They have been spread throughout Southwest China, Northern Burma, Northern Thailand, Laos and North Vietnam where they have multiple communities that have never been in face-to-face contact with each other. Yet they have maintained a ‘trans-regional’ identity through oral means and nondiscursive practices. These practices may have something in common with ‘modern’ transnational forms of identity creation after all.3

Appendix A: Spirit Chanting of the Inside: Types of Ceremonies

Inside only: 1. njḿ dàn dàn í-ə, nɛ̀q tó tó-ə, ‘chanting for the establishment of a separate house’ – This specifically refers to the case where a man and his family break away from the household and ancestral section to which they have previously been attached, and establish a new ancestral section. The family must conduct a spirit chanting ritual one cycle (12 months) later in order to establish fully their relationship with the new ancestral section. 2. pɔ̀q lɔ̀q tó djɔ́, ‘chanting for the ancestral section’ – Done for situations that specifically involve the ancestral section itself such as if it is physically broken, or if a house is blown apart by the wind. 3. ýkhɛ̀ djɛ̀q-ə, ‘clearing the irrigation ditch’ – Done to increase the household's gỳlàn, particularly as it relates to the fertility of its people, livestock and crops (see my previous discussion of the irrigation ditch in the household chapter). This ceremony may be done for positive purposes or to undo serious damage done to the ancestral section (àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q bàn-ə) which affects the fertility of the household (and thus the household's spiritual irrigation ditch), such as in the case of adultery.1 4. pí ghoq pan-ə, ‘opening the píma’s2 door’ – And related versions3 of the same ceremony – Done to postpone a spiritual ‘calling’

Can be combined with outside ceremony: 5. làqkhǿ ḿ-ə, ‘doing the inside’ (see below for various forms of this ceremony) – Both adult and child versions – Done for illness and affliction

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6. làqkhǿ ḿ sjɔ́́ sjɔ́́-ə, ‘making the inside pure’ – Done to rectify situations of ritual impurity including previous violations of ritual procedures4 (called àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q bàn-ə, ‘to violate the ancestral section’), forbidden sexual relations within a household (such as that among guests), unusually lengthy menstruation in a woman of the household, the presence of maggots in a rice ‘package’,5 and physical violations of the ancestral section itself such as having been gnawed on by rats.6 7. zə́ dzḿ tsoq-ə, ‘building a ladder to the origin place of children (i.e. a mythical lake)’ – Done when one desires to have children born. In this case, it is assumed that one's ‘ladder’ to the origin place is broken (zə́ dzḿ tsɛq í-ə) and must be restored.

Must be combined with outside ceremony: 8. sá dan dan-ə, ‘bringing about well-being’ – Done for the household's health and well-being; also called pɛ̀zà mazà ùdù tó-ə, ‘chanting for the heads of the family’. 9. zɔ̀q djɔ̀ sjə̀-ə, ‘leading around the household’ – Done for illnesses that have not been cured by a series of previous rituals. One informant actually referred to this as including a làqkhǿ ḿ-ə (#5) ceremony within it. 10. jɛ́ sjɔ́ ḿ-ə, ‘making pure, prosperous’ – Done as part of the purification ceremonies when twins are born. The first three ceremonies that involve inside only rituals are particularly concerned with one’s relationship to the household ancestral shrine and the ancestors attached to it who are considered the household ‘owners/caretakers/rulers’ (jɔsán), and not to the world of ‘outside’ spirits (njí nɛ̀q). The fourth ceremony is concerned with a calling by a different type of ‘owner/ruler’: those that ‘call’ spirit specialists. The ceremonies that require both an inside and outside chanting are concerned with protecting the family on all fronts, both inside and outside, and thus serve to reinforce the constitution of the household in relation to these two dimensions. The performance of such a double ceremony, whether required or optional, indicates a more serious level of affliction or warding off of affliction.

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Types of làqkhǿ ḿ-ə ceremonies By far, the làqkhǿ ḿ-ə, ‘doing the inside’ ceremony (#5), in its many versions, is the most frequently performed. For this reason, I discuss it a bit more here. A generic link to fertility spirits and not exclusively to ancestral spirits can be seen in the version of this ceremony done for (ill) children. The type for children is called zà ḿ zà sán ḿ-ə (‘doing the owner/maker of children’), and in it there is a special appeal to the spirit known as Zà bí zà dján àma (‘the mother who gave/made children’). She is considered to be the spirit which makes the body (mɔ́dm̀) and soul (sàqlá) of the child, and also gives it its gỳlàn. This appeal is not part of the adult version. Even though this figure is not an ancestor, the ritual complex associated with her is one of the inside. Offerings to her are spoken of as of the tu-ə (paying respects) variety, a term that would never be used for outside spirits. It is the relationship to proper fertility and the line of continuity that progeny provide that makes this spirit and her ritual complex one of the inside. These are the same qualities that make ancestors spirits of the inside. Thus, it is not their ancestral or patrilineal (i.e. descent) nature that is primary for their association with the ‘inside’, but rather their connection to proper fertility and continuity. The ‘spirit-owners’ of rice, people and livestock, although technically not ancestors, are also considered to be spirits of the inside for the same reasons. In the child version, as in the adult version, there are two levels of performance for this ceremony. Each depends on the number of pigs offered, either one or two. The version in which one pig is offered is called simply zə́ sán ḿ-ə (‘doing the spirit owner of children’).7 The version in which two pigs are offered is called zə́ sán zə́ djè ḿ-ə (‘doing the spirit owner and spirit type of children’).8 While the meaning of the latter is a bit unclear, there is a sense in which this ceremony is viewed as an offering to at least two different levels, if not actually two different spirits, thus gaining a doubly effective result. We will see that this parallels the two possible levels of offerings in the adult ceremony, even though they have quite different names. There were numerous occasions during my fieldwork when this ceremony was held, reflecting the fact that children often become seriously ill in Akha society. In one case, a small boy was sick with swollen arms and legs and a swollen stomach. A zə́ sán ḿ-ə (one pig) ceremony, by far the most common ceremony for children, was held for him. In another case in which a child would not breast-feed, a single pig version was held as well.

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There are slight differences in the versions which are held for different types of illnesses, although the overall structure of the ceremony remains the same. Thus, for example, in the breast-feeding ceremony, part of the text chanted was the story known as ma tjɔ zà tjɔ dzi-ə,9 a story about the unwitting abandonment of a child by her/his mother.10 This was not chanted in the other ceremony. In the breast-feeding case, divination had also determined that an additional ceremony, lá kú kú-ə (‘calling the soul’) involving offering a dog at the edge of the village needed to be done. The adult versions of this ceremony likewise had two levels, according to the number of pigs sacrificed. Villagers told me that the ceremony with the sacrifice of one pig11 would be called simply làqkhǿ ḿ-ə (‘doing the inside’), while that with two pigs would be called by the special term, djə̀ tsàq-ə (lit., ‘sending the increase’).12 Lewis (1968: 142) states that the reference is to increasing one’s lifespan. This may indeed be the case since I have heard the same ceremony referred to as zí djə̀ tsàq-ə, the term zí meaning ‘lifespan’, and the whole phrase meaning something like ‘sending to increase one’s lifespan’.13,14 A single pig15 is viewed as being offered to the first (i.e. closest in time to the living household members) couple connected to the ancestral section. Thus, if one were the household head, and one’s parents were dead, the single pig would be seen as being offered to one’s mother and father (àma, àda). A second pig is seen as being offered to the next couple in line, in this case, one’s paternal grandparents (àpì, 16 àbɔ́ FFWi and FF). One can see here that the appeal is clearly made to ancestors, as opposed to the children’s case where a special figure is brought in. The first level of ancestors was referred to as gy djm and nja djm,17 the second as gysán and njasán, and a third as gylòq and njalòq. The latter can also come into play in the ceremony known as zə́ dzḿ tsoq-ə, ‘building a ladder to the origin place of children’. I discuss these levels in the section on the structure of the spirit chanting texts. In one case example, an older man (late 60s) was plagued with general weakness and ill health, possibly related to liver and/or ulcer problems. The djə̀ tsàq-ə (two pigs) ceremony was held for him. The làqkhǿ ḿ-ə ceremony may also be necessary for afflictions other than illness. Thus, it is a required part of spirit chanting for the affliction of sjì bjaq bjaq le-ə, which is the case of a particular nɛ̀q (Mɔ̀ ǿ jɛ́ sá) having thrown blood on one's house in these three spots: the rice footpounder (tàn tsḿ), the covered porch (pjàkhàn), the passageway outside the door (ghoqkhɛ̀). When this happens, an outside ceremony (khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə) must also be performed. Although this ceremony was never called for during my fieldwork, the main spirit priest of the village stated that he had previously chanted for this a number of times.

Appendix B: Spirit Chanting of the Outside: Types of Ceremonies

1

m̀ tjàq tó dzɛ-ə, ‘chanting to get rid of the m̀ tjàq’

One type of outside chanting ceremony for an illness that is not severe1 is called m̀ tjàq tó dzɛ-ə.2 In his breakdown of types of spirit chanting into major and minor types (based on the type of advanced notice that must be given to the spirit priest and on the degree of ritual abstinence that is required), the spirit priest of Bear Mountain Village classified the m̀ tjàq tó dzɛ-ə ceremony as a ‘minor’ ceremony (jɔ zà), and the khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony as a ‘major’ ceremony (jɔ hỳ). I was told that because m̀ tjàq tó dzɛ-ə is done for relatively minor illnesses, it may be done without any inside chanting.3 It may be done for a person of any age or sex. One case was that done for a person who was walking on a path outside the village and was afflicted by a spirit there. Note the connection between the outside and danger. The meaning of m̀ tjàq is also somewhat obscure. The first syllable m̀ refers to the sky, or in its alternate form, ù, refers to the head. The second syllable tjàq appears often in ceremonies where some misfortune due to outside spirits has occurred. Lewis gives one meaning as ‘to wrong someone’ (1968: 65).

2

khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə, ‘in the condition of having an opening’

There are two main types of khɛ̀ ceremonies. One is done at the household (zɔ̀q) level, called zɔ̀q khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə, and one is done at the village (pu) level, called pu khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə. The verb ghɛ-ə means ‘being in the condition of’. 2.1

Household khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə

At the household level, khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə must be performed with an inside ceremony. This linking indicates its level of seriousness. The zɔ̀q khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony is performed in cases of serious illness or what may be termed ‘category violations’ or ‘ritual impurity’ at the household level. In addition, it may be performed if a family wants to

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increase its gỳlàn, presumably as a protective measure against the outside forces. The cases of ritual impurity were almost always linked to the possibility of future illness if something was not done first as a protective measure. The Akha conceptually separated the cases of illness and the cases of desire to increase gỳlàn from the cases of ritual impurity, however. The latter were called cases where tàn dì had occurred. Ritual procedures varied according to whether or not tàn dì had occurred. I have seen the khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony done for gỳlàn when it was done as part of the sá dan dan-ə (‘bringing about well-being’) ceremony.4 In cases of illness, khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə is done only for serious illnesses, one example given to me was that of a sick person not being able to get out of bed. These types of illnesses were represented as those which needed more than a làqkhǿ ḿ-ə (‘doing the inside’) ceremony. They are often done for sick elders (tsɔ́mɔ̀). In divination, the question khɛ̀ há doq nga la, ‘has an affliction of khɛ̀ arisen?’ may be asked. Receiving a positive answer, the spirit priest immediately knows that a khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony must be performed, and the only further questions that need to be asked concern the number and types of animals to be sacrificed. Note that it is not necessary to know the name of the specific spirit causing the illness. We must assume that the link of certain types of illnesses to khɛ̀ limits the manner and types of questions which the spirit priest can ask in divination. Below I list, with comments, the occasions of ritual impurity of which I am aware that require a khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony at the level of the household. I have also grouped these occasions into types:

Those concerning rice: 2.1.1. When maggots (luqtàn) are found in rice packets (hɔ̀ tju); These are the packets of rice wrapped in banana leaves that the Akha take with them to the fields. The Akha are not allowed to eat the rice that is in the packet where the maggots are found. A spirit often associated with causing this is Mi gy sji pi, also called 5 sji pi. This occasion also requires the inside ceremony, làqkhǿ ḿ sjɔ́ sjɔ́-ə, ‘making the inside pure’. This must be a rare occasion, and never happened over the three-year period of my initial fieldwork. Maggots were certainly present in Akha households, however. I saw them on smoked meat hung from the ceiling of the house.

APPENDIX B: SPIRIT CHANTING OF THE OUTSIDE: TYPES OF CEREMONIES

COMMENT: Maggots eating rice drain away Akha foodstuffs and thus represent a draining capacity inflicted by the outside. Inside/outside boundaries must be re-established at the household level, rice and the production of rice being an important component of the household complex. 2.1.2. When a sound emerges from the household’s rice steamer (hɔ̀ bàn mán lá mí-a ); The Akha view this sound as being caused by nɛ̀q. This type of incident actually did happen during my fieldwork. At one household, everyone in the family heard the sound. They said that the sound was so loud that it was like that of a helicopter or airplane flying overhead, but when they went outside to look, there was nothing there. In this case, the rice steamer must be destroyed and a new one cut.6 The fear of such an incident occurring is so great that one is not even allowed to talk about it. I, unwittingly, did, and the Akha made allowances for the fact that I was an outsider. They told me that if anyone else had said what I had said (which was simply just asking about cases of hɔ̀ bàn mán lá mí-a), they would be beaten. It seems that statements about it have the element of a curse, that if it is said at all, it will happen. Trouble-makers who made such statements were likened to thieves. I must note that in general any verbal reference to outside spirits is viewed as calling their attention, and thus is avoided. COMMENT: The sound indicates that nɛ̀q have invaded the household, even that ‘holiest of holies’ of the ancestral section (and like it associated with the center of the house), the place where the family's rice is cooked.7 This does not explain the particular form of invasion, however – that of making a sound. In general, certain loud sounds are connected with emanations from outside spirits, such as in a case that occurred during my fieldwork of a woman who had gotten a neck ache from the sound of nɛ̀q in thunder. There is also a whole series of rules, that I cannot go into here, that concern what types of sounds may be made in which locations and on which occasions. These include the types of speech that I have already listed in the section on textual structure, as well as noises like whistling, banging gongs, clapping hands, etc. Each type of sound has its time and its place, and in a sense, is an element that ‘creates’ times and places, i.e. specific contexts. For example, the banging of a gong inside a house serves to create the context of an ancestral offering (àpø̀ lɔ́-ǝ). The elements are part of a fix-

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ating process, creating that uniqueness of combination that brings into focus a particular Akha context. One Akha interpreted this restriction as related to the fact that a non-living thing (the wooden rice steamer) made noise like a living thing. Thus, the boundaries of the living and the non-living were crossed. As in the previous case, the violation of household boundaries must be addressed through a re-establishment of them by performing both inside and outside ceremonies. 2.1.3. When djíbà djísì (ceremonial fermented rice sections) turn red (djíbà djísì né lá-ǝ); This may have some relationship to the next category-that relating to blood. The djíbà djísì are small bamboo containers into which is put cooked rice to ferment for a short period of time. When used, water is poured into the container. This concoction never becomes real distilled liquor, although it is called djíbà (whiskey). It is used only for ceremonial purposes, usually, but not always, in connection with an animal sacrifice. It is an important element of the paraphernalia for the annual ancestral offerings. There is a type of straw put into it through which the ritual officiant sucks up ‘liquor’. It also contains a bamboo strip (ánè). When this type of misfortune occurs, the inside ceremony, làqkhǿ ḿ sjɔ́ sjɔ́-ǝ must also be done. I am unaware of this ‘reddening’ ever having happened during the course of my fieldwork. COMMENT: Rice whiskey is praised in Akha textual language as being of a golden color. Its reddening violates the normal conceptual coloring, and indicates an invasion by the causal agent. The association of red with blood may be relevant (see below.). Those having to do with blood: 2.1.4. When a woman of the household has prolonged menstruation. There was one case during my fieldwork of a woman who received a Depo-Provera shot and then continued to menstruate lightly for more than a month, something that is apparently quite common in women receiving these shots. In her case, however, no khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony was held. Because of this, the main spirit priest told me that the family did not complete the zán. Apparently the father of the household called another spirit priest to do the làqkhǿ ḿ sjɔ́ sjɔ́-ǝ (‘making the inside pure’), but did not tell him the reason for it, possibly out of embarrassment.8 The other spirit priest, not knowing the cause of the chanting, went ahead

APPENDIX B: SPIRIT CHANTING OF THE OUTSIDE: TYPES OF CEREMONIES

and did the single inside ceremony. The main spirit priest assured me that, had the other spirit priest known the cause, he would have done the outside ceremony as well. In this case, if the woman did not ‘heal’, a rechanting would need to be done which included both ceremonies. COMMENT: Lengthy periods violate the processes of normal fertility. We have already seen the importance of normal fertility for defining the household complex. They also would affect the sexual life of the married couple. Although it is not a violation of zán for a married couple to have sexual intercourse when a woman has her period, it is considered to be bad for the man's ‘flesh’ (sjàdjí). It is interesting to note here that the processes of normal fertility were already violated by getting a birth control injection. This is now acceptable among the Akha for older women only, usually those nearing or over the age of forty, because the Akha recognize threats to the woman’s health at that age. Thus, we find together the seemingly contradictory actions of getting a birth control injection and then performing a ceremony to purify the household and restore proper fertility! Both an inside and an outside ceremony must be done to restore those boundaries. 2.1.5. When nɛ̀q throw blood on a house (sjì bjaq bjaq le-ǝ); Apparently nɛ̀q can make blood fall in three different places on the house: the rice foot-pounder (tàntsḿ), the uncovered porch of the house (pjàkhàn), and the ‘passageway’ to the house (ghoqkhɛ̀). I am not aware of this happening during my fieldwork, although the spirit priest had chanted for this in other villages. The nɛ̀q that is spoken of as doing this is Mɔ̀ ǿ jɛ́ sá. COMMENT: Akha women wear black mini-skirts with no undergarments. When they menstruate, the blood runs down their legs, being caught partially in the skirt, usually an old one worn for that purpose. It seems likely that blood might run out in any of those three places, especially the foot-pounder since it is women that pound the rice. This was never mentioned as the source of the blood in those places, however. The source was clearly nɛ̀q. Nevertheless, on some level, perhaps unconscious, there might be a connection to menstruation, as in the previous case.

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At the time of birth, any blood dropping to the ground from the mother is quickly covered with ashes from the fireplace, so it appears that women's blood is to be avoided, something we have seen in the previous section where menstrual blood was viewed as damaging to a man’s ‘flesh’. The appearance of the blood represents an invasion of outside nɛ̀q. Note that the invasion occurs at the boundaries of the household, the passageway outside, the outside porch, and the footpounder, which is either under (in a raised house) or behind (in a house on the ground) the house.9 We must also note that the spilling of blood is associated with the outside, as it is the way blood is offered to outside nɛ̀q. By contrast, the blood of sacrificial animals offered to inside nɛ̀q must be collected in a bowl. This is part of the inside/outside retention/disposal contrast. Loss of blood is, of course, a draining of life substance while retention is retention of life. The spirit priest spoke of the spirit named Mɔ̀ ǿ jɛ́ sá (lit., ‘old one, rain, sun’) as a negative spirit. It wants to do only bad things to people. It may, for example, put blood on a house or village (see below). It is also the spirit that calls people to the specialist positions of shaman,10 spirit priest and blacksmith. This ‘calling’ comes in the forms of long-term illness, seeing spirits, and/or fits. The spirit priest mentioned a shortened version of this spirit’s name, that of M̀ sá (Lit., ‘sky-sun’). He contrasted this spirit with M̀ jɛ́ (rain), short for Àpø̀mìjɛ́, also Àpø̀ m̀ jɛ́, who is a very positive spirit, in fact, the greatest of ancestors, and as I have stated previously, a kind of ultimate jɔsán for the Akha. This spirit does only good things, and is referenced in inside chanting, unlike Mɔ̀ ǿ jɛ́ sá. Thus it seems that, in this case, rain is associated with the inside (and fertility) and sun with the outside. This makes sense in that the Akha agricultural growing cycle is in the long monsoonal rainy season, while the dry season represents lack of growth. The invasion of the ‘inside’ (i.e. the house) by the ‘outside’ requires a re-establishment of household boundaries through both inside and outside chantings. Those concerning improper fertility – multiple births: First we must note that previous types, such as that of lengthy periods, could also fit into this category.

APPENDIX B: SPIRIT CHANTING OF THE OUTSIDE: TYPES OF CEREMONIES

2.1.6. Monstrous births – the birth of twins or deformed babies; This is the worst tragedy that can befall a couple. The baby(ies) must be killed immediately and the parents enter a state of extreme impurity and contagion from outside spirits. The purification rituals for such a birth are elaborate, the khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony being only one of them. Purification starts in the ‘wild’ (jásà, uncultivated lands or forest) where the parents have been exiled, and slowly moves towards the village and then to the household. It is just outside the household that the zɔ̀q khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony (as in all cases) is done. A further ceremony inside completes the rites of purification. This tragedy is seen as being caused by the nɛ̀q known as sjaq, that connected to ‘terrible deaths’. It is thus a spirit of the outside, the ultimate and most feared outside spirit. This spirit has violated all boundaries, both at the household and village levels, and they must be re-established. Thus a khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony at the village level must be held as well (See below.) When the year in which the monstrous birth occurred changes at gátán pá-ə (new year's celebration) to a new year, the parents move out of an impure state, although they are social outcasts to a lesser degree for the rest of their lives. Some time after this, another khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony is held. It further reinforces the household boundaries against outside forces. COMMENT: Single healthy human births fit into a classificatory scheme concerning what is normal, proper fertility. This scheme includes animals, humans and rice. The higher beings (rice, humans, buffaloes, cows, horses) may bear only one offspring at a time. In the case of rice, what is meant is that there must be only single ears. Lower animals (pigs, dogs, etc.) may have only multiple offspring. This is, of course, what normally happens. The Akha have turned normal births into a social necessity for ‘inside’ beings. When births are abnormal by not following the rules of number or through deformities, they are unacceptable and impure. In the case of animals, both the mother and the offspring must be destroyed. In the case of humans, only the offspring are destroyed, but the parents are socially destroyed for the rest of their lives. Improper fertility – multiple deaths: 2.1.7. When more than one person in the same household dies within the same ‘week’ (nandjɔ́); This is called zɔ̀q dzm ga lá-ə (‘the happening of a household pair’). It is also called mɔ́ dzm

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tjm̀-ə.

This may also happen (and does more commonly happen) at the village level, i.e., more than one person in the village dying within the same ‘week’ (see below). Within the same household, this type of incident requires a zɔ̀q khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony. Both types occurred during my fieldwork. COMMENT: Death represents an opening to the spirit world – theoretically just the world of inside spirits, i.e. ancestors, but in actuality there is a great fear of all kinds of spirits just after a death. A ‘double’ death perhaps represents that that opening was too wide, was held open too long, or at least that the forces on the ‘death’ side (mí oq pɔ) are stronger than normal. When a ‘double death’ occurs at the household level, it means that this extra death force has gone beyond both the village boundaries and the household boundaries. Another point to be made is that these deaths are considered ‘pairs’. We have already seen that ‘couples’ are tied to fertility and the life force. A death by ‘couples’ defies their life-force nature. Boundaries that re-establish the normal ordering of human life must be restored through the khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremonies. Those concerning rats (hotjàq): We must first note that rats within a village are a plague because they eat the stored rice (thus a draining force). 2.1.8. When rats go into or ‘eat’ part of the ancestral section or any of its paraphernalia such as the àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q pùtú (ancestral storage basket) or tjɛ́ pjú bàn (husked rice storage basket). COMMENT: Anything connected with the household ancestral section is sacred and not to be touched. These items are only to be touched at an offering to the ancestors and then only by males of the household (or a female ja jɛ́ àma). A disturbance of these items by rats violates crucial household boundaries. This occurred during my fieldwork. 2.1.9. When rats ‘eat’ (gnaw at) clothing; This also occurred during my fieldwork. COMMENT: Clothing represents productive (as opposed to destructive) forces traditionally as the growing, spinning, weaving, and dying of cotton and the sewing of cotton cloth by women into people’s clothes. Rats eating clothing represents a draining force.

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257

Those concerned with violations of the structure of the house: I must here note that some cases previously listed could also fall into this category. 2.1.10. When lightning strikes a house. COMMENT: Lightning is greatly feared by the Akha. One must not even mention it. If it strikes, the house structure is physically violated by outside forces, and boundaries must be restored.

Summary These cases all require a khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony (and thus also an inside ceremony) at the household level and point to important aspects of the household complex. The household is the location of proper fertility and continuity of the lines of rice, people (including ancestors) and domesticated animals, all of which depends upon gỳlàn coming from the ancestors. It is also the location of the processing of rice into its useful products and the disposing of its waste products (both useless and rotten) outside. Here are some conceptual divisions associated with the inside/outside distinctions at the household level, distinctions that will reappear in our discussion of the village level: Inside/Outside people/ nɛ̀q inside spirits/outside spirits life/death useful (retained) products/ waste (disposed) products proper fertility/improper fertility normal (‘natural’) processes/abnormal processes continuity of the patrilineal line/discontinuity purity/impurity good/bad potent power/draining power inside house-village/outside house-village rain/sun rain/lightning health/illness pure-clean/impure-unclean non-menstruating women/menstruating women men/women

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inside noises (move from inside out)/outside noises (move from outside in) These divisions are conceptually located at the boundaries of the realms of both household [at the ghoqkhɛ̀ (passageway)] and village [at the lɔ́kàn (village gates, passageway to the village)]. There are certain divisions that are more strongly associated with village boundaries, as we will see. These are especially those between the domestic and wild, life and death, and Àkàzán (Akha ‘customs’) and the zán of others (ethnicity). 2.2

Village khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə

The occasions which require a khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony at the level of the village have remarkable structural similarities, even at times equivalences, with those for the household level. Thus, at the village level, khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə is also performed for the occasions of serious (village) illness, the desire for prosperity and protection, the appearance of blood, ‘double death’, and lightning striking. These occasions require a pu khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony. In addition, certain complexes of zán for serious occurrences such as the birth of twins or deformed babies, include a khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony at both the household and village levels. We will further find that some village occasions for a khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony, while not exact structural equivalents of those for the household level, still have structural similarities with them. Paralleling the zɔ̀q khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremonies to increase a household’s gỳlà and to protect it from outside forces are pu khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremonies for the good fortune and prosperity of the village, as well as for protection against possible outside evil forces. I was told that it was good to do a pu khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony once a year for the prosperity of the whole village, but that it was not necessary to do so.11 In addition, it could be done in order to keep some misfortune from falling upon the village. An example given was that of someone moving out of a village in anger, and possibly conducting black magic against it.12 The pu khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony would protect the village against that magic. Paralleling the khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony done for serious illness of a household member, is a pu khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony done for an epidemic in the village.13 Such a ceremony is called pu lan dɛ lan tyq-ə, ‘securing the village, the flat land (i.e. the village)’.14 Most often, however, the ceremony for village epidemics is that of ká dà tjì í-ə in which a large tray of n

APPENDIX B: SPIRIT CHANTING OF THE OUTSIDE: TYPES OF CEREMONIES

259

offerings is brought outside the village boundaries. During my fieldwork, this was held for a measles epidemic. Certain types of ritual impurity also require a pu khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony. At the village level, there are no situations of impurity directly relating to rice as there are at the household level. This absence underlines the importance of the household as the production unit of rice and the important connections between rice and the household ancestral shrine. However, this does not mean that the village level is completely unconnected to the domain of rice. The khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony done for the prosperity of the village as a whole certainly includes prosperity relating to rice, since it is done to improve the village’s rice harvest for the year. Other pieces of zán not relating to khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə reiterate this reference to village prosperity in terms of the yearly harvest as well as in terms of the yearly catch from hunting. Thus, whenever chicken thigh bones are ‘read’ as at the rice planting ceremonies (tjɛ́ ka ka-ə), they are read to foretell the size of the village’s harvest and hunting. The yearly cycle of zán, especially the ancestral offerings and the rice cycle rituals, are timed by the proclamations of the village leader, the dzø̀ma who leads them, and each household is kept in synch with the others in terms of both agricultural and ritual activities. We must remember that the dzø̀ma is the first both to plant and harvest rice. Thus, the village forms a significant unit relating to rice, although its connection is not as direct as that of the household. We will see below that the distinction between the domesticated (including rice products) and the wild takes on particular significance at the village level. The occasions of which I am aware of ritual impurity that require a pu are:

khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony

Those relating to blood: 2.2.1. When blood falls on the village. COMMENT: The comments in the household section apply here, especially that concerning the spilling of blood in outside ceremonies. Those relating to improper fertility–births: 2.2.2. The birth of twins or deformed babies; In addition to the ceremony, the pu khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony must be performed as part of the elaborate ritual procedures for such a great tragedy. This type of birth is viewed as contaminating the whole

zɔ̀q khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə

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village, not just a single household. Akha from other villages must not visit the affected village until after the purification ceremonies are completed or they risk contamination. A ritual meal is held as a kind of payment for the first visitor. This ceremony is seen as ‘opening the village’. COMMENT: This shows that the village is also, to some extent, associated with ‘inside-ness’ in its reference to proper fertility. Fertility is seen as a property of the village as a whole, as well as of individual households. A series of successive boundaries moves in towards the ancestral shrine at the household level. This series is most clearly shown in the purification rites for the birth of a human ‘reject’ (see above). Akha definitions of normal birth (in terms of number and form) apply to ‘inside’ entities: rice, people, livestock. These are domesticated entities. The Akha cannot control, nor be aware of, what happens to ‘wild’ entities such as animals of the forest, and these do not have to be kept pure nor could they be. The criteria of proper fertility are not applied to them. Since village boundaries divide the domesticated from the wild (those that follow the rules of normal fertility from those that do not), improper fertility within the village is seen as a violation of village boundaries. This can also be seen as a division between moral forces and amoral forces. Those that follow the rules are the moral forces. Those that try to violate the rules (as in the cases of outside spirits invading a village or household) are the amoral forces. In Akha society, ‘outside’ spirits are the best exemplars of amoral forces. In fact, in events that violate the moral rules, nɛ̀q are often referred to as the ultimate cause of the violation.15 2.2.3. The birth of an illegitimate child; I was told that if the zán for such a tragedy was not done, babies would cry, people in the village would only be able to hear and not see, livestock in the village would die, and generally, the village would become impossible to live in. COMMENT: Such an event obviously violates the descent rules of Akha society that state that each child is a child of its father and belongs to its father's household. In Akha terms, the child does not have a social identity (in fact, the circumstances of its birth resemble those of the birth of wild animals16) and must be killed. No zɔ̀q khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony is done, probably because the Akha do not see the illegitimate child as belonging to any parti-

APPENDIX B: SPIRIT CHANTING OF THE OUTSIDE: TYPES OF CEREMONIES

cular household. Here the village is again defined as the locus of proper fertility. If that proper fertility is not present, or restored soon after it is violated, the village cannot exist. Life becomes unbearable and impossible in it. The reference to not being able to see, but only being able to hear is the normal condition of villagers at night,17 the time realm of nɛ̀q. Thus, people become like nɛ̀q if they do not follow moral rules, the inside becomes like the outside. Improper fertility-deaths: 2.2.4. The death of more than one person within the same village within the same ‘week’ (nandjɔ́); This parallels the occasion of ‘double death’ within the same household within the same week. Indeed, it is called pu dzm ga lé-ə, ‘the happening of a village pair’. COMMENT: The comments in the household section apply here also. As with the household, the village boundaries represent the line between the living and the dead, a point we will see again below. Those having to do with violations relating to death: The last case (‘double deaths’) can also be included in this category. 2.2.5. When something is brought back into the village from a cemetery;18 This means grave goods. They would be brought back either by an animal or nɛ̀q. These are goods that come either from the regular village cemetery or the cemetery where zánkhò 19 zà are buried. COMMENT: The significance here is clearly the separation of the living and the dead, a separation that the village gates are supposed to maintain. Thus, as well as being a boundary between inside entities and outside entities (such as nɛ̀q and wild animals and plants), the village gates are also a boundary between ‘inside’ people who are still alive and ‘inside’ people who are dead (i.e. ancestors). The ancestors have this dual character. They are ‘inside’ in relation to ‘outside’ spirits, but are ‘outside’ in relation to the living. Spatially, they are located both within the household at the ancestral shrine, but also outside the village at the cemetery. In some sense, then, all nɛ̀q, both inside and outside, have ‘outside’ aspects in relation to the living. This could be another reason why ancestors are often casually referred to as nɛ̀q.

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The cemetery is also one of the village structures. All village structures are sacred and not to be touched except on the appropriate ritual occasions and in the appropriate ritual manner. Disruption of a village structure (such as the removal of goods from the cemetery) requires a restoration of village boundaries. 2.2.6. When an ‘outsider’ (àtjɔ̀, Lit. ‘other’20) dies in the village. COMMENT: As we have seen, village boundaries are the line between the dead and the living. Only those ‘of the village’ can appropriately go from the world of the living to the world of the dead through the village aperture. Village boundaries also represent the line between ‘us’ (those of the village, often representing all Akha) and ‘them’, non-Akha. Appropriate death for an Akha (‘us’) occurs within one’s own village while a death outside the village is inauspicious, even dangerous. The death of someone who is not an ‘insider’ by being a village member, means that an outsider has died inside, violating the proper relational delineation of inside and outside, and creating an imbalance between inside and outside forces. Those having to do with wild animals: The close association between outside nɛ̀q and things of the wild make this category overlap with others that strictly concern nɛ̀q. 2.2.7. Wild animals (jásà djèzà, ‘animals from uncultivated lands, the wild’) coming inside the village; COMMENT: This violates the division between domesticated and wild, which preserves the inside (i.e. the village) as the domain of the domesticated. Wild animals are seen as being raised by nɛ̀q, thus the division between people and nɛ̀q is also violated. The ‘inside’ parallel to this is the raising of livestock (buffaloes, pigs, chickens) by people within the village boundaries. 2.2.8. Hearing the sound of a civet cat (bjàhí) at night in the village; Lewis defines bjàhí as ‘a dog-like civet cat, brown with black head and tail, eats some flesh, also sugar cane’ (1968: 44). I was told that it was like a dog. Hearing the sound anywhere is considered a bad omen (dɔ́), and must be addressed with the proper ritual. This type of dɔ́ is raised to the level of khɛ̀ only when it is heard in the village at night. Then it affects the khɛ̀ (‘aperture’) of the village. When the Akha hear it, they shoot off guns, and every house

APPENDIX B: SPIRIT CHANTING OF THE OUTSIDE: TYPES OF CEREMONIES

must put some leftover rice on a cutting board and beat it with a knife to make noise. This is supposed to frighten away the nɛ̀q that are behind the sound, since the sound means that nɛ̀ are ‘hunting’ (sjà ghàq-ə, sjà tɛ- ə) for people’s souls (sàqlá). Everyone in the village must be woken up so that nɛ̀q will not take their souls. q

COMMENT: This type of event reflects two important Akha categorical divisions that often overlap, that between the wild and the domesticated, and that between nɛ̀q and people. In it, nɛ̀q are curiously equated with a type of wild animal. Just as the civet cat hunts for its prey, so do nɛ̀q hunt for people's souls. In general, nɛ̀q are spoken of as hunters whose prey is sàqlá, the souls of living human beings. This feared noise at the level of the village parallels a feared noise at the level of the household that we have previously discussed- that of noise emanating from the rice steamer. Both indicate the intention of nɛ̀q to afflict and must be treated with a khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony at the relevant level. One comes from one of the most inside of places-the rice steamer on the women's side of the house – and the other comes from the most outside of places-the forest outside the village where the civet cat dwells. The response to the noise of the civet cat is noise itself (but reversing the direction), along with alertness and vigilance on the part of people. This noise will scare off the intruding nɛ̀q. The sound of pounding on a cutting board is loud, and since not every household may have a gun, they can make noise this way. The Akha also shoot off guns at the yearly ká jɛq jɛq-ə ceremony in which nɛ̀q are chased out of the village. At that time, boys run through every house screaming and chasing nɛ̀q with their ritual weapons. In fact, this ceremony is spoken of as a ‘hunting’ of nɛ̀q (nɛ̀q tɛ-ə), thus a reversal of the feared circumstances here, and an affirmation of the ability of Akha people (inside forces) to win over the outside forces. I am uncertain of the connection with leftover rice (hɔ̀ gaq; lit. ‘cold rice’), although it is a rice waste product and in that sense associated with the outside. Pounded, it is even more of a waste product, and contrasts with the useful pounded rice products of tjɛ́ lǿ (rice flour) and hɔ̀ njɔ̀ (sticky rice) used in inside ceremonies. Leftover rice is also used in the small ritual done for excessive crying of an infant (ítjùq hɔ̀ gaq jǿ ka-ə), and we can thus note its association with relieving loud noises. It is also part of the offering at the tree from which a coffin will be cut, perhaps also because of the association with loud noises, as the felling of such a large tree, as I have witnessed, is quite loud.

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Those concerned with violations of village structures: As noted before, a disruption at either of the village cemeteries may be viewed as within this category. In some sense, since all of the cases listed affect the village khɛ̀ (‘opening’), even if just on a conceptual level, they are violations of the village structures, just as a fallen village gate would be. The conceptual structures are just as real to the Akha as the physical structures. In fact, the physical structures are merely vehicles for the conceptual structures and because of that do not completely restrain them.21 These cases also parallel those of the violations of household structures and paraphernalia such as the ancestral section, rice steamer or rice foot-pounder. 2.2.9. Disturbing the main village structures: the gates (lɔ́kàn), the swing (làqtjə̀), and the cemetery. These structures are sacred and cannot normally be touched. Both the swing and gates are said to belong to the dzø̀ma, the cemetery belonging to the spiritual dzø̀ma, who is the first person to have been buried in it. COMMENT: Ritual avoidance of these structures is what creates village boundaries (and also reinforces the hierarchy of the dzø̀ma who can touch them). A violation of ritual avoidance, such as nɛ̀q knocking over part of the village gates, must be treated with a pu 22 khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony to restore village boundaries. Note that wild animals may be the cause of such disruptions, although the Akha would say that nɛ̀q made them do it. Disruptions of these structures by wild animals parallel the disruptions of household structures by rats. 2.2.10. Lightning hitting the village. COMMENT: This parallels the case of lightning hitting a house (see above).

Summary Many of the conceptual divisions contrasting the inside and outside that occurred for the household khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremonies reappear in the village khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremonies. Thus, we see once again the following: Inside/Outside people/nɛ̀q

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inside spirits/outside spirits life/death23 useful (retained) products/ waste (disposed) products proper fertility/improper fertility normal (‘natural’) processes/abnormal processes continuity of the patrilineal line/discontinuity purity/impurity good/bad potent power/draining power rain/lightning health/illness pure-clean/impure-unclean men/women inside noises (move from inside out)/outside noises (move from outside in)24 We also see especially highlighted at the village level the following: domesticated/wild people as hunters/nɛ̀q as hunters nɛ̀q as prey/people as prey Akha/non-Akha own village/other villages village hierarchy (dzø̀ma)/attacks on village hierarchy death of insiders/death of outsiders

3.

mɔ́ dzɛq dzɛq-ə, ‘splitting the body’

This is a ceremony done for serious illness in adults. Reflecting this level of seriousness, it, like the khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə, must be accompanied by an inside ceremony. It is not used for elders (tsɔ́mɔ̀) or children (zà). It is, however, viewed as intimately related to (even a version of) the khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony, as the spirit priest told me that it is the same as the khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony except for his hitting of the victim with the mɛ́ plant (see below). We have already separated khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremonies from others along the dimension of seriousness of illness. Now we see another dimension by which it is ordered- that of age grading. Once we get to this level of ceremony, there is a simultaneous breakdown of types of ceremonies according to gender as well. Thus, while the term mɔ́ dzɛq dzɛq-ə is used to refer to a level of ceremony that contrasts with khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə, it is technically only applicable to the ceremony done at this level for males. The

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parallel ceremony done for female adults is called dm̀ tjì-ə, ‘lifting the deadfall trap’. The verb dzɛq-ə (‘to split’) used in the name of the male ceremony is the same verb used when talking about splitting bamboo into lengths as floor or wallboards. In the ceremony, the spirit priest hits the afflicted person with the vine mɛ́ which is tied in a loose knot. The purpose is to release the nɛ̀q that is holding the soul of the sick person. The splitting term may represent this hitting action. Both actions are used to turn the ‘wild’ (the bamboo gathered or the person held by nɛ̀q) into the ‘domesticated’ (floors and walls, a healthy person not held by nɛ̀q), the ‘outside’ into the ‘inside’. Like khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə, the mɔ́ dzɛq dzɛq-ə chanting takes place at the household ‘passageway’ (ghoqkhɛ̀). I was also told that the chanting language is the same for the two ceremonies. The main difference is this hitting ritual. I was told that this could not be done for elders because elders live with nɛ̀q at night (i.e. one should not try to separate them from nɛ̀q). Here again is the issue of the meaning of the term nɛ̀q. One would think that the nɛ̀q that the elders spend time with at night are the ancestors, those with whom they will soon live permanently, yet the nɛ̀q that cause illness in an outside ceremony are ‘outside nɛ̀q’. The two seem to be conflated in this explanatory statement. I was told that the female version of this ceremony, called dm̀ tjì-ə, ‘lifting the dead-fall trap’, is the same as the male version except for the fact that the spirit priest does not hit the woman with the mɛ́ vine. This is not completely accurate as a significant difference between the two ceremonies lies in the fact that the female version takes place at the edge of the village, ‘like a làqnjí tó dzɛ-ə ceremony’ (see below) as I was told, while the male version is held at the household ‘passageway’. Instead of hitting the victim’s body with the mɛ́ vine, the spirit priest picks up the mɛ́ vine three times from the ground in order to take the woman’s soul out of the trap in which nɛ̀q have caught it. Presumably the title of the ceremony means that the deadfall weight that has fallen on the victim’s soul is ‘lifted’ off. The female version may be held at the edge of the village precisely because the imagery associated with it is that of hunting. Deadfall traps are, after all, found in the forest, outside the village. The imagery of one’s soul being caught in a trap is common in the context of illness. In this case, the trap is viewed as a dead-fall trap (za dm̀), while in other types of affliction such as that of ‘soul wandering’ ameliorated by the lá dù bə̀-ə ceremony, the trap is the za dzḿ type of trap which Lewis accurately defines as a trap in which ‘sticks [are] laid over a shallow hole in the making of a spring-pole snare’ (1968: 349). In this curing ceremony for soul loss, the spirit priest, as representative

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267

of the powers of the inside, sets up this spring-pole snare trap to recapture the soul(s) of the sick person from the outside world. Here we note again the imagery of nɛ̀q hunting humans, and the need for humans to be clever in order to escape their traps.

4.

làqnjí tó dzɛ-ə, ‘outside chanting to get rid of ’

This is a ceremony commonly referred to and performed at the edge of the village. It may be done without an accompanying inside ceremony, as in the case of neckache described above. I have also seen it performed in conjunction with an inside ceremony. One case that comes to mind was a chanting done for a child which included an inside zà ḿ zà sán ḿ-ə as well as an outside làqnjí tó dzɛ-ə chanting because the child was nɛ̀q gù lá-ə (‘afflicted by outside nɛ̀q’) as well as afflicted by inside nɛ̀q. In this case, the outside affliction was that the child’s soul was being held in a pond (lan). In fact, numerous images of impoundment, imprisonment, and entrapment are found in the questions asked in divination. We have already seen this in the trap imagery mentioned above. A particular spirit’s name is attached to various types of impoundment to form questions which lead to answers that will tell: 1) the type of spirit that is afflicting; and 2) the manner of affliction. Affliction by Dɛ̀q mán sjí,25 which was said to represent all dead people, is particularly common in làqnjí tó dzɛ-ə ceremonies. It, as well as other spirits, may afflict through penning the soul in a cage, holding the soul under a log (as in a deadfall trap), tying the soul up (‘as soldiers do to us’, as the Akha told me), covering the soul with a lid (similar to the soul being captured in a covered pot), and hunting the soul. I was also told that m̀ tjàq sjɔ-ə was a type of làqnjí tó dzɛ-ə ceremony, which could also be done without an accompanying inside ceremony. The m̀ tjàq tó dzɛ-ə ceremony mentioned above was said to be ‘like a làqnjí tó dzɛ-ə ceremony’, but with a different text. Both are done at the edge of the village. It thus seems that the làqnjí tó dzɛ-ə ceremonies would fit into the category of ‘minor chanting’ as opposed to major chanting. One other type of ceremony that I believe would fit under this category is sjaq tó dzɛ-ə, ‘chanting to get rid of the spirit of a terrible death’. Sjaq is the most feared spirit of the Akha. ‘Terrible deaths’ include violent deaths and deaths outside the village. The time I saw this ceremony performed it was in the particular form known as bà tjɔq lu26 ‘ruined engagement’. In this case, a man's fiancée had died before reaching Bear Mountain Village. The ceremony was to prevent her from afflicting him.

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zí ghɔ̀ tó-ə, ‘chanting to separate the lifespans’

This is a different type of outside chanting, but possibly related to the one above. It concerns the death of a spouse and the possible affliction that the dead spouse might cause to the living, especially to a new spouse. There is no inside chanting for the zí ghɔ̀ tó-ə ceremony. The normal opening meal (sjì né tìq-ə) is held for the spirit priest. The point of the ritual is to separate the lifespans of the dead and living spouses. I was told that, at marriage, a husband’s and wife’s souls (sàqlá27) are joined (tàq-ə) because the woman ‘becomes the husband’s people’. Note that her joining to the husband and his family at marriage is symbolized by a ritual of eating together inside the house. In addition, parents’ souls are joined to those of their children. In any case, the Akha fear that the dead spouse might afflict a newly married spouse because the dead spouse has not fully separated from the former spouse. This ceremony is performed at the man’s village, whether he or the wife is the new spouse, because the wife will be incorporated into his household. If the woman is marrying a man in the same village, the ceremony is performed at the ghoqkhɛ̀ (‘passageway’) of his house. If she is marrying man in a different village, it is performed at the village gate. Here we can see again the inside/outside distinction represented at two levels. If one is not fully of the outside by being from another village, one is at least of the outside in relation to another household in the same village. Thus, the inside-outside distinction (and the choice of either village or household as the relevant ‘inside’ unit) is a relational one, that is, one that depends upon the particular relationships of the participants. Note also that the point of contact with the dead may be either the household passageway or the village passageway, depending on the residence of the new husband in relation to that of the former husband, so that either household boundaries or village boundaries may represent the line between the living and the dead. Alternatively, the ceremony may be performed when a woman leaves the dead husband’s household and returns to the village of her ‘brothers’ (àmán àda). In this case, it would be performed at the village gate. When she remarries, it does not have to be performed again. A related ceremony, performed in a similar manner, is called zɛ ghɔ̀ tó-ə, ‘separation chanting for strength’. This is done if the new spouse becomes ill and it is suspected that the former, dead spouse did not fully separate off.

APPENDIX B: SPIRIT CHANTING OF THE OUTSIDE: TYPES OF CEREMONIES

6.

269

Sjaq há daq-ə ‘chanting for a bad death’

This type of outside chanting is done for those who die a violent death. One example was a man who was taken out of his household by Wa soldiers in Burma, tied up in the forest and shot. The spirit priest told me it was done so that the dead person does not come looking for anything. Lewis (1989: 413) says it is performed to keep terrible deaths from happening in the future.

Akha Glossary

Note: All words are Akha unless otherwise noted. ´ A ádjǝ̀ Áká ánan jɔ mỳ Ávàq

family line, also referred to as pà Kachin auspicious day for a ceremony Wa people

A` male elder father grandfather (paternal) mother’s brothers (MB); three generations back are djmghø, maghø, and pìghø older-younger siblings àjỳq-ànjí Àkà phonetic transcription of Akha àma mother àmamɔ̀ grandmother (paternal) àmánàda wife’s brothers, wife-giving group àpì paternal great-grandmother, female ancestor, female elder àpø̀ paternal great-grandfather, male ancestor àpø̀ lɔ́-ǝ offering to the ancestors Àpø̀mìjɛ́/Àpø̀ùjɛ́/Àpø̀m̀jɛ́ androgynous creator, laid down zán àpø̀pì ancestors, also term for all generations past third lineal generation àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q ancestral shrine/altar/bamboo section, literally ‘ancestral banana leaf’ Àpø̀ sḿ bɛ íkán the ancestor of three beginnings’ house àtjɔ̀ others àtsu term for older brother’s wife and son’s wife àbɔ́ àda àdamɔ̀ àghø

B baan (Thai) bɔ́tsàn bɔ-ə

village forest to have

272 bɔqlɔq pɔ bɛ-ə bí bíjɛ́ bǿmɔ̀ bø̀søq ábɔ́ bùsɛ́

SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

male side of house to begin something, to create something formal name for people spirit owner of people spirit priest a type of tree, important in Akha customs and ceremonies headman

BJ bjɛqtoq bjø

physically central house post hole

D daq-ə dàjan dànò dɔ̀ dɔ̀dà dɛ dɛkhàn dɛjá dɛma dɛma dɛlɔ̀

to climb up guest soldier(s), police (after Thai tamruat) language, speech ancestral verse, oral tradition syllable meaning flat or flat land (level) village courting yard belonging to dzø̀ma, literally ‘level land’ swidden fields terraced fields steps or levels of fields, terraces

DJ Djabɛalàn creator of the world Djadɛlán or Jadae Akha origin home, said to be in China; a walled city djalɛ rice balls, vital for Akha ceremonies djatjì raised beds built for elders as a sign of respect djè formal name for livestock, one of three categories of jɔsán djèjɛ́ spirit owner of livestock Djə̀djɔ́ or Àdjɔ́ term used for majority group in Thailand Djə̀ghø̀ brother of Djə̀djɔ́ rice whiskey djíbà djísàq distilled liquor djm term that refers to set of last lineal ancestors to have died, djmbàn djmgý djmzǝ́

connected to household ancestral shrine cylindrical bamboo section type of ancestral shrine flat bamboo shelf type of ancestral shrine main house post

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AKHA GLOSSARY

DZ dzánmí àma dzédàn dzéhù dzø̀-ə dzø̀dzà dzø̀̀jan lɔ́-ǝ dzø̀ma dzø̀zà

house site spirit (female) lower section, lower section of a village upper section, upper section of a village to rule or be responsible for, look over the right to rule two annual ceremonies, integrated into the annual ancestral offerings that honor the line of dzø̀ma village ruler minor dzø̀ma in a village but carrying the ‘right to rule’

G gádzé gáma gátán pá-ǝ gù gýga gy gydjm gykán gypɔ gỳlàn

edge regions of a village path, road, way new year ceremonies lineage uncovered porch in inside spirit chanting, the ‘below’ level of ancestors first ancestral joint associated with inside spirit chanting lower path, dangerous path a soul can take after death downslope side life-force, potency, good fortune

GH ghánkán middle path ghánkán djmàkán middle, safe

path to the ancestors a soul can take after death ghántjɛ middle ghoqkhɛ̀ front yard of the house, literally ‘passageway’ ghø̀ the number nine (9) ghø̀ dzø̀ dàjan the nine guest dzø̀ma (spiritual) H hɔ́bipɔ hɔ́mɛ́pɔ hɔ́taq kàn hɔ̀ hɔ̀ njɔ̀ hɔ̀ sjɔ́

the lower side of the house where one’s feet face when asleep the upper side where one’s head faces when asleep, raised above hɔ́bipɔ the land (country) above, land of the ancestors cooked rice cooked sticky rice Lit. ‘pure rice’, sticky rice that has been removed from the rice steamer before the second addition of water (thus before the completion of cooking) and thus also before the pounding into patties

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hɔ̀ tjɛ̀q hỳ dzɛ̀-ǝ

cooked, nonsticky rice higher both spatially and in terms of importance, i.e. greatest

I´ í-ǝ íbi íkán ímɛ́

to go down, descend downstream household, usually refers to physical structure of the house upstream

J já fields já bjàq-ǝ field marking já dàn lower side of fields já hm̀ upper side of fields jásà uncultivated land outside of the village játjḿ field hut ja jɛ́ àma fertility mother jatjiq mɔ́pùq tu-ǝ respect ceremony with a boiled chicken jɔ hỳ big, large, important jɔ nàn soft jɔsán owner/provider/protector/caretaker jɔ sá content, comfortable, in good health, level jɔ sjà difficult circumstances, poor, steep jɔ sjɔ́ clean, pure jɔ̀há jɔ̀ha each his/her own jɛ́dán pi-ǝ bridewealth ceremony

K ká kájɛ́ ká jɛq jɛq -ǝ

kuq

formal name for crops, rice spirit-owner of crops, usually rice yearly ‘spirit chasing’ ceremony, in which young boys run through the houses, terrorizing the spirits and chasing them out of the village posts made out of plants erected in outside chanting

KH khàdzézà khàpỳ khàlɛ́ khaq dzà-ǝ khaqma khɛ̀

husband rice husks and ashes, used in ceremonies to take forcefully ‘strong man’ opening

275

AKHA GLOSSARY

khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə khɛ̀ sjǝ

khm̀mà khm̀mà tjì-ǝ khm̀pì játjḿ khm̀pì lɔ́-ǝ khòq zà khǿ khɛ̀ tó-ǝ khǿnɛ̀q khǿ nɛ̀q daq-ǝ

khǿ nɛ̀q gáma khǿ sjà

type of outside ceremony done either at the level of the village (pu) or household (zɔ̀q) a household ceremony in which the meat is taken outside the house, and certain categories of people are not allowed to eat it bowls, plates offering of different types of meat in bowls to indicate different kin relationships spirit field hut offering to field spirit, annual ceremony minor year in the Akha calendar chanting the inside opening inside spirits oral texts chanted in inside ceremonies which proceed through nine ‘joints’ of inside chanting, ‘climbing (going up) the inside spirits’ the inside ‘path’ of spirits in spirit chanting inside meat

L ládù bǝ̀-ǝ lághoq lá kú kú -ə lan-ə lan dan tàq-ǝ, lan dɔ tàq-ǝ làqbỳ làqkhǿ làqnjí làq oq làqpɛ́ lɔ́-ǝ lɔ́kàn lɔ́khɔ̀q lɔkà lɔ̀ le-ǝ le dzǝ́-ǝ

soul-calling a door, doorway soul calling abstinence also co-celebration of ritual and ritual abstinence within a sublineage (pà ) within the same village Chinese inside or interior outside or exterior lower, below tea in rituals to make offerings to, to entertain or honor village gates marking the village periphery, also any main paths out of the village sacred village water source shoulder-high partition that separates the ‘male’ side of the house from the ‘female’ side enclosed area, room to go up, ascend to go past

` (vowel) M m̀

sky

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a part of outside chanting, ‘assessing violations of sky and earth’

m̀ bàn mí bàn tsé-ǝ

M (consonant) refrain in outside spirit chanting powerful spirit that can cause illness, lit. ‘old one, rain, sun’ mɛ̀khɛ̀ mouth opening mɛ́ tjɛ́ plant important for outside chanting ceremonies mǝ̀ town or kingdom, Akha for Thai muang to rule over valley/town/muang mǝ̀ dzà-ǝ country, region, territory (the Akha have no míkhàn) míkhàn q mí o pɔ the world below mísán lɔ́-ǝ offering to the lords of the earth and water mítsà earth mí taq pɔ the world above mìdzé mìma wife-takers muang (Thai) town/kingdom; political centers/valleys mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀-ə Mɔ̀ ǿ jɛ́ sá

N nà nà nan mỳ nɛ̀q nɛ̀q tɛ-ǝ nɛ̀q tó tó-ǝ nm̀ sjí-ǝ

NJ

sphere of outside chanting, ‘to break off relations because of a fight or argument’ auspicious day evil spirits chasing spirits at the ká jɛq jɛq-ǝ ceremony spirit chanting a good death, an inside death

nja in inside spirit chanting, the ‘above’ level of ancestors njakán upper path, dangerous path for a soul to take after death njapɔ upslope side njí khɛ̀ tó-ǝ chanting the outside opening njí nɛ̀q outside spirits njí nɛ̀q gáma the ‘path’ of the outside spirits, in spirit chanting njípà shaman, usually female njípà sjí-ǝ shaman trance, travels to spirit world njí sjà outside meat njḿ house, home njḿ ɔ houses close to the ground njḿ dàn dàn í-ǝ segmenting of households njḿma pɔ female side of house njḿ dzé house at the edge of the village njḿ gó taller, raised houses

277

AKHA GLOSSARY

njḿsán àda njḿsán àma njḿ zà

male household head, house owner/father female household head, female house owner/mother sleeping houses, lit. ‘minor’ house

Oq oq doq ghɔ́-ǝ

rice harvest ceremony

P pà pan-ə pàq tju pɔ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q pɛ̀zà písjà pu pu djɔ̀ sjə̀-ə pu dzé pù bɛq

exogamous sublineage to open banana leaf packets (used in outside chanting) side banana leaves ‘family’ ritual payment to spirit priest village leading around (circumambulating) the village ceremony the ‘side’, edge of a village money bag in inside chanting

PJ pjàkhàn pjə̀q í-ə

covered porch to change into, become

S sàlà sànpà sàqlá sísaq Sipsongpanna sḿ Sḿ bɛ sḿmɛ́ Sḿ mí ó

cotton prince or supralocal ruler soul substance plant important in outside chanting ceremonies (Tai) see Xishuangbanna the number three point of origin of lines of continuity of life: literally ‘three beginnings’ ‘joint’ in inside spirit chanting that refers to wife-givers the first human (non spirit-human) in Akha genealogies

SJ sjà tɛ-ǝ sjaq sjaq sjí-eu sjǝ-ə sjǝ̀-ə sjì né tìq-ǝ

chasing/hunting of wild animals spirit of a terrible death monstrous death, violent death, bad death to carry something to lead someone an opening sacrifice and meal for inside chanting

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T tàq-ǝ tɔqma tɛ-ə tó dzɛ-ǝ tu-ǝ

connected to, attached to carved wooden clubs to chase or drive animals chanting to get rid of ceremony of paying respect to, offering food out of respect

TJ tjàq í-ǝ tjɛ́ tjɛ́ gỳ tjɛ́ kḿ tjɛ́ lɔ̀ tjɛ́ lǿ tjɛ́ pjú tjɛ́ tju tju-ǝ

type of offering in which outside spirits are paid off or bribed uncooked rice broken rice, important in outside chanting unhusked rice uncooked husked rice mixed with ginger and salt uncooked, powdered rice, processed by pounding, important in inside chanting husked rice, also important for outside chanting rice packet to take care of, raise

TS tsɔ́hà tsɔ́mɔ̀ Tsɔ́ǿ tsɛq-ǝ tsø̀-ə tsỳq

people elders the former people to break off to block, block up a section/joint of bamboo; genealogical generations; sections of ancestral/oral verse

` U Ùbjàq Ùló Ùtjǿ

Loimi headdress with flat silver panels headdress subgroup with pointed headdress; first to arrive in Thailand; a different Akha subgroup in Burma Phami ‘Dutch hat’ headdress

X Xishuangbanna (Chin.) Tai autonomous prefecture in Yunnan province, China where many Akha and other minorities live; from Tai ‘Sipsongpanna’ (Lit. 12,000 rice fields) Y´ ýkhɛ̀

irrigation ditch

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ýkhɛ̀ djɛ̀q-ǝ

opening the irrigation ditch, type of spirit chanting to increase household potency

Z zán zán bàn-ǝ zán khò nɛ̀q zán mà tsà-ǝ zán tsà-ǝ zà ǿ zà khaq zɔ̀q zɔ̀q djɔ̀ sjə̀-ə zí

ancestral practices, tradition to violate zán or to go against zán the spirits of children who died before they were named incorrect behavior according to zán correct behavior according to zán sister’s son (ZS) child servants household, family leading around (circumambulating) the household ceremony lifespan

Notes

Preface 1

See Scott 2009 and the 2010 ‘‘Asian Borderlands’’ conference in Chiang Mai, Thailand as well as various other conference panels. The term ‘Zomia’ is based on van Schendel’s work.

Chapter 1 1

I do not mean to imply that Akha society underwent no disruptions or were not indirectly affected by any global forces prior to this time period. However, the recent structural discontinuities are qualitatively different from those in the past. 2 Unfortunately, because of considerations of length, I will not also be able to consider the topic of time, although I do, at several places, point out how Akha concepts of space are related to concepts of time. 3 Jonsson (2004) criticizes my work for precisely this reason. However, he simplifies my more nuanced discussion of the tradition/modernity contrast (see Tooker 2004). 4 The meaning of ‘landscape’ has been taken up in relation to this problem. See Hirsch 1995, where a distinction is made between landscape as objective setting and landscape as constructed meaning. 5 Casey (1997) claims that the notion of space as passive and neutral or ‘precultural’ is a modern concept. See also Mueggler 2001: 10. 6 The Akha of Northern Thailand suffered from occasional forced labor, such as: work on government agricultural projects; extortion by government officials and local gangsters; forced migration; and village raids by roving bandits, Thai mercenary forces, local police, and opium warlords. 7 Examples are the Shan of Burma, the Yuan (khon muang) of Northern Thailand, the Lao of Laos and Northeastern Thailand, and the Tai Lu of the Sip Song Panna (Xishuang Banna) region of Yunnan (as well as other areas). 8 The Akha language, with no indigenous script, falls within the Tibeto-Burman group. There is more than one missionary-devised script using Roman letters, but the percentage of Akha that know a script is small. 9 See Kammerer 1986 and Tooker 1991. Akha society has similarities with that of the Kachin made famous by Leach (whom the Àkà call Áká), but, as far as the Thai and Burmese cases show, lacking in a tendency toward more complex political integration that the Kachin have. This is reflected in the fact that Akha lineages are not ranked. In Tooker (1991) I discuss the way in which the particular form that the Akha asymmetric alliance system takes serves to maintain egalitarian relationships between Akha lineage groups, contrary to previous discussions of these systems which link them to stratification. 10 I would like to thank Sally Falk Moore for this suggestion.

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In another paper (Tooker 1996), I address ritual imagery and ritual texts that link the Akha to systems of intensified agriculture, a link that raises questions about previous political formation. Lewis (personal communication) does not believe that this is a Tai-derived term since it is present in Dolnia Hani which has little borrowing from Tai. Headdress subgroup endogamy, combined with the lack of a clear-cut term that includes subgroups under Akha indigenous schemes of group differentiation, may indicate the early stages of group differentiation. I present this as a suggestion for future exploration. Rarely, I heard the term Loimisa Akha used. An Akha has informed me that the last syllable, ‘sa’, comes from the Chinese word shan which means ‘mountain’. Throughout I have used pseudonyms. Lewis (personal communication) believes that this is not an accurate designation. He states that the Àdjɔ́ Akha are a completely different (dialect) group with no villages in Thailand but that the headdresses of the majority group in Thailand were similar to theirs, which is why the Loimi may have used that term. See below for a discussion of Àbɔ́hỳ ’s relationship to the rest of the villagers. The first syllable àbɔ́ is commonly used to mean ‘male elder’. In spite of linguistic differences among these three headdress subgroups, Paul Lewis (personal communication) considers them to speak the same dialect of Akha, a dialect that he calls Djə̀ghø̀. Lewis describes the linguistic differences among these three subgroups as ‘accents’. There are other dialects among other Akha subgroups, however. Hereafter cited as Alting. This name references the style of the headdress of that group (see above). And presently would like to codify it in written form, often with the help of anthropologists. These patterns do vary among different Akha subgroups but I am unable to discuss that level of variation here. Jonsson (2004: 675, 697) criticizes my work for an assumed ‘traditional’ integration of social life. The integration I am talking about, however, was historically constructed and was part of Akha lived experience during the time period that this book covers. Thus, I am in no way naturalizing ‘traditional’ society as will become even more evident throughout this book. Jonsson’s own fieldwork among the Mien took place some ten years after my own and under radically different political-economic conditions, and that has probably influenced his perspective. In fact the changing political-economic environment and the changing relationship between uplanders and lowlanders in his work is consistent with my own descriptions of changing Akha life in Tooker 2004. Jonsson’s reference to internal rank differentiation prior to these changes is probably more relevant to Mien than to Akha. See also Bouchery (1996) on this same point for the closely-related Hani of China, and Weiss (1996) for a comparative totalizing ‘lived order’ of space and time among the Haya of Africa. See, for example, the case in my 1992 article of an Akha couple becoming Christians for four days, a state that allowed them to return to an Akha identity. Kammerer's (1990) study notes that the only alternative to Akha zán is replacement. Although I consider below the historical production of this complex and the Akha contestation of the hegemony of outside groups, I am unable here to consider contestation within Akha society. However, the Chinese state started earlier control of Akha areas. The contrast here is complicated and is mainly an upland/lowland contrast. Thus, while the Akha practiced terraced wet rice agriculture in the past, this was mostly on

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mountain terraces, whereas the lowland version is on flood plains or other low-lying land. See Walker (1986: 65): ‘Despite authoritative statements to the contrary ..., many who write about the peoples of mainland Southeast Asia suggest the existence of an overlygreat cultural – including religious – divide between the ‘‘civilized’’, and Buddhist, peoples of the lowlands: Khmer, Tai, Burman; and the so-called ‘‘primitive’’, and nonBuddhist, people of the mountains: Jarai, Kammu, Lisu, Lahu, Wa, Kachin and dozens of other named ethno-linguistic groups.’ Errington (1989) makes this division between centralized and ‘level’ societies, as does Quigley for the Indian material where he makes a distinction between uncentralized tribal communities and centralized caste communities (Quigley 1993: 151, 166). However, the tendency towards ‘centralization’ that he is discussing [which involves local central figures who renew cosmic relations for the community (and its various factions) and who may or may not be economically dominant] can also be found in tribal societies as this book demonstrates (see Chapter 7). That is, viewing cultures as isolated entities. See Sharp as cited in Freedman 1979: 39. We will see in the Akha case that an even simpler grouping – tertiary – may also appear. But see my discussion in Chapter 7 of biases in the term ‘mandala’. This manuscript was completed before I read Scott’s new book, so I am only able to treat it briefly.

Chapter 2 1

2

3

4

Kammerer, who worked with a different subgroup of Akha, agrees that there is ‘a consistency in zah˅ over time and space, evidenced by nearly identical ethnographic reports on rituals from different decades and different countries’ (2003a: 46). I would also note that, in a recent paper, Jianhua Wang (n.d.) claims that Akha ‘traditions’ developed over roughly this same time period. Lacking detailed historical information, we cannot reconstruct Akha society and any structural changes in it through long-term history with certainty. Instead, we can draw from three sources: 1) use oral histories; 2) follow recent historical changes (this century); 3) observe Akha society under different socio-political systems (Thailand, China, Burma, Laos and Vietnam) as clues to socio-structural transformation and 4) use Chinese historical records (see for example, Wang n.d.). Where appropriate, I will bring such information into my discussion. However, for the most part, the reader must be aware that conditions I describe in this book are relevant only to recent historical times, and are largely confined to my initial period of fieldwork in Thailand (19821985). Additional fieldwork was conducted after this and through 2010 but, except for some contrastive remarks, this book does not concern these later time periods. Hayami (2003: 137) seems to think that this could not have been the case since it was not the case for her fieldwork among the Karen some time later. However, I would suggest that these different conditions might be attributed to differing time periods and differing relationships to the lowlands. The Akha with whom I worked were recent arrivals from Burma and were working more out of a Burmese context than a Thai context, and the village of my fieldwork was quite isolated until around 1985. Also, the Akha did not have the type of relationship to the lowlands that the Karen had. The socio-cultural complex I found in my 1982-1985 fieldwork in Bear Mountain changed after 1985 with the expansion of nation-state control and a capitalist economy to the hills, two changes that I am associating with the ‘modern’, but I do not address

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those changes here (see Tooker 2004). Thus, this complex was not able to protect itself from the onslaught of modernity. See also Turton (2000a: 28) on modern nationstate penetration as dismantling the previous play between center and periphery. Akha men have, both voluntarily (for a wage) and involuntarily (when captured) served in the armies of more powerful surrounding groups, but they themselves had no army. Paul Lewis (personal communication) has reminded me of the strong proscription among the Akha against killing another human being. He states that an Akha who kills another human being cannot partake in the ancestral offerings. This fits in well with the notion that gỳlàn as a ‘life force’ comes from the ancestors (see Chapter 3). Kammerer (2003a: 63) seems to agree that the Akha have a ‘tendency towards withdrawal or insularity’. Based on Akha oral traditions and on some of the Chinese findings that are emerging with new contacts with Akha and Hani scholars in China, Alting von Geusau suggests that the Akha branched off from the closely-related Hani some six or seven centuries ago in Yunnan, China (Alting 2000: 141). This makes sense given that both culturally and linguistically the Hani are the most closely related ethnic group to the Akha. Also, the initial sections of their genealogies are the same (Bouchery). In China they are merged as the same minority nationality (minzu). Wang (n.d.) suggests that the Akha are descendants of the rulers of Jadae ‘state’ (13th century) in China and that this affiliation is what distinguishes them from the present day Hani. This position is captured neatly in Sturgeon's discussion of Akha in China caught in the crossfire between nationalist (KMT) and Communist forces: ‘Villagers say that the fighting lasted a couple of hours one evening, and when they woke up the next morning, Mengsong was full of ‘‘black Han’’ [communists, based on the color of their uniform; the KMT were ‘‘green Han’’]’ (Sturgeon 2000: 95). The Tai themselves, originating in Yunnan and Sichuan provinces of China were pushed southward by northern Chinese (Luang Vichitra Vadhakarn as cited in Lintner 1994: xv). Until nation-state formation, Akha were under only indirect rule (through the Tai) by China, Burma, etc. This fits in with other Tai conquests of the lowlands such as the Tai takeover of Chiang Mai from the Lua' (Condominas 1990, Jonsson 1996, and Swearer & Premchit 1998 as cited in Jonsson 1999: 100). although Lieberman states that major movements of non-Tai groups from China into Southeast Asia ‘seem unlikely before the mid or late Ming, when Chinese settlement of the south-west, aided by the sixteenth-century introduction of New World maize, accelerated sharply’. (Lieberman 2010: 339) He also states that the Ming and Qing ‘‘‘pacification’’ campaigns, must have forced local peoples unwilling to accept assimilation, subordination, or annihilation to move to higher elevations or farther south into southern Yunnan and perhaps into northern Southeast Asia’. (339-340) Lieberman (2010: 340) mentions other rebellions against the Qing in the second half of the nineteenth century. This framework is found in some of his other publications. See also Jonsson 1999, 2000, 2001b. Prior to my own fieldwork among the Akha, there was little in-depth ethnographic work among them. Bernatzik (1970) presents material from the 1930s, Lewis (1969, 1970) from 1947-1966, and Feingold (1976) from the 1960s. As I was starting my fieldwork in December 1981, two other anthropologists were just completing theirs (Kammerer and Alting von Geusau). The findings of all of these researchers are consistent with a comprehensive form of collective identity. Sturgeon (2000) remarks on the late persistence of the tributary mode in another Akha community in Northern Thailand.

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285

16 I say that the wave is more intense because, prior to 1985, many areas of the Northern Thai hills, including Bear Mountain, were only nominally or sporadically under state control. Thus this situation differs from that of minorities in the border areas of China where the loss of local autonomy occurred much earlier (and in a different form) in the 1950s (see Mueggler 2001: 197). For a discussion of transformations in Akha society post-1985, see Tooker 2004. 17 When they have had to deal with outside powers, such as Tai or colonial rulers, they developed a ‘headman’ type position. This person was specifically responsible for dealing with outsiders in order to protect and isolate the internal society (see Tooker 1996a, 332). 18 See Renard (2000: 68) on the lack of expectation of tribute from distant hill groups. 19 what Hanks and Hanks (2001: 99) call a ‘secular leader’. 20 See Turton 2000b for a recent overview of the premodern Tai region and the significance of non-Tai in the construction of Tai identities and political formations. 21 For a recent attempt at this type of historico-relational analysis in the Indonesian context, see Li 2001. For the mainland uplands, see Jonsson’s (2000) analysis which reiterates the role that lowland states played in the construction of upland identities, livelihoods and social relations. 22 See also Turton (2000a: 28) on the persistence of premodern contexts in some of the Tai regions. 23 Toyota’s recent work (2000) on Akha traders complicates this picture of insiders and outsiders. Individual Akha (and there seem to be more in the Ubya group with whom she worked) might extend themselves beyond what is culturally constructed. Nevertheless, dealing with outsiders (whether through trade or other means) is presented culturally as a threat. It would be interesting to hear how Toyota’s traders dealt with this ambivalence in their lives. I have elsewhere (Tooker 2004) discussed how those unable to keep up subsistence farming still maintain village-based ‘symbolic’ fields in order to carry out ancestral practices (which in turn maintain Akha identity). Abandoning these practices completely would mean cultural assimilation to another ethnic identity which seems to be the case for some of Toyota's Akha who want to consider themselves Chinese. 24 However, with incorporation into nation-state systems and into capitalist economies, these practices, which rely upon an autonomous village political system and a subsistence economy, are becoming less viable and, as a result, the Akha are becoming marginalized in new ways, their response still in formation. I do not address this latter topic in this book, but have begun to address it elsewhere (Tooker 2004). Toyota (2000) studied non-agricultural (and thus non-village based) forms of livelihood among the Akha that have been occurring for centuries. While these were not the dominant forms of livelihood for the Akha, they may offer an adaptive path with new economic changes. 25 This may reflect the fact that Alting worked with the first subgroup of Akha to migrate into Thailand – the Ùló Akha – who were perhaps the most marginalized of the Akha groups. 26 Jonsson asserts that this distancing was a product of colonialism which cut off the tributary ties between uplands and lowlands. As I have stated earlier, while this may be true for some groups, the Akha seem to have tried to avoid or at least lessen even tributary contact. 27 Alternative status systems also restrained the establishment of a single unitary system that ranked ethnic groups. In fact, collective identity in this time period had this remarkable quality about it; a quality that resisted the integration of different groups into a single system that would politicize ethnicity. This political exclusion was an important dimension of conflict avoidance. And, as part of the identity formation of each

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SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

group, alternative political and cultural systems served as contrastive defining features in the construction of one’s own collective identity (see below), as has been suggested by Leach (1954) and others. See also Sturgeon 2000: 139 on the oldest Akha village in Thailand (Payapai), dating to 1910. Most recently, Akha are seeking refuge from political turmoil. Groups such as the Akha are caught in the cross-fire between the forces of the central Burmese government and the forces of various independence, communist, and opium armies. The Akha tell heart-wrenching stories of their overland migration which include such details as walking for 13 days straight, carrying children, having only the clothes on their backs, having little food to eat, etc. although later officially founded by the dzø̀ma, ‘village tradition leader/founder’. He is the elder brother of the man Ámɛ́ who was head of household in the family with whom I lived. I called Ámɛ́’s wife, the female head of household there, by the term àtsu, which means ‘older brother’s wife’, and I refer to her by this term throughout the book. There were a number of Haw Chinese living there, many having intermarried with Lisu. They ran the stores, which were the places the Akha were most likely to visit on a trip to the Lisu village. In fact, occasionally an Akha would refer to the village as the Chinese (làqbỳ) village. While the nearby village land was purchased for house construction, field land was still readily available to be claimed freely, based on customary use rights. Conrad’s version of the history of Akha settlement in the Bear Mountain region is incorrect (Conrad 1992: 49). These Akha did not initially work as labourers for the Lisu to earn money to buy land. They had their own wealth that they used to buy village land and field land was not purchased. As the area changed, land became scarce and became increasingly monetized. This happened much later, however. Before the Ùbjàq (Loimi) Akha moved into the area, some poorer Ùló Akha from other villages did work as wage laborers for the Lisu. For the most part, however they did not settle in this area and ‘commuted’ by foot from their home village. Khun Sa was the Shan/Chinese opium warlord head of the Shan United Army. In fact, the abundance of agricultural land for growing rice in the area partially had to do with the presence of this cash crop since the Lisu used less land for growing rice. This does not mean that others did not view them as composing a single village. Kammerer (personal communication) told me that members of her village (which was of a different headdress subgroup) viewed them derogatorily in this way, stating that they ‘lived with the Lisu’. This was not connected to the villagers' intent for themselves or their children to become Christian. This dirt road came up from a southern direction, ultimately from the paved road on the Chiang Mai side of the mountains. A previously existing dirt road that had fallen into disrepair came up from a more northerly direction – that towards Chiang Rai. It never became fully usable in the rainy season. in December of 1984. in January of 1985. Through aerial photography, the village and surrounding area had been targeted in the government’s opium eradication programs. There seems to have been a short term windfall in the production of tomatoes which were grown during the off-season in the lowlands, however. In a single reference in my field notes, I have this pronounced as Jɛ́bjàngù. It was also pronounced this way by another Akha of that sublineage whom I met in 1988. All the other times that I heard it during my fieldwork it was pronounced Jábjàngù.

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44 Since this is a virilocal society, I am referring to households by the name of the male household head which is how the Akha often referred to them. 45 Átù seemed to be more externally focused, as appropriate for a headman. He had four living sons and one living daughter. His eldest son lived in the village, but in a separate household. He had sent his second son to be raised by a childless missionary couple in the lowlands. The other two sons were also attending lowland missionary schools, but returned periodically to the village. The second son returned rarely. Most of the time, only the daughter could be found at home with Átù and his wife. 46 We can here make a short note on the working out of virilocality among the Akha. Although the woman moves to the house of her husband and her husband’s father at marriage, households are not sedentary. Through migration, she may end up back in the village of her own father and brothers, as happened in this case, and frequently happened in others. 47 I am generalizing here. Wealth should actually be measured by household. The wealth of households within the same sublineage could vary greatly.

Chapter 3 1

2

3 4 5

6

7 8 9

For an extended discussion of definitions of ‘blessing’ and related concepts of potency and how they relate to lowland concepts of merit, see Kammerer and Tannenbaum 1996. See also Kammerer 2003: 46ff. on upland concepts of power. The power of the ancestors is legendary and often referred to. One Akha man arrested by the police and in painful handcuffs recited his ancestral genealogy until, as he claimed, the handcuffs loosened. Hayami (2003) confirms a similar fertility complex among the Karen. See also Lewis 1989 and Tooker 1996b: 328. There are similarities between this system and Chinese geomancy, but a detailed comparison is not possible here. This is not surprising given that the Akha have originated in China and long interacted with the Chinese. For a discussion of the nature of geomancy among Chinese and Miao (Hmong), another upland group of this area, see Tapp 1986. Tapp claims that we must view geomancy as a ‘shared system’ that develops historically in an intergroup context, thus as not belonging solely to the Chinese. The same could be said for comparisons of these spatial systems between upland groups and lowland Tai, who themselves have originated in China. All of these intergroup contexts are, of course, political contexts. The term ‘mandala’ has been used in many different ways. I am here defining it as a set of socially enacted spatial codes that are minimally of the form of a core (manda) and an enclosing element (la), but also containing other spatial features (height elements, for example) (see Tambiah’s definition 1985b: 252). The mandala form has been used to describe premodern Southeast Asian political organization (see Chapter 7). Interesting discussions of negative potency as a draining power in this same region can be found in Tannenbaum’s work on the Shan. See Kammerer 1986 for an extended discussion of the Akha asymmetric alliance system. An example that comes to mind of the spatialization of alliance relationships is the association of wife-givers with the sky from which potency flows down to the wife-takers (earth). Thus, they are associated with an ‘upper’ realm. In ritual textual structure, wife-givers are located between the textual segments of the ‘above’ and ‘below’, thus in the middle or center of a textual ‘path’, which is also enveloped within an interior as it is part of ‘spirit chanting of the inside’ (see my discussion Tooker 1988: 177-179).

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10 See also Coville on the ‘procreative potency of pairs’ for the Toraja highlanders in Indonesia (2003: 105). 11 Other domains in which spatial coding is found, but I do not consider in detail in this book, are the bodies of humans, spirits, and animals, and the gendering of those bodies, and also kinship/alliance relationships. An important extra-village (but not supra-village) level that needs to be considered in an extended account is that of the rulers of the natural surroundings called the ‘lords of the land, streams, rocks, trees, vines, etc.’ of the area in which the village is located. A yearly ceremony held to propitiate these rulers called mísán lɔ́-ǝ indicates that the natural environment can also be indexed as a source of potency. I would like to thank Jet Bakels for pointing out this possibility. 12 The Thai term muang has many levels of meaning from that of an overlord village to a whole country such as muang Thai (Thailand). It also stands for the capital (a valley town) of any of these regional levels, the capital encompassing the surrounding area. 13 In Tooker 1996a I discuss the possibility that the Akha were wet rice farmers in the past, working irrigated mountain rice terraces, a situation possibly linked to a different form of political organization than they presently have in Thailand. See also Wang’s (n.d.) analysis that an Akha state did exist. 14 My field notes also list this as alternatively called lan dɔ tàq-ǝ. 15 as, for example in the spirit chanting known as pɛ̀zà mazà tó-ǝ which is done for the good health and well-being of the members of a single household 16 Another commonly used kinship term with shifting references is that of àjỳq-ànjí (‘older-younger sibling’, similar to the Thai phii-nɔɔng). It may refer simply to one's genealogical older-younger siblings, or may extend in a classificatory way to all those within the same sublineage. In addition, I have heard it applied fictively to members of another tribe (in this case, Lisu) with whom one feels particularly close and/or wants to set up an alliance relationship. A final usage is simply to apply it to anyone, regardless of kinship status, to reflect age status. For example, some teenage Akha girls called me their àjỳq (‘older sister’). 17 Zɔ̀q is also used as a classifier for counting households in the village.

Chapter 4 1 2

3

4 5

6

This is based on my own collection of oral histories in Xishuangbanna, Yunnan, China. Alting von Geusau also has obtained similar stories. Thus, conditions were similar to those described by Jim Scott (2009) as occurring prior to World War II in the broader border region that he calls ‘Zomia’ (after van Schendel). This is not to say here that there were no methods of modern state control. For example, there was, on at least one occasion, aerial photography being carried out in search of illegal opium fields. I do think that, in some studies, the degree of state control in this area has been exaggerated. Of course, these conditions are changing as the nation-state expands into these areas, and these areas are made more accessible and controllable, especially through roads and modern technology like aerial photography. in some cases, never to return. This has been changing with the recognition that valuable resources in the hills such as timber, minerals and high altitude crops (relative to the lowlands) are now more accessible with modern roads, modern agricultural knowledge and modern extraction techniques (chain-saws, etc.). Kammerer (1988) discusses the effects of the consolidation of the Thai nation-state and the attempts to integrate these border areas. See also Tooker 2004.

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Thus upland identity was not as ‘fluid’ as others have proposed. Any fluidity lay in the ability to change ethnic identity easily but not in the categories themselves (see Tooker 1992). in Akha: mə̀. A number of recent studies have focused on the role of spatialization in the construction of the ‘imagined community’ (Anderson 1983) of the nation-state. This has been done for Thailand by Thongchai (1994). Approaches in critical geography have largely been applied to ‘modern’ and ‘post-modern’ societies. This book is an attempt to show that such an approach can be taken in a non-modern context as part of the process of demystifying the romantic notion of the ‘primitive’. I do not want to deny that there are other political processes that are involved in the construction and reproduction of Akha society as a non-state society. These would especially involve the kinship and marriage alliance systems as well as other forms of supra-village, yet non-centralized, networking. I am unable to treat these other processes in any detail here. However, at least in some contexts, as I have mentioned above, both descent and alliance relationships also get spatialized in terms of village boundaries. While lineages extend beyond village boundaries, they do not act in any extra-village organizational scheme. See Feingold (1976: 88): ‘Agu [lineages] are not effective corporate groups: they do not have a leader; they do not possess exclusive economic or ritual rights; they do not come together for purposes of warfare or trade.’ See also Woodward’s discussion of how village-founding rituals among the Lhota Naga ‘make culture out of nature’ (1996; 156). Kammerer (2003a: 61ff) critiques my construction of Akha spatial categories, stating that I do not allow for interpenetration of the categories of inside and outside. Because of the underlying power dynamic in space, an interpenetration of inside forces by outside forces, is something that the Akha want to avoid. It does occur for example, when people get ill or when outside spirits enter the village during the rainy season, and the Akha try to use inside forces and practices to expel the draining effect of these outside forces. Kammerer’s reference to ‘fields’ (61, 68) as an example of interpenetration of inside and outside does not hold since fields, while physically located outside the village, are conceptually ‘inside’, associated with fertility and the household (see chapter 5). Thus it is not that I am ‘downplaying’ ‘conceptual fuzziness and ambiguity in favor of dyads and mediated triads’ (67, n. 13), but rather that I am recognizing the power dynamic and directionality associated with inside and outside. Indeed, they cannot be seen as categorical binaries in a western sense. Kammerer’s analysis holds on to dyads in a structuralist fashion since she is talking about their ‘interpenetration’, a term that presupposes the dyads and a triadic category of ‘interpenetration’. Whenever I use the term ‘center’, I do not mean to imply an exact geometrical center, but rather a focal point from which a ‘periphery’ as a continuum is constructed. There is also a fourth secondary village gate built once a year during the ‘spirit chasing ceremony’ called ká jɛq jɛq-ə. This gate is called either lɔ́kàn bjàq or ká jɛq lɔ́kàn. According to the spirit priest of Bear Mountain Village, it can be built at any of the three village gates, but the Bear Mountain one was always built at the gate facing the cemetery. In fact, in my discussion of the ‘spirit chasing ceremony', he jumped to the topic of funerals. There appear to be only two village gates among the Ulo Akha (see Kammerer 1986). See also Archaimbault 1971: 9 for the presence of these in Tai groups (as Tai taleo). Using fieldwork conducted at a later time period, Toyota (1998) discusses Akha who migrated to Thai towns, a phenomenon that has been increasing over time. I say ‘loose’ because of the household’s (and ultimately the household head’s) decision-making power to move in and out of villages, and of the commonness of that occurrence.

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18 See also Alting (1983: 263): ‘The centre of the Akha universe is, however, not a city, either past or future ... It is a village ...’ 19 We must keep in mind that this emphasis on the spatial differentiation of the spheres of domestic and wild is not a universal one, but is part of a complex socio-cultural configuration. See, for example, Rival's work on Huaorani foragers where such spatial oppositions are not drawn (Rival 1993: 643). 20 A ‘monstrous’ birth may occur in either humans or animals. It includes such things as multiple births in the higher beings (human, horse, buffalo, cattle, etc.) and single births in the lower animals (pigs, dogs, etc.). It also includes deformed offspring. Occasionally, I refer to these offspring as human or animal ‘rejects’, following Lewis’ term (1969-1970). 21 Kandre (1967: 596) mentions a divorced Akha woman living with the Iu Mien (Yao). 22 See also Kammerer 1986 who translates the term as ‘founder-leader’. See also her article on Akha dzø̀ma (2003b). 23 See Lewis' discussion of unfortunate situations of dzø̀bjɛq, ‘the absence of a dzø̀ma’ (Lewis 1969a: 139). 24 In another part of this text, it is stated that the dzø̀ma, as well as the other specialists, were not ‘comfortable’ (jɔ sá) to have been the only ones holding their positions, and so they sent their sons to follow after them. 25 See also Lewis’ discussion of the original dzø̀ma (1969a: 116ff). 26 Lewis (1969a: 235) claims that ‘one side’ of the swing from the year before must remain, that is, two holes. 27 I was told later that this son was not considered capable enough to carry out these duties. Later a middle son, who was also a spirit priest (bǿmɔ̀) moved back into the house of his father to take over this role. Although he was not the appropriate person by his birth order, his abilities, combined with the fact that he would be caring for his father until his death by living in his house was considered sufficient to let him take over this important role. 28 as it does apparently among the Kachin (Leach 1954). There are also other structural reasons why Akha lineages remain unranked (see Tooker 1991). 29 This is a more general Southeast Asian concept (see Anderson 1972 and Errington 1989). 30 In Chapter 5, I suggest that the internal orientation of the dzø̀ma and the external orientation of the headman reflect an inside/outside distinction that is also found at the household level between females (inside) and males (outside). 31 This type of leader seems to be the equivalent of what Lewis, in his dictionary, calls pu tsoq àda, ‘the main man in the village (the one considered the political leader, whether appointed by the Shans or not)’ (1968: 249). Literally, the latter term means ‘the father who built the village.’ It is interesting that Átù was the person who first started the village. 32 Here I would direct the reader to Kammerer's suggestion that the Akha moved from a ‘simplex’ to a ‘duplex orientation of polity’ (1988: 273). 33 It is interesting to note that the figure of khaqma is associated with the political level of míkhàn (‘country’, ‘region’) in oral spirit chanting texts. 34 When a new village is started, there may be a number of men who have inherited the ‘right to rule’ from their fathers. Only one is chosen as the main dzø̀ma of the village. The others are called dzø̀zà, the second syllable, zà, means ‘small’ or ‘minor’. The syllable, ma, in the name for the main village ‘founder-leader’, means ‘large’, or ‘major’. 35 This association of outsiders/non-Akha with wild animals will reappear later. 36 I am unable here to go into the more complicated story of the spatialization of power with respect to gender relations. In other contexts (such as household structure), the inside/outside distinction aligns with a female/male gender distinction as comple-

NOTES

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41

42

43

44

45

46 47 48

49

50 51

52

53

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mentary work domains (such as field work vs. hunting). This distinction does not align with the gender distinction in all contexts, however. See also Ellen's (1986) discussion of contextually changing gender oppositions. I discuss the notions of ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ spirit chanting in Chapter 6. This is based on my own translation of the text for the Akha month of tjɔ la, the month in which the swinging ceremony occurs (Tooker, n.d., manuscript). I was told that this was a group of people living to the north in Burma but am uncertain about the reference. in ritual language called dzán ghán lán tjɛ. This notion of middle as between two points overlaps semantically with a notion of middle (or center) as opposed to periphery, as we will see later. Lewis (1970a: 643) notes that the dzø̀ma’s house is ‘usually located in the central or upper part of the village. It must not be located in the lower section.’ This does not completely align with the information I received, and may be a variation. However, I later discuss the overlap of central and upper in Akha conceptions. In another example, in the funeral procession from the house of the spirit priest to the house of the dead person, the dzø̀ma is one of the people who walks in the middle of the line of processors. In many contexts the term djm refers to the last ancestral couple to ascend to the ancestral section after death, and thus it has a generational reference. Thus, the first ancestral ‘joint’ is called gydjm. Before gydjm are the living house ‘owners’ (njḿsán àma, njḿsán àda) (see below for a further discussion of this). Note that the Akha do not normally ride horses. They have small ponies as draft animals. In addition, while men may occasionally ride, women are never permitted to do so. This is also an ethnic marker. The Akha view the Chinese as horse-riders, while they are not. In every shaman journey to the spirit world that I witnessed (about eight journeys with four different shamans), the shaman traveled by horseback. This can be seen by her/his bodily movement on the stool on which s/he sits as well as by the whinnying sounds s/he emits. See also Alting 1983. See for example, kà lo zə́, ‘middle house posts’ (Lewis 1968: 149). ‘The two words A-Kha signify ‘‘intermediate’’ or ‘‘between two things’’ … This name comes from the way in which the Akha huts are constructed, half on piles, half on beaten ground, at the same time taking after the Chinese hut and the Punoi or Khmu hut’ (my translation). Occasionally, as we will see, the upper/middle/lower schema collapses to two termsupper and lower. In this case, the ‘upper’ end receives the positive valuation. Thus, the dzø̀ma, while located in the ‘middle’, may at times be associated with ‘upper’. I discuss this further below in the section on the household. Another potency-generating collection is that of male and female in reproduction. Similar village posts have been observed for upland Lahu (Walker 1983: 174-175), mountain valley Shan (Tannenbaum 1990), and lowland Northern Thai (Rhum, personal communication). Renard also mentions one for the Tai Lü, but does not describe it (Renard 1990: 50). Note that the egg running out in all directions would mean that the central area was relatively flat and ‘above’ in relation to the areas to which the egg runs. We have already seen the importance of ‘level’ ground, and will see further instances of overlap of the positively valued terms in the series I mentioned above (center, upper, level ground). There is some evidence for the relevance of this as an indigenous notion in other Southeast Asian societies. Tambiah (personal communication) obtained his notion of

292

54 55

56 57

58

59 60

61 62

63

64 65 66 67

SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

center-oriented space upon which the galactic polity model is based (Tambiah 1977) from some native expressions (either Javanese or Thai) that brought up the image of light emanating from a lamp. Note Tambiah’s citation of Moertono discussing old Java: ‘territorial jurisdiction could not be strictly defined by permanent boundaries, but was characterized by a fluidity or flexibility of boundary development dependent on the diminishing or increasing power of the center. This was evident in the words of the dalaŋ cited elsewhere; the state ‘is far reaching in its fame’, and was a ‘bright world’. The state is thus likened to a torch so bright that it spreads its light far afield ...’ (Moertono as cited in Tambiah 1976: 112) Davis records the statement of a Northern Thai informant that compares the qualities of a muang to those of a shining light (1984: 83). See also Anderson 1972. For another image of center-oriented, continuous space, see my later discussion of irrigation systems. Here we note again the reference to level ground. Here we see the dzø̀ma associated with both upper and center, an overlap I mentioned earlier and discuss further below. I must also note here that it is not entirely clear from the text who is ‘ruling’ at the village center, the dzø̀ma or mìnm̀. a brownish-red large flat seed. In Akha (from 1988 text): 313. dzéhù a sm sá doq ghoq khɛ̀-án 314. dzø̀ma làn doq doq kán kán làn 315. dzán ghán lán tjɛ dzø̀-á 316. àghǿ mìnm̀ kɔ́ tiq ábəq 317. kɔ́ tiq ábəq-a sjà jan mìdì jm̀ ngɛ 318. mà dì aký ka azá bja 319. dì lá khàn sɔ́ lɔ́ kà bja-á Apparently, the Ùló Akha have only two sets of main gates (see Bernatzik 1970: 392393 and Kammerer 1986: 50. Lewis (1970b: 645; also 1969a: 253ff) mentions only one set. Actually, all the village gates can also be viewed as peripheral in relation to central. This inequality plays out in terms of some labor extractive practices at the village level as well, such as in requirements to provide person-days of labor in the fields of certain ritual officials. I note that this type of delineation is similar to the delineation of the modern nationstate (see Anderson 1983: 26). We must also here note that the Akha have been in the process of being incorporated into the administrative structures of the modern nation-states of Thailand, Burma, Laos and China, and they, too, are developing dual concepts of the village (as in the Indian case). At the time of my initial fieldwork, there was no concept similar to that of Daniel’s ‘administrative village’ in Bear Mountain Village, however. We see in the zoqla text (Tooker 1988, Appendix B, lines 104-111b) that other areas are ruled over by other figures. These areas include gardens and grasses as well as forks in rivers. In addition, the spirit priest and the blacksmith (lines 78ff) ‘rule over’ their respective spheres. This meal is called dzø̀ma-án jatjiq mɔ́pùq tu lé-ə. I presented this meal to the dzø̀ma during my stay in Bear Mountain Village. Thus the ‘thigh-eating chief’ of the Kachin (Leach 1954) here becomes a ‘foreleg eating chief’ (See Tooker 1996b: 334). See also Lewis 1989: 216. Akha have notions of proper and improper reproduction (see also my discussion of ‘monstrous births’ above). Higher beings like humans, buffalo and cattle should produce single offspring, not multiple. Should one of the higher animals produce multiple offspring, both the mother and the babies are killed. There are strict rules about

NOTES

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71 72

73

74 75

76

77 78

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who is able to eat this tainted meat. Should humans produce multiple offspring (for example, twins), the twins are killed and the parents must undergo elaborate purification ceremonies. Lower animals must produce multiple offspring. Theirs is the same fate as that of the higher animals should they produce single offspring. Deformed offspring of both humans and animals are killed. Human sexual relations are also channeled, as in the definitions of adultery. A married woman is not allowed to have sexual relations with anyone except her husband (the husband can have relations with unmarried women). Should adultery occur, purification ceremonies at the household ancestral shrine are necessary. In addition, a girl cannot have a child out of wedlock in the natal parents’/brothers’ home. This would disturb the proper fertility emanating from the ancestral shrine. An unmarried pregnant girl must quickly find a husband or reveal the name of the child’s father, at which point the man must marry her. These improprieties also affect village fertility as well as household fertility. I have claimed (Tooker 1996a) that the presence of irrigation imagery in this and other rituals indicates previous usage of irrigated fields. It is often said that gỳlàn comes from Àpø̀mìjɛ́, the greatest of Akha ancestors, and this water source is called Àpø̀ùjɛ́ [= Àpø̀mìjɛ́]’s water source. The case was that of a young woman (the daughter-in-law in a household) who had become pregnant, but her husband was not living in the household, and the dzø̀ma said that a woman could not be pregnant ‘with no father’ for the child. The rumor was that the father of the child was the woman’s father-in-law with whom she lived. Note that since the dzø̀ma’s rule is village-level, the timing of the ritual cycle varies from village to village. Apparently, this is not the case among the Ùló Akha where instead a special villager is chosen by the dzø̀ma to initiate the first harvest (See Alting 1981: 34 and Kammerer 1986: 271-272). However, in Lewis’ area, the dzø̀ma was the initiator (1969a: 247). Despite the fact that villagers’ fields are located outside the village gates, fields are considered part of the domain of the ‘inside’ and are reflected as such in complex symbolic ways. The syllables bi and mɛ́ are also used in referring to the lower and upper parts of the house (see Chapter 5). When asked, villagers were uncertain about the gender of Àpø̀mìjɛ́. In fact, the syllable mì is a common first syllable in female names. This ‘bisexual’ dimension of Àpø̀mìjɛ́ represents another example (perhaps the primary one) of the combination of opposing elements (male and female) that generates fertility and potency. While it is important for me to point out this space-time relationship, my prime emphasis is on the usages of spatial codes. I regret that I cannot fully address Akha temporal codes in this book. For example, in one incident during my fieldwork, the top pole was knocked off the secondary village gate. In another Akha village I visited, the village was split in half by a gate between them (thus from the Akha perspective, these were two villages). Christians lived on one side and those following Akha ancestral practices lived on the other.

Chapter 5 1 2

See also Kammerer (1986: 144) who calls it a ‘patrilineal family’. The household compound may include other structures such as ‘minor houses’ (njḿzà) which may be used for sleeping by married males of the household (not including the male household head, njḿsán àda) and their wives and young children. The male and female household heads (njḿsán àda, njḿsán àma) sleep in the main

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house. The minor houses have a simple structure. Rice storage huts (tjɛ́ djí) and their associated offering platforms (tjɛ́ djí sìma ùghm̀) are also within the household compound. 3 This situation seems to contrast with that of the Ùló subgroup where ritually dependent households (the son’s house remaining attached to the father's àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q) were more numerous (see Kammerer 1986). A possible explanation for this difference is an economic one, since possession of an ancestral section means that numerous rituals with their associated expenses must be carried out during the year. In general, the Loimi subgroup is economically more well-off than the Ùló subgroup. The only case in my village where the period without an àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q was somewhat extended was that in which the father feared that the son would not carry out the proper ceremonies since the son traveled away from the village often. The son was quite wealthy so this was not a question of not having enough wealth to carry out the ceremonies, as I assume it is among the Ùló Akha. Another customary difference between subgroups is that, among the Ùló, an ancestral section can only be given at the rice harvest ceremonies (See Kammerer 1986: 146), while among the Loimi, it may be given at any time, although constraints on the timing of house construction would indirectly constrain the time in which an ancestral section is given. 4 They said that they let me stay because they ‘felt sorry’ for me. 5 Thus, Keesing’s statement that ‘... cultural conceptualizations of kinship connections apparently universally view them as natural and inalienable ...’ (1975: 13) is inaccurate. 6 Actually, the in-married wives of the household become progressively incorporated into their husbands’ lineage through a series of rituals carried out throughout their lifetimes, one of which (jɛ́dán pi-ǝ) may not be completed until after death. The wedding ceremony only partially incorporates the woman into the husband’s group. The ideal, and among the Loimi Akha, the prescription, is for a woman to become completely incorporated into her husband’s lineage. However, for economic, circumstantial and other reasons, it may not be possible for a particular family to complete the cycle of rituals that would do this. Thus, for most, and possibly all of her lifetime, a woman married into a household is also a representative of her natal group. The Akha, however, do say that when a woman marries, she becomes part of her husband’s lineage, and that for most cases in which her affiliation must be reckoned (such as in discussions of who can be the female ritual officiant called jɛ́mɔ̀ at a wedding), it is reckoned as her husband’s lineage. 7 This is also true when a field can ‘see’ a graveyard, another potency draining force. 8 This manner of field marking had not been adequately recognized by previous researchers who gave the impression that the bamboo posts were used like fences marking boundaries. Lewis (1969a: 242), however, notes that the post is placed ‘about in the center of the area where they will make the new field ... They ... split the top of it [the post] in at least two directions, and put sticks in it pointing in different directions (There must be at least two sticks – often they have more).’ 9 The number of directions does not seem to be as important as the orientation from the center outward, sometimes in four, other times in three directions. See Lewis’ version of village marking in the previous chapter. Also, see in the note above Lewis’ statement that there can be any number of sticks (greater than two) pointing out in different directions. Note that this type of field marking means that the field will be worked from the center out, not in directional lines. 10 Note that potency is captured at the center of the field. The center marks the contact or access point to cosmic potency, an ‘opening’.

NOTES

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12 13

14

15

16 17

18 19 20 21

22

23

24

25 26

27

28

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Akha spatial coding is more complex than I can even present in this book. I am unable to address the significance of the directions of east and west in Akha spatial coding, although I have a partial discussion of this elsewhere (Tooker 1990). I am unable to relate spatial coding fully to the Akha construction of the body in this book. I assume that such a circumstance would occur only under conditions of land shortage, a condition into which the Akha are moving more. I knew of no case of já tè tè-ǝ in Bear Mountain Village. Note that the periphery is always viewed negatively in relation to the center. In general, notions of imbalance between center and periphery and of the periphery impinging on the center are connected to illness and misfortune in Akha society. As we have already noted, the periphery is associated with negative spirits and outside political forces. Lewis (1970b: 570) mentions precautionary measures that can be taken so that another field does not affect the potency of one’s own field, a practice that I see as related to this issue of the impingement of outside forces and the maintenance of the flow of potency from the inside out. The main married couple serves as focus for the household in a number of other societies (see Bloch 1995 and Janowski 1995 who calls them the ‘focal couple’). This is a position achieved through carrying out a ceremonial transformation. The women honored in such a way are usually past their child-bearing years and have borne many children. Only somewhat wealthy families can carry out this ceremony which requires a lot of animal sacrifices. The processing of the egg through cooking is also a way of ‘domesticating’ the site for human habitation. See my discussion of food processing in chapter 6. Note also that these two posts (swing and main house) are both associated with the ‘upper’ side of the unit to which they are attached (whether village or household). and thus potency-generating. Actually, it was expressed to me as àtjɔ̀ zà tà tju, ‘don't look after other people’, i.e. ‘look after us’, a common Akha practice, especially in ritual language of negating a negative consequence. I have also heard the term used to refer to FOlBr. The terms àdamɔ̀ (and also) àmamɔ̀ are used commonly among the Loimi Akha, but apparently not among the Ùló Akha. The second syllables have these meanings: djm relates to the household ancestral section and the central part of the house where it is located, sán from jɔsán for ‘owner’, a term I have discussed earlier, and lòq meaning ‘to watch over, guard’. The complementarity of male and female, however, does appear stronger at the household level than it does at the village level. A woman could never be a dzø̀ma, for example (see also Ellen 1986 for a similar gender differentiation at the levels of household and village for another part of Southeast Asia). I use the preposition ‘at’ because generations are viewed as genealogical ‘joints’. For example, during part of the funeral rites for an elder, the dead person is told not to take care of (tju-ǝ) other people’s children, i.e. only to take care of his or her own descendants. Lewis even claims that the dzø̀ma is called the ‘father of the village’ (1969a: 116) just as the male household head is called ‘father of the household’, although I did not hear that term used for the dzø̀ma during my own fieldwork. After her child-bearing years, a female household head may go through an initiation ceremony that turns her into a ja jɛ́ àma, a mother of fertility/prosperity. Should that happen, she is then able to lead off household ceremonies relating to the rice growing cycle, as her ja jɛ́ àma status gives her a particular relationship to rice and fertility (see

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29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37

38

39

40

41 42

43

44 45

SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

Kammerer 1986 for an extended discussion on the figure of ja jɛ́ àma). Since the initiation is expensive, there are very few of these women in a village, and for the most part, the male household head is the ritual leader. In some cases, even where a ja jɛ́ àma carries out the ceremony such as in the khm̀pì lɔ́-ǝ field ritual, a male must be present. I was told this was because àli (males) do zán. Thus a temporal continuity is represented spatially. Here we note the relationship between spatialization and hierarchical processes. This is why the Akha look down upon families with no sons. Waterson (1991: 94) remarks upon a similar upper/lower ‘geographical metaphor’ being used inside Karo Batak houses. There is no Akha verb that means simply ‘to go’. Instead one must say ‘to go up’ (leǝ) or ‘to go down’ (í-ǝ). I would like to thank Laurie Hart for pointing out this characteristic of the ancestral shrine’s location. The term in Lewis (1968) for it is bjøtoq. This may relate to a practical requirement in that houses located on the ground (njḿ ɔ) may need to have the bjɛqtoq post extend into the ground while ‘tall’ houses (njḿ gó) may not. If the bjɛqtoq post goes into the ground, you have to have a djmbàn (cylindrical bamboo section) form of ancestral shrine. The evidence I am thinking of concerns the rules that connect the type of ancestral shrine with the type of bjɛqtoq post (especially whether or not it enters the ground). In some sublineages, at least, this connection is extended to a further one with the presence or absence of a ja jɛ́ àma (‘fertility mother’) in the household. Thus, in some sublineages, only ja jɛ́ àma households can have a ‘shelf’ form of ancestral shrine. This would mean that the bjɛqtoq post could not extend into the ground, a feature often associated with ‘high’ houses (houses located off the ground), a feature further associated with wealthy houses, which are more likely to have a ja jɛ́ àma. A similar association is found in the Sundanese house where the house center, the bedroom, is the place of the ‘creative union of male and female’ (Wessing as cited in Waterson 1991: 192). Whenever I use the term ‘outside’, I am reflecting the Akha usage of the term. This usage equates ‘outside’ and ‘peripheral’. Throughout, the reader should view both in terms of a system of gradations, that is, in terms of degrees of ‘outside-ness’ or peripherality, or degrees of distance from the ‘inside’ or ‘center’, rather than in terms of our own clear-cut distinction between what is ‘inside’ and what is ‘outside’. Married sons and married collateral men may construct and sleep with their wives in ‘minor houses’ (njḿ zà) located behind the main house. These are used only for sleeping, and represent a further peripheralized structure. See also Kammerer's (1986) discussion of this point. While my point here is to note the association of males with the ‘outside’ in certain oppositional contexts, I would also like to point out the positional equivalents of evil spirits (nɛ̀q) and the ‘wild’. I come back to these equivalents (along with the further positioning of lowlanders with evil spirits and wild animals) in future chapters. See Rhum (1987: 133) where, in Northern Thai, it is called the ‘great house’ (h-ian luaŋ). In Akha, this side of the house is called njḿma pɔ ‘the side of the main (great) house’. I have published an article on continuities in the structure of the Northern Thai and Akha households and the implications of those continuities (Tooker 1990). in the Dumontian sense, that is, they (as a part) can stand for all the occupants (the whole).

NOTES

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46 This recalls Carter’s (1982) usage of the term ‘degrees of personhood’ when referring to the case of India, a proper corrective to the cross-cultural study of the ‘self’ that looks for a society's single and self-referential conception of personhood. 47 Certain forms of respect offerings to the household heads (similar to the meals given to the dzø̀ma) parallel the offering of food to ancestors. 48 This is the ghoqkhɛ̀ area. The level ground is always referred to in textual language. Thus, in the marriage song it is called ghoqkhɛ̀ míné tsàdù dɛ-án, ‘the flat, hoed yard of red soil’. It is interesting to note that this is also the point of incorporation of a wife into her husband's household in the wedding ceremony, and the representation in some contexts of the female as an ‘outsider’ that needs to be incorporated in the household before she becomes associated with the ‘inside’ (see also Kammerer’s 1986 discussion). Recall that the ‘level’ ground of the household replicates that which we found at the level of village (see my earlier discussion of the syllable dɛ. The same syllable is used here). 49 The spirit priest told me that they are supposed to enter and exit on the male side. 50 The same verb (daq-ǝ, ‘to climb up’) is used for both entering a new household (as I found in my own fieldwork: njḿ daq-ǝ) and entering a new village (see Lewis 1969a: 128 for entering a new village.). 51 Kandre (1967: 614) notes the importance of the household (not the village) in the Iu Mien (Yao) afterlife. 52 I need to reiterate here that I cannot fully address Akha temporal codes in this book. 53 The term dɛkhàn for the courting yard literally means ‘flat land’. Thus, this village structure brings in a second positively valued term. Note also its association with fertility. 54 Lewis (1970a: 625) states that the dzø̀ma’s house can sometimes be located toward the upper end of the village, but never the lower. 55 We must also note the dzø̀ma’s connection to fertility, especially fertility of the rice fields in his initiation of rice planting and harvesting. Similar connections in which ‘divine kings’ initiate rice cults are found throughout East and Southeast Asia. 56 expressed as in nɛ̀q míkhàn, ‘the world of spirits’. 57 The same could be said for the village as each new village sets up its own sacred water source. 58 This would be a male member of the household and his in-married wife (and their children). 59 Zàmì sàn zàjo sàn dɛjá sàn ýkhɛ̀ sàn le tɛ̀q-ɛq. 60 Contrastively, Kammerer (1986: 172) states that the irrigation ditch is the female birth canal. Although I never heard it referred to in this way, the association seems plausible to me in the Akha context. See my later remark on adultery and ‘the good wife’s long case’. 61 As we have seen, this also appears in the fact that the abstinence (lan-ǝ), especially sexual abstinence, required at the time of each annual ancestral offering, is required only of the household heads. 62 Lewis (1969a: 99) also notes that it is the woman who is usually blamed for adultery. 63 Perhaps because then gỳlàn cannot flow down to its proper receivers (i.e wife-takers). In the house of the married man involved, gỳlàn can still flow down from wife-givers (his wife’s side of the family) to wife-takers. I would like to thank Marijke Klokke for her insights on this. 64 The exception to this rule is the spirit priest who may carry a knife into someone else’s house. The knife is to be used in animal sacrifice. Note, here, that the spirit priest is serving as the household’s protector against evil spirits. As an anxiety-reducing (joking) way to deal with someone who accidentally carried his knife into one’s

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home, the Akha would say: ‘So-and-so (person's name) thinks he is a spirit priest’, at which point the embarrassed person would remove his knife and leave it outside the house. 65 As a comparative note, Yao (Iu Mien) arrange houses so that each has an unobstructed line between itself and the spirit shrine located above the village (Kandre 1967: 613). 66 Carsten and Hugh-Jones (1995b) also discuss the ways in which the household may contain within it contradictory relations. Lévi-Strauss, for example, notes a fetishistic quality to the household in that it creates an illusion of bringing together opposing principles. Hugh-Jones (1995: 249) describes this contradiction as one between ‘selfsufficiency and dependence on others’.

Chapter 6 1

The information on which this chapter is based derives from participant-observation at the ceremonies themselves (all in Bear Mountain Village) as well as from interviews (both formal and informal) with the spirit priests of Bear Mountain Village (particularly Lɔ̀ɛ́) and with ordinary villagers. 2 Similar constructions can be found in other Southeast Asian societies (for example, Fox on Roti, Gibson on the Buid), and a full comparative picture needs to be drawn. I am unable to conduct this broad comparative task here. Instead, I will present the Akha case and suggest areas of comparative inquiry in which my main focus will be the nature of inter-societal political relations that articulate with constructions of this form. I will also make some brief suggestions about how such constructions change as political relations change. 3 See my earlier note in Chapter 3 on Hayami’s discussion of Karen access to ‘outside’ forms of power. 4 The spirit priest I worked with clearly identified these as inside spirits (khǿ nɛ̀q), but then added that whether or not they are to be considered inside spirits depends on the type of zán one is doing. 5 The others are marriages and funerals. 6 I discussed these two types of spirit chanting in my doctoral dissertation (Tooker 1988). That was the first full treatment of these two types of spirit chanting among the Akha. Hansson, a linguist, has translated the ritual texts of inside and outside chanting for the sjá [Loimi = sá] dan dan-ǝ ceremony among the Ùló Akha. The late Friedhelm Scholz, a German scholar, has also translated the texts. 7 Many of the inside/outside distinctions to be discussed here reverberate throughout those other ceremonies, although I cannot discuss them here. 8 An example is an adult urinating in bed. 9 Another case example I could have used is that between ‘inside’ deaths (nm̀ sjí-ǝ) which are auspicious and occur at home and ‘outside’ deaths (sjaq sjí-ǝ) which are inauspicious and occur in the forest and/or as a result of unexpected violence. Each type is treated quite differently in ritual terms. 10 In shaman divination through chicken thigh bones, the upper part of the bone is considered to represent the ‘inside’ (my family, etc.) and the lower part of the bone is considered to represent the ‘outside’ (‘others’). This is thus another instance of the linking of above with inside and below with outside. 11 Occasionally whim is involved, a fact that may represent a certain ambiguity towards ancestors. 12 For example, in the case of lengthy menstruation the connection to the ceremony làqkhǿ ḿ sjɔ́ sjɔ́-ǝ is so specific that no divination is needed. Neither is it needed in the case where a family wants to build up its ‘good fortune’ (gỳlàn).

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13 Sublineage. 14 The manner in which the spirit priest is called depends on whether the ceremony is a ‘major’ one or a ‘minor’ one. 15 Here we see the tripartite body structure reflected in the realm of animals. 16 Chickens are an exception in that they are killed by being hit on the head. 17 Outside chanting at the village level may be done for the general good health and well-being of the village as well as to resolve situations of village illness and affliction. 18 Such as ja jɛ́ ḿ-ǝ (the installing of a ja jɛ́ àma), and in the case of the birth of twins (or other ‘human rejects’). 19 Recall my previous remarks on the village as microcosm of all of Akha society. 20 This seems to be particularly the case in situations of impurity, as opposed to mere illness. 21 See Appendix B. 22 Lewis lists it as ù tjàq. Among the Akha, the sounds u and m are often interchanged. He (1968: 315) describes it as ‘some terrible tragedy’, although, as the reader will see below, it can refer to minor illnesses. 23 We met this term earlier in our discussion of household and village passageways. 24 We can here see that this phrasing reflects Akha cosmo-geography in which the earth (actually levels of earth) is seen as flat. 25 Note the political imagery here. 26 One of the animals sacrificed in outside chanting. 27 The spirit priest told me that in the past this used to be ts(j)é bɛ (‘ten beginnings’), but was not sure why or what this meant. This parallels other stories of past greatness, such as those which say that both the swinging ceremony and the new year's ceremony used to be held for fifteen days and now are only held for four. 28 Lewis lists the creator of the world as Djabiø̀làn (1969: 30). 29 I have also heard of the location of Sḿbɛlán referred to as a ‘walled city’, and it may parallel or even be equivalent to the origin town of Djadɛlán. 30 While rice is the main reference, other staple crops (and this may relate just to grains), such as corn, are also included under the category ká. 31 Note that there is no ‘owner’ of land mentioned. 32 The ambiguity concerning ancestors arises once again here since ancestors are at times spoken of as being located in ‘the world below’, yet are of the inside. At other times, they are spoken of as being ‘above’. 33 These statements apply when the spirit priest is chanting in his own village. When he goes to another village to chant, he cannot do outside chanting alone and must do inside chanting with it. Thus, one's own village’s boundaries mark the extension of inside-ness. For anything outside those boundaries, inside-ness must be re-established. 34 ... and never on behalf of an individual, even if it is an individual in the household that is sick. 35 This restriction reiterates my point concerning the village as a microcosm, or miniuniverse, in this and other ways, representing all of Akha society. 36 This makes the household also a kind of microcosmic location of the kin groupings of Akha society. 37 I must make a note here that the usual direct offerers to the ancestral shrine are males of the household, the male household head being the most common figure. A woman may offer directly if she is a ja jɛ́ àma (‘fertility mother’). Otherwise, the women of the household are placed in the position of preparers of certain of the offerings. 38 In at least one case, leaves were also put under the tray. The spirit priest also holds the leaves during chanting.

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39 This is given, usually by a father to a son, when the son moves out of his father’s house and establishes his own house and own ancestral shrine. The full term is pùbɛqlo (I did not record the tone on the last syllable). The money bag contains one or more coins, (typically silver coins [mɛ́bjaq]) and is believed to enable the house to acquire wealth (money). 40 Thus, they do not appear in certain ‘soul-calling’ ceremonies. There are also other ceremonies similar to the inside chanting, but which do not include these two elements. Such is the jɛ́ sjɔ́ ḿ-ǝ ceremony performed for the birth of twins. 41 In everyday language, the word bø̀søq is used to describe these leaves. In the context of ritual, however, these leaves are called pɔ̀q lɔ̀q, ‘banana leaves’ (although they are not banana leaves). This term, pɔ̀q lɔ̀q is also in the term for the ancestral section (àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q). 42 I have also seen these leaves placed in a corner outside the house during an inside chanting. Afterwards, they were taken inside and placed in the ancestral section. 43 This is also the manner of receiving the àpø̀ lɔ́ dzá, the ancestral food shared among household members and with guests at the annual ancestral offerings. 44 Lewis merely defines bø̀søq ábɔ́ (= bø̀søq tree) as ‘a type of tree, important in Akha customs and ceremonies’ (1968: 38). 45 This was driven home to me as an Akha angrily shooed me away from smelling some rice that was cooking for an ancestral offering. 46 As in my discussion of the inside ceremonies, the paraphernalia I describe here represent a pared down version. Each particular ceremony will require more and varied paraphernalia. The items I discuss here, however, are directly related to the inside/ outside distinction, while the variable elements define a ceremony more narrowly within that general division. 47 Something like ‘brown-bagging’ it. 48 This is rice broken from pounding to remove the husks, but is not fed to people, since the unbroken rice is selected for that. It may be fed to animals. Lewis (1968: 55) equates it with rice that results from tjɛ́ mǝ́ mǝ́-ǝ, ‘for rice to be broken up in the pounding because not dried properly, or not harvested properly’. In one reference during fieldwork, it was called tjɛ́ dzɛq, which Lewis (1968: 53) defines as ‘paddy which has been pounded just once and winnowed, but needs to be pounded again’. I cannot explain this discrepancy. However, neither of these types of rice are fit for human consumption. I have a further discrepancy in my field notes in that the rice in the actual package appeared to me to be of two types: husked rice (tjɛ́ pjú) (as claimed) and unhusked rice (usually called simply tjɛ́ or tjɛ́ kḿ), rather than broken rice. Perhaps tjɛ́ gỳ is a ritual term for unhusked rice, even though in everyday language it means broken rice. There is some evidence for this in Lewis (see 1968: 53). Unhusked rice would be closer to tjɛ́ dzɛq than to tjɛ́ gỳ, since tjɛ́ dzɛq is rice that is partially husked. 49 The cotton (sàlà), I was told, must be the kind that comes from a tree. Thus, it is possibly kapok rather than the cotton that comes from a shrub. 50 The money was usually in the form of what the Akha called one mɛ́bjaq [of dɛga] (silver coin), although I have seen it in the form of ten baht (Thai money). 51 The cooked/uncooked axis is not an overriding one for the Akha inside/outside distinction, as certain types of uncooked rice, if properly processed, are considered fit for inside offerings. Thus, this is not a raw/cooked distinction in any kind of simplistic way. See my discussion below. 52 In fact, the name for rice is different in its cooked and uncooked forms. For uncooked rice, it is tjɛ́, while for cooked rice, it is hɔ̀. A syllable following either of these two

NOTES

names will specify the type even further. Thus, hɔ̀ njɔ̀ is cooked sticky rice, while hɔ̀ is cooked non-sticky rice. These two products are used in the killing of twins when they are born. They are stuffed down the babies’ noses and throats to suffocate them. Twin birth is associated with the most feared outside spirit – that of sjaq (the spirit of a terrible death). Indeed, during the series of purification rites for the parents of the twins, villagers throw rice husks and ashes after them on the path they have taken back through the village, presumably to keep the spirit of sjaq from following them back into the village. In fact, in the Lisu village of Bear Mountain, some Chinese families set up small restaurants. A pi was a unit of measurement represented by a container of the same name, usually a tin or aluminum can used for kerosene. One pi of husked rice was approximately fifteen kilograms, while one pi of unhusked rice was approximately ten to eleven kilograms. Indeed, the Akha themselves sometimes express the exchange in these terms. See, for example, my previous reference to images of impoundment and jailing as they describe the manner in which outside spirits capture souls. The Akha themselves liken this to the actions of ‘soldiers’, ‘police’ (dànò, from the Thai tamruat) of more powerful groups. I was also told that nɛ̀q (outside spirits) are particularly afraid of ginger. Both tjɛ́ lǿ and djalɛ are necessary elements in ceremonies of the tu-ǝ (‘paying respects to’) type such as in the jatjiq mɔ́pùq tu-ǝ ceremony in which a chicken is offered or the àzàq sɛ̀q pù-ǝ ceremony in which a pig is offered. These ceremonies may be done for a sick elder, an elder who has performed some special task (such as curing) for the offerer, for the parents of a girl who has returned to visit them, for ancestors (as in a shaman trance or any inside ceremony), for the dzø̀ma of a village that one has just moved into, etc. Since it is used for ceremonial purposes, this type of rice is only prepared in small quantities and the large foot-pounder is not used. Instead, a small mortar and pestle are used to break it up. I have seen this rice fried first before pounding, perhaps to make the pounding process in the mortar easier. In spite of this frying, it does not seem to be considered in any sense ‘cooked’ as the normal process of cooking rice is steaming. Thus, it is named in the tjɛ́ form as opposed to the hɔ̀ form. Food representing different stages of processing the same item is often found in Akha ceremonies. Thus, the two main rice bowls for an ancestral offering are hɔ̀ njɔ̀ (cooked sticky rice that has been pounded and formed into three patties) and hɔ̀ sjɔ́, Lit. ‘pure rice’ (sticky rice that has been removed from the rice steamer before the second addition of water [thus before the completion of cooking] and thus also before the pounding into patties). Thus, in the ancestral offerings, hɔ̀ sjɔ́ represents the stage prior to hɔ̀ njɔ̀ just as, in inside spirit chanting, tjɛ́ lǿ represents the stage prior to djalɛ. There are further parallels in that the two second stages (hɔ̀ njɔ̀ and djalɛ) include a second addition of water to the first rice product, as well as the addition of spices (salt and sesame). Also, both second products are formed into three units – three clumps in the case of sticky rice (hɔ̀ njɔ̀) and three balls in the case of djalɛ. In fact, in one ancestral offering during the khm̀ sjỳq ceremonies, the hɔ̀ njɔ̀ is replaced by djalɛ while the hɔ̀ sjɔ́ remains! I regret that I cannot here make a full comparison with the annual ancestral offerings, but would like to do that in a future paper. I also must note that both Lewis and Kammerer describe hɔ̀ sjɔ́ differently from the way I do. Lewis (1969a: 203) simply states that it is the first rice taken from the rice steamer, not mentioning its relationship to tjɛ̀q

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the two additions of water. Kammerer (1986: 160) defines it as ‘sticky rice boiled separately in pure water’. There is no sesame added to tjɛ́ lǿ, and in certain other ceremonies, it is not added to some of the djalɛ which are then considered ‘white’ djalɛ. Djalɛ with sesame is considered ‘black’ djalɛ. Djalɛ is processed even further in the khm̀ sjỳq ceremonies. In fact, the djalɛ itself gains a ‘sticky’ quality when water is added to the rice flour to form the balls. Although djalɛ alone is found in the khm̀ sjỳq offering. At least symbolically, if not actually. To make the ‘whiskey’ that is offered in inside ceremonies, the Akha simply place kernels of husked rice into a small bamboo section called the djíbà djísì and let it sit for three days. Then when it is ready, they pour a small amount of ‘pure’ water into the section and the concoction is called ‘whiskey’. They distinguish this whiskey from that used in more mundane circumstances which is called djíbà djísàq. The latter goes through the normal distilling process. On at least one occasion I saw three leaves of mɛ́ tjɛ́ (rather than one) in each pile (the three mɛ́ tjɛ́ leaves being placed upon a single sísaq leaf) for a total of nine leaves of mɛ́ tjɛ́. Note that this gesture contrasts with that used in inside chanting in which offerings are given in a respectful manner. Certain men practice a variation in which two posts are used. See also Lewis’ description of this hunting ritual (1970a: 524-525). Here we see an alignment with a spatialized construction of the body. Kondo (1985) has described the association of ‘inner’ realms with ritual elements, including the sensible qualities of substances, and ‘outer’ realms with mundane elements in the Japanese tea ceremony. In certain cases (see section on sacrificial animals), their mundane nature is specially marked. However, these are not necessarily the same items, as we will see below. Actually, I am uncertain whether or not the sex is asked since a single (first) pig sacrificed would always be female. Although other types of animal pairing may occur. They are also marked differently in other ways, as we will see. When a dog is offered, generally a male dog is preferred. Akha houses were not locked. A ‘just-so’ origin story says that originally, when spirits (nɛ̀q) were around, people held up záma (a winnowing tray with no holes in it) in front of their faces and so could not see spirits, while dogs held up khàdjè (a rice sifter with holes in it) and so they could see nɛ̀q. Metaphors of baskets, the tightness of a weave and the resultant holes and closures are found elsewhere as in Akha discussions of the origins of zán (see Tooker 1992, Kammerer 1996). Porousness and non-porousness (and degrees thereof) are prominent qualities for the Akha on many levels and in many social domains. At one point, the spirit priest associated it with chanting done at the household passageway (ghoqkhɛ̀), although it occurs in other outside chanting as well. Some of these may be statements of flattery used in order to get these spirits on people’s side. For the Akha, spitting represents disgust and contempt. I remember once mentioning to a kind, elderly woman that I heard that a Lisu woman in the village above had given birth to twins (one of the worst tragedies that could befall an Akha couple, turning them into social outcasts). She immediately spit into the ashes of her fireplace, and would not discuss the matter further. Should recent parents of twins be seen on

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the path, ordinary villagers turn their faces away and spit on the ground. Note that spitting represents a movement from the inside out, expelling bad forces. 84 Note also that feathers and fur are the waste products from the preparation of an animal for human consumption, as the animal is first defeathered or defurred. 85 As in the annual ancestral offerings (àpø̀ lɔ́-ǝ). 86 This is one of the lesser types of outside ceremonies and does not include spirit chanting. Thus, it is not discussed in detail here. 87 This pattern also follows a ritual/mundane contrastive distinction, (see above) as animals eaten outside of ritual contexts are also not anointed. While this is another example of the intensification of ritual in inside ceremonies, it can also be viewed as a type of control over the mundane, since the mundane itself is incorporated into ritual. 88 At one point, the spirit priest even told me that you could determine whether a ceremony was an ‘inside’ or an ‘outside’ ceremony by looking at where the meal was held. The story is more complicated than this, as we will see. Note that this discussion could also have been included under the spatialization section. 89 Within that sub-ritual, the ‘meat in bowls’ is ceremonially eaten (but not actually eaten) by people in the appropriate kin categories. Then, the meat is taken away and combined in a single container. Only men of the household may actually eat it, and in this context, they represent the descent group and relations between descent groups, women here taking on an ambiguous role in that they come from the ‘outside’ (i.e. outside descent groups) in this exogamous and virilocal society. 90 In village khɛ̀ ghɛ-ǝ ceremonies, the animals are cooked and eaten by a group of male elders outside the village gate. This meat cannot be brought inside the village, just as at the household level, it cannot be brought inside the house. 91 Ceremonies done to improve a household’s ‘good fortune’ would be included in those in which the household members could eat the outside meat. 92 While I was told that family members are allowed to eat this meat, I am uncertain as to whether wife-takers may eat it. 93 Note that this rhymes with hɔ̀kà, a feature that emphasizes comparison between the two domains. 94 In fact, for one khɛ̀ ghɛ-ǝ ceremony where the animals involved were small, after chanting, the spirit priest took them and the other packages and threw them away ‘out past the lɔ́khɔ̀q (water source)’, as I was told. 95 Note that these are the djmghø, maghø, and pìghø. 96 These same rules also apply to the eating of meat from ‘animal rejects’, animals that are also associated with improper fertility. 97 While this does not explain the particular numbers in question (four and five), I believe that numbers are often used by the Akha for their qualitative (and performative) and not their quantitative value. In one sense, almost any combination of even and odd numbers would do, just as any odd number of grubs or grasshoppers may be caught in the pest control ceremonies. We must also note that the sum of the two numbers is nine, and that this is a number that occurs repeatedly throughout Akha ritual procedures and mythology, both alone and in the combination of four and five. For example, the miniature ladder leading up to the miniature offering platform in the annual mísán lɔ́-ǝ ceremony (‘offering to the lords of the land’) has five steps on top with notches that face down and four steps on bottom with notches that face up. 98 The purpose of this chanting is to separate the life spans (zí) of the old and new spouses. 99 Much like that of Buddhist monks. 100 As the Akha say, ‘Only their sound (kɔ̀ sjǝ sjǝ-ǝ) varies’. This is not completely accurate, as other aspects of the texts vary as well.

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101 There are other parts, not included under the two main parts, that I will discuss as I go along. 102 See below for an alternative representation of the structure of inside spirit chanting. 103 It was spoken of as átsỳq kǝq lé ngɛ, ‘reaching the joints’, the verb kǝq-ǝ meaning ‘to reach a certain physical location, to arrive’. For the relationship between the oral language chanted at these ceremonies and the spatial movements of the participants, see below in the section on the pragmatic construction of the household and village. 104 Inside and outside chanting, as well as other textual language such as the shaman texts, contain complex geographies within them. An interesting hypothesis to pursue is to consider these as Akha spiritual territories in conditions where the Akha do not have their own political territories. 105 In a ceremony such as sá dan dan-ǝ, ‘creating well-being’, the textual language presents the animals as given so that the spirits may keep the household members healthy. 106 Lewis (1969a: 100), however, states that, in a two pig sacrifice, one pig is for gydjm and one pig is for njadjm, a statement I also heard during my fieldwork. 107 All being called àpø̀pì, the terms for the great-grandparental generation and above. Among the Loimi Akha, parents are called àma (mother) and àda (father), while (paternal) grandparents are called àmamɔ̀ (grandmother) and àdamɔ̀ (grandfather). These terms also were extended in a classificatory way to collateral relatives at that generation and higher, a usage that apparently does not occur among the Ùló Akha (see Lewis 1970). Paternal great grandparents are called àpø̀ (male) and àpì (female). However, generic terms for ‘female elder’ and ‘male elder’ are commonly used throughout the village. These terms are àpì and àbɔ́, respectively. Apparently for the Ùló Akha (Lewis 1970b: inset), these latter terms are the common terms of reference for the paternal grandparents as well. A further variation occurs among the Phami Akha who use the term àpø̀ in the same manner that the Loimi use àbɔ́, that is, as a generic term for any male elder. I noticed this when I hired a Phami guide while working among the Loimi Akha. 108 And thus the particular view of the series may be context-dependent. 109 Thus not in the context of inside chanting. 110 See also Kammerer 1988: 271. 111 For a parallel tradition in the genealogies of spirit priests, see my discussion below. 112 ... and other aspects of the schema I have discussed earlier. 113 The path of the below is that of the sjaq sjí-ǝ spirits, those who died a ‘terrible’ death. The path of the above is the path of djàlɛ́, the wind. The paths fork at the figure of Tànpàn. 114 The language of the story being very similar to that chanted as àghø ghø-ǝ at funerals. 115 It is interesting to note that, in the origin story, the wife-givers and wife-takers are seen as separated by a river. 116 A more appropriate term might be ‘mother-takers’ since the importance of the woman (and those who give her) lies in her ability to produce children. 117 Zàma for females. 118 And here we see yet another overlap of middle and upper. 119 It is thus interesting to note that this joint follows that relating to the ‘mother’s brother’, the figure that gives life. 120 As mentioned earlier, the spirit priest told me that in the past this used to be ts(j)é bɛ (‘ten beginnings’). 121 Note again here the macrocosmic/microcosmic relationship in terms of house images. 122 Here it is interesting to note that, in the inside path, there is a movement back generationally and then forward again to the present ancestral section.

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123 I have also heard of the location of Sḿbɛlán referred to as a ‘walled city’, and it may parallel or even be equivalent to the origin town of Djadɛlán. 124 Other staple crops (and this may relate just to grains), such as corn, are also included under the category ká. 125 The fact that the early names in Akha genealogies are considered to be the names of ‘spirit-people’ (nɛ̀q tsɔ́hà) before the two separated is inconsistent with the origin stories in which both people and spirits used to live in the same house, but acted as separate entities (and thus fought because of that). In the latter case, the separation involved living separately, while in the former case, the separation is one into two different types of beings. 126 These would probably be included under nɛ̀q dàn bɛ-ǝ. 127 Note the continuity with the cosmos. 128 Note that the lineage is not mentioned. 129 This contrasts with the western case where individuals have a direct relationship with the ‘outside’. It is interesting to think about the implications of the historical reduction (or elimination) of the individual’s mediators with the (socially and culturally constituted) ‘outside’. This is not to imply that the Akha do not have a concept of individual boundaries/personalities. Rather, it is to say that the ‘social other’ (as a potentially dangerous and confrontational sociality) is constituted differently than it is in the west. 130 Perhaps the joint names are a kind of mnemonic device to remind the spirit priest of where he has to reach before the refrain. 131 I am uncertain of the tones in this phrase. 132 I am uncertain of the tones on this term. 133 In fact, this section may be only in village level ceremonies. 134 Note that there was also an above/below categorization of inside nɛ̀q. Thus, the Akha may be afflicted by both forces of the inside and the outside and of the above and the below. As I remarked earlier, this places the Akha themselves in a middle position, reacting to forces of these four (but not cardinal) directions. 135 They also offer two sets of negative statements (in the form of negative clauses) first before positive statements, a typical Akha pattern, even in everyday conversation. 136 It is interesting to notice that nɛ̀q take on the male gender here. 137 For the Loimi Akha, these are held at the khm̀mí ḿ-ǝ and zoq la la-ǝ ceremonies (See discussion of the annual ritual calendar in Tooker 1988, Appendix A.). Apparently, the Ùló celebrate this ceremony three times a year, on the latter two occasions and also at ká jɛq jɛq-ǝ. 138 I was told that the Ùló subgroup has only two village gates. This raises the question of how this ceremony is performed among them and how the textual structure is related to the village structure. 139 Thus it is rather rare and did not occur in Bear Mountain Village during the time of my initial fieldwork. By the time of my 1996 fieldwork, the spirit priest told me that such a situation had occurred. 140 Lewis described these as the spiritual guests at the annual dzø̀ jan lɔ́-ǝ ceremonies. They represent the original nine dzø̀ma (1969a: 210, 221ff). 141 For example, numerous times I was asked if ‘westerners’ (gàlà pjú = Lit. ‘white Indians’) lived with spirits (nɛ̀q), if I had seen nɛ̀q in the land where I lived, etc. 142 Both the Thai Army and local police forces visited Bear Mountain Village sporadically to raid for drugs and weapons and to extort wealth from villagers. The Army raided homes. In Burma, the army raided for foodstuffs and porters. The Akha porters, usually male, were often worked to death. Thai police arrested some (wealthy) villagers. There were rumors of rape that I could not confirm. In September 1987 numerous Loimi Akha were repatriated to Burma, their villages burned. Some died of starva-

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tion and others were left homeless and without food as it was just before harvest, the rice left standing in the fields.

Chapter 7 1

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7

8 9

The main argument and much of the material in this chapter appeared in my 1996 article in the Journal of Asian Studies, © Cambridge University Press, sections reprinted with permission. These appear especially in the discussions of the cosmological underpinnings of complex political systems, such as the discussions of precolonial kingdoms as mandalas (Heine-Geldern 1942; Condominas 1978, 1980; Wheatley 1983; Geertz 1980; Errington 1989; Tambiah 1977; Wolters 1982), although they also arise in discussions of contemporary polities (Kirsch 1975: 188ff. and Gray 1992). Another set of group interrelationships that I am unable to consider here is that between Akha spatial coding and the use of geomancy and space in the Chinese context. No doubt one would find parallels there as well (see especially Tapp 1986). Notable exceptions are Durrenberger and Tannenbaum (1989) and Tannenbaum (1989), who have compared similarities in notions of power in Buddhist and nonBuddhist societies. Tapp (1986) has compared geomancy among the Chinese and Miao, claiming that we must view it as a ‘shared system’ that develops historically in an intergroup context, thus as not belonging solely to the Chinese. See also my 1996 JAS article from which this chapter is drawn. Turton’s (2000b) book, Civility and Savagery, is an important recent contribution to the process of bringing both Tai and non-Tai groups into a single interpretive framework for the constitution of identities, as is Kammerer’s and Tannenbaum’s 1996 book on notions of merit and blessing in the uplands and lowlands. A more extended comparison could also consider the relationship of the Akha spatial system to Chinese geomancy and how Akha political modes relate to those of southern China. Here I am only able to consider the relationship to lowland Southeast Asia. See Tapp (1986) for a discussion of the relationship between Hmong and Chinese spatial systems, and Leach (1960-1961) for Chinese influence in the uplands of this region. Hayami (2003) critiques my interpretation of potency as emanating from the center, and mentions other forms of power among the Karen. Although she does not give specific terminology for these other forms of power, one is a type of sorcery that derives power from the forest, or periphery. I did not find that sorcery was developed among the Akha. The fact that this type of power was feared among the Karen illustrates that its existence does not seem to contradict Akha notions of multiple draining peripheral powers, as Hayami would imply. In fact, the power of Karen ‘medicine men’ ‘undermines their productive power in the fields’ (142). This could still fit in with a center-periphery scheme in which the periphery, while powerful, is still a draining force. She also mentions that, with historical changes, Karen are accessing forms of lowland power. This was not the case among the Akha during the time of my initial fieldwork and may reflect differing time periods and/or differing relationships to the lowlands. Despite the fact that villagers’ fields are located outside the village gates, fields are considered part of the domain of the ‘inside’ and are reflected as such in complex symbolic ways into which I cannot go here. For a set of articles on Condominas’ emboxment model, see Crossroads 1990. Other noteworthy discussions in which the monolithic nature of the mandala model is questioned include Kulke’s (1986) attempt to historicize the model for certain peri-

NOTES

10 11

12

13 14

307

ods and historical circumstances, and Lehman’s discussion of the ambiguous nature of centers (Lehman 1987). For a further comparison of spatial coding in Akha and Tai households, see Tooker 1990. The use of similar spatial codes in both types of societies raises the question of the universality of these codes and their relation to human cognitive propensities. I believe that there is a human generative capacity for the use of nonverbal communication codes, just as there is for linguistic codes. I believe Jackendoff (1983) would support this type of approach. For example, that ‘higher’ in space is also ‘higher’ in social status is probably universal. For this geographic area, however, there has been generated a further content to these codes that is neither Indic nor universal. This content includes such items as the dispersion of potency from an exemplary center out, the connection of potency to fertility (agricultural and other), the fact that the center can stand for the whole (Dumontian hierarchical elements), the rituals of aggregation, and perhaps most importantly, the infusion of potency in space. While some of these content elements may be universal, the last certainly is not the case in secular societies (see also Anderson 1972). It is beyond the scope of this chapter to address these issues in an extended way. Thus, Kammerer (2003a: 67-68) misreads my usage of ‘encompassment’. I stated in my dissertation that a Dumontian notion of encompassment is applicable to the Akha case in that occupants of a more highly valued spot in the hierarchy can ‘encompass’ or stand for all members, or a part can stand for the whole (Tooker 1988: 123,253). However, I also clearly stated there that I questioned the aspect of absolute encompassment and I suggested the ‘point of view of shifting focal (and thus encompassing) centers’ (Tooker 1988: 299). I clearly state that there is a ‘potential to shift the encompassing center’ (299) and that ‘we must allow for the direction of encompassment to shift’ (311). Thus, in any particular context, the concept of ‘encompassment’ is a useful analytical tool as it works for a particular context. Thus, I do not think we should throw out all of the elements of Dumont’s notion of encompassment, as Kammerer has suggested (2003a: 67-68). See Tooker 2004 for a discussion of recent changes and their effects on Akha notions of ethnic identity. There is no reason why under other historical contexts and conditions, the Akha might not index the lowlands as a source of potency. For an example of this in another upland people, see Hutheesing’s article on the location of a Tai spirit on a Lisu altar (Hutheesing 1990). Hutheesing interprets this appearance as a sign of Lisu submissiveness to outside forces, although I would suggest that it could also be interpreted as a sign of access to outside potency. Hayami (2003) suggests that I do not allow for the possibility of other forms of power when she describes the Karen accessing forest and lowland forms of power. Her context is that of a different ethnic group in a different time period with a different relationship to the lowlands.

Chapter 8 1 2 3

Hayami (2003: 134) also attributes a degree of ‘autonomy vis-à-vis outsiders’ because of such practices. See also Lieberman 2010. See also Formoso 2010: 332.

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Appendix A 1 2 3

See my discussion in the household chapter. Here this term refers to both spirit priests and shamans. The pí ghoq pan-ə and dzø̀ ghoq pan-ə versions are to avoid a calling to become a spirit priest or shaman. The tjìq ghoq pan-ə version is to avoid a calling to become a blacksmith. The ceremony is at times also called ná ghoq pan-ə, ‘opening the illness door’. It is performed for persons that seem to get better from an illness but periodically fall into relapses, a sign that they are being ‘called’ by spirits. Note the prevalence of the imagery of doors and passageways (both as connectors and separators). 4 One example given to me was that of someone having used an ‘impure’ chicken during one of the annual ancestral offerings (àpø̀ lɔ́-ə). In this case, an inside ceremony alone would be required. 5 Both this situation and that of lengthy menstruation require both an inside and an outside ceremony (that of khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə). 6 One villager, using common terms instead of formal ritual terms, called the version of the ceremony done for this reason hotjàq sjɔ́-ə, ‘to purify [because of ] the rat’. 7 The syllable zə́ refers to the lake from which children come. It is called zə́ zà zə́ lan (see Lewis 1968: 354). 8 Thus, the name zà ḿ zà sán ḿ-ə (see above) is a term used to refer to both of these versions. 9 I am uncertain of the tone on this last word. 10 The abandonment of a child by his/her mother is a theme that runs throughout Akha society. For example, in the people/nɛ̀q separation story, nɛ̀q, in effect, are left without a mother since people claimed her (through deceptive means, no less). There are additional ceremonies concerned with this topic. 11 The first pig offered is female, while the second is male. 12 The latter may always be done in the case of illness of an elder, although I did not hear a statement to that effect. In every case I have of an elder ceremony, it was always with two pigs. I could not find a single case of a one-pig ceremony for an elder. 13 In textual language relating to the khm̀pì lɔ́-ə field offering ceremony, the first line of a couplet speaks of doing the khɔ́ tɔq-ə ceremony for the rice, while the second line speaks of doing the djə̀ tsàq-ə ceremony for the rice: zàqma mɔ́ nɛ ka khɔ́ tɔq ø̀pǿ mɔ́ nɛ ka djə̀ tsàq

‘With the body of a sow, [we do] the khɔ́ tɔq-ə ceremony for the rice [to extend its life]. With the body of a rooster, [we do] the djə̀ tsàq-ə ceremony for the rice.’ The term khɔ́ refers to ‘one’s life’ (see Lewis 1968: 160), similarly to the way the term zí does. The parallel between rice and humans runs throughout Akha society. They are the only two entities in the Akha universe that have ‘souls’ (sàqlá). 14 The term djə̀ tsàq-ə is also used in other contexts. One finds it in curing ceremonies that involve one’s àmán àda (‘woman’s brothers, wife’s brothers’) or àghø (‘mother’s brother’). The mother’s brother is viewed as having influence over the health and well being (thus life) of his sisters’ children. These ceremonies are called mán djə̀ tsàq-ə and ghø djə̀ tsàq-ə. 15 and its concomitant chicken. See the chapter section on sacrificial animals. 16 I have a single case of an alternative explanation. In that case, a villager stated that the male pig was offered to the female ancestors (àma-Lit. ‘mothers’), while the female pig was offered to the male ancestors (àda-Lit. ‘fathers’). Note that the female pig, which is an offering to males, is offered first.

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17 Lewis’s information conflicts with mine here in that he states that gy djm is one level while nja djm is the next level (1969a: 100), a statement I also heard during my fieldwork. Elsewhere, I present evidence linking the term djm to a single generation.

Appendix B 1

2

3 4

5 6

7

8 9 10 11 12

13 14 15

16

In fact, when I asked a spirit priest for the most minor (jɔ njí dzɛ̀-ə) type of chanting (tó-ə), he responded with ‘ù [m̀] tjàq tó dzɛ–ə’. Those afflictions at the level of khɛ̀ require an outside ceremony called khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə (see below). M̀ tjàq ḿ-ə, by contrast, reflects a serious illness, such as one in which the victim nears death, then recovers, then suffers a relapse, then recovers again, etc. in an alternating pattern. except in cases where the spirit priest comes from another village. In those cases, some inside chanting must be done to establish his inside-ness. The villager who was assisting the spirit priest made a confusing remark in this particular case. He said that the ceremony being done was khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə, and thus not the usual outside ceremony for sá dan dan-ə. He also stated that the family would not be able to eat the meat of the outside animals because it was a khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə, as opposed to a regular sá dan dan-ə where they would be able to eat the meat. This indicates to me that there was a special situation operating here, one different from that of a simple desire to increase one’s gỳlàn. I am uncertain of the tones for these two names, and so have not included them. This must be cut from a rather wide tree, since the steamer is all in one piece, and must be large enough to cook rice for the whole family (which can include a large number of people). It is not an easy task to make a new one. This task, as with most other woodworking, falls to the men. Numerous rules of ritual behavior apply to the rice steamer. For example, an Akha woman can only take rice out of it if she has her headdress on. On one occasion, when the mother of the house was combing her hair, and so had removed her headdress temporarily, she asked me to dish out the rice from the steamer. In this, as in many other cases, the rules did not have the same consequences for non-Akha. In fact, the main spirit priest, himself, on two occasions listed the reasons for which a khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony was necessary and left this reason out. In one case where the space behind the house was limited, the foot-pounder was located under the raised rice storage house (tjɛ́ djí). Thus, when the ceremony of ká dà tjì í-ə is done by a shaman, it is called mɔ̀ ǿ ká dà tjì í-ə. In fact, this type of pu khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony was not done during the three-year period of my initial fieldwork. During my fieldwork, I was not aware of a single case of an Akha performing black magic against another Akha. There was a case of several Akha hiring a Chinese man to perform black magic against a group of Lisu who had stolen money from an Akha. Lewis mentions it being done to protect a village from an epidemic in a nearby village (1969b: 264). See my discussion of this ceremony in the Village chapter. For example, a dog climbing up on the roof of a house is not just an incident that violates the normal order of society, which, in this case, means the hierarchy (both in terms of status and spatiality) of people over animals, but is also an incident deliberately caused by nɛ̀q. This case occurred once during my fieldwork and the dog had to be killed. A villager told me that animals (and this included domestic animals) are considered to have mothers, but not fathers.

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17 There was no electricity in Bear Mountain Village, nor was there in most Akha villages at that time. 18 Lewis also mentions the ceremony being done in a case when the ‘soul’ of a dead man called out, and the whole village heard it. Villagers said it sounded ‘like a pig squealing’ (Lewis 1969a: 147). This is similar to the type of case I list here since both violate the living (village)/dead (forest) boundary. 19 These are babies who died through stillbirth and/or who died before they were named. They are not allowed to be buried in the regular cemetery. Not having received a name, they have not been incorporated into a patrilineal line, and thus cannot go to live in the normal ancestral abode. The regular cemetery represents the first step in the direction of that abode, a direction forbidden to them. The spirit priest calls upon these spirits of infants for help when he does outside chanting. Also, having died before they can reproduce, these spirits will not have descendants. 20 When this issue came up during my fieldwork, the term ‘outsider’ was used in the context of a recent death of a member of another ethnic group, a Lahu. I am uncertain as to whether or not the rule would also apply to Akha that are visiting from another village. 21 Rice fields, for example, although located outside the village gates, are considered an ‘inside’ domain. 22 If the structures are deliberately disturbed by people instead of nɛ̀q, as was determined in one case during my fieldwork when the secondary ká jɛq gate’s cross-board had been taken down, it was assumed by a Lisu, the pu khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə ceremony is not necessary. In the case in my village, a lɔ́kàn tjàq í-ə ceremony, in which a single pig was offered and eaten at the disturbed site, was held. This ceremony does not included spirit chanting. In general, tjàq í-ə ceremonies are a type of outside ceremony on a lower level than that of outside spirit chanting. The Akha told me that they can tell by the condition of the site whether or not the disruption was caused by humans or nɛ̀q. Nɛ̀q leave the site looking untouched except for the one disturbed piece of the structure, while humans leave more disturbance. 23 The importance of the life/death opposition at the village level can be seen further in the fact that while normal spirit chanting requires abstinence (lan-ə) on the part of one’s sublineage, spirit chanting done at funerals requires abstinence of the whole village. 24 This notion of movement from the inside out (that is, originating the movement on the inside) to impose on the outside (as opposed to the outside imposing on the inside) is a way of controlling the outside (again instead of the outside controlling the inside). It parallels the movement of retention/expulsion that I discuss in the chapter. 25 Again, it is unusual that Dɛ̀q mánsjí is considered an outside spirit, since most people who have died become ancestors, thus spirits of the inside. I believe this relates to the ambiguity concerning ancestors that I mentioned above. That is, they are of the inside in their strong connection to the line of continuity connected to the household, yet are of the outside because one of their aspects is death. Death, as we have seen, is considered to be the realm of the ‘outside’, draining of the life force, marked particularly at the village boundaries. Alternatively, one could say that this double relationship (the dead being both of the inside and of the outside) means an ambiguity in the attitude towards death and ancestors. 26 I am uncertain of the phonetic spelling of this term. 27 Note that the ceremony is done in terms of lifespans (zí) being connected, while it was spoken about in terms of souls (sàqlá) being connected.

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English Language Index

abstinence 85, 144, 175, 176, 249, 297, 310 adoption 153 adultery 67, 145, 151, 245, 293, 297 affect 213 afterlife 93-95, 112, 172 age hierarchy 133, 136, 140, 159, 187, 265, 266 agricultural cycle 108, 121, 259 AIDS 75 Akha language 17-19, 281-282, 305 Akha origins 24, 31, 48, 86, 111, 113, 157, 201 Akha Writing Program 17, 281 alternative hierarchy 216 Alting von Geusau, L. 15, 30, 33-34, 36, 48-49, 52-54, 74, 91, 110, 122, 234, 282, 284-285, 288, 290-291, 293 ambiguity 298, 299, 307, 310 ancestor shrine or section 118, 127131, 139, 162-163, 165, 173, 175, 245-246, 256, 294-295 types of 296 ancestors 39, 54, 130-132, 160, 164, 189, 197, 199, 201, 287, 299, 310 levels of 248, 291, 304 ancestral offering 38, 132, 144, 147, 153, 154, 160, 164, 173, 181, 188, 191, 208, 222, 227, 251, 259, 294, 297, 300, 301, 303, 308 Anderson, B. 65, 78, 228-229, 289290, 292, 307 androgyny 293 animal

hierarchy 152, 309 ‘rejects’ 120, 191, 290, 303 sacrifice 69, 186-189 annual ritual calendar 305 Appadurai, A. 26, 45, 47 Archaimbault, C. 221-223, 289 armies 22, 66, 74, 82, 211, 284, 305 ashes 179, 180, 185, 190, 274, 301, 302 asymmetric alliance 32, 281, 287; see also marriage system auspicious day 109, 166, 271, 276 autonomy 22, 25, 29, 56, 75, 76, 78, 110, 115, 117, 118, 153, 154, 156, 157, 158, 214, 237, 239-242, 285, 307 axis mundi 66, 69, 87 babies crying 260, 263 bad death 269, 277 bad omens 114, 170, 262 bandits 53, 56, 75, 82, 281 bargain 180, 185, 190, 211 Benjamin, G. 65 Bernatzik, H. 36, 56, 284, 292 birth control 252-253 black magic 53, 63, 86, 160, 254, 258, 292, 308, 309 blacksmith 53, 63, 86, 163, 254, 292, 308 blessing 65, 146, 147, 159, 194, 287, 306; see also life force blindness 260-261 Bloch, M. 295

322

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blood 160, 183, 191, 204, 248, 252254, 258-259 body 112, 166, 188, 190, 191, 247, 288, 295, 299, 302 Bouchery, P. 282, 284 Bourdieu, P. 24 breast feeding 247, 248 bribes 190, 211, 278 bridewealth 63, 274, 294 Burma 29, 31-37, 41, 49-52, 56, 58, 70, 73-74, 80, 82, 110, 182, 213, 234, 237, 243, 269, 281, 283-284, 286, 291-292, 305 Burmese army 74-75 care-taking 158, 201 Caldwell, I. 228, 231 calendar 129, 255, 275, 305 Cambodia 220, 221, 223 capitalism 29, 56, 60, 74, 77, 214, 237, 241, 283, 285 captives 51, 225 Carsten, J. 142 Carsten & Hugh-Jones 117, 133, 298 Carter, A. 297 Casey, E. 281 CAW (Common Akha Writing) 17, 19 cemetery 79, 82, 136, 209, 261-262, 264, 289, 294, 310 center 91 periphery 122-125, 137-143, 147, 157-214, 221, 290, 292 ceremonies levels of 248-249, 299, 308-309 child abandonment 248 childbirth 87, 113, 254 periphery 95-96, 98-104, 110 children 59, 93, 112, 118, 130, 139, 147, 158, 177, 189, 193, 200, 206, 246, 247, 248, 265, 268, 279, 286, 293, 295, 297, 304, 308 China 15, 27, 29, 31, 33-34, 37, 4950, 53, 74, 78, 86, 110-113, 138,

148, 150, 180, 199, 204, 237, 240, 242-243, 282-285, 287-288, 292, 306 Christianity 105, 114, 282, 286, 293 circumambulation 106, 112, 145, 208-209, 217-218, 223, 246 civet cat 262-263 civilization 43, 54, 81 clothing 34, 158, 188, 218, 256 Coedès, G. 228-229 Condominas, G. 222, 229-230, 233, 237, 284, 306 colonialism 50, 285 comparison 19, 36, 37, 96, 287, 296, 298, 301, 303, 306-307 complementarity 68, 111, 131, 133, 239, 240, 295 conflict avoidance 77, 285 Conrad, Y. 286 contact point 66, 69, 110, 124, 138, 159, 171, 183, 200, 221, 224, 226; see also axis mundi contempt 190, 302 context 13, 21, 22, 23, 235, 240, 241, 242, 251, 252, 266, 283, 285, 287, 289, 290, 291, 296, 297, 300, 303, 304, 306, 307, 308, 310, 311 continuity 47, 48, 70, 86-87, 123, 129-131, 132, 160, 164, 172, 189, 201-203, 290, 296 continuum 75, 96, 103, 112, 137, 139, 141, 144, 218, 289 contouring 91, 127 contradictions 39, 46, 69, 156, 232, 239, 241, 298 cosmic polity 44-45, 215-237, 240, 306 cosmology 22, 242, 299 cosmos 40, 66, 67, 69, 70, 91, 111113, 145, 147-149, 153, 156, 159, 221, 223, 228, 236, 240, 242, 305 cotton 179-180, 182, 256, 277, 300 council of elders 33, 89, 203 ‘country’ 69-70, 203, 290

ENGLISH LANGUAGE INDEX

couples 66, 122, 127, 130, 131, 140, 150, 193, 194, 198, 200-201, 203, 207, 256, 268, 288, 295-296 courting yard 79, 82, 83, 91-92, 105, 220, 272, 297 Coville, E. 288 creation 96, 109, 115, 137, 146, 172, 201-202 creator 86, 112, 172, 201, 271, 272, 293, 299 critical geography 23, 26-27, 289 cultural autonomy 42, 51 242 complex 47, 48, 52, 283 continuity 48, 283 integration 39-40, 240-242 overlap 241 relativism 76 Cunningham, C. 133 Daniel, V. 102, 292 Davis, R. 81, 222, 292 death 65, 66, 87, 93, 95, 102, 109, 111-112, 114, 132, 148, 152, 159, 163, 213, 255, 256, 257, 258, 265, 267, 268-269, 273, 276-277, 290, 291, 298, 301, 304, 309, 310 of a spouse 268 of outsiders in the village 262 defensive mechanisms 241 ‘degrees of personhood’ 297 descent system 32, 69-71, 83-86, 118-120, 130, 142-143, 162, 175, 189, 193, 260, 268, 294, 303, 310 development 14, 15, 29, 30, 32, 49, 52, 59, 60, 118, 122, 144, 292 deviations 236 dialects 34, 282 diarchic rule 52, 88-89, 221, 285, 290 diaspora 40, 48, 112, 240 discontinuity 164, 203, 257, 298

323 divination 69, 103, 149, 162, 166, 167, 174, 186, 187, 201, 210, 248, 250, 259, 267 divorce 84-85, 88, 114, 151, 153, 290 dog skin 109, 154-155, 188 dogs 11, 18, 32, 34, 58, 109, 130, 152, 154-155, 171, 186-187, 188, 248, 255, 262, 282, 290, 302, 309 domestic animals 58, 83, 110, 119, 122, 152, 160, 186, 226, 309 domestic/wild 79, 121, 290 dominance/resistance models 27 domination 27, 74-75, 237 ‘double’ villages 57 draining forces 42, 53, 65, 67, 90, 110, 141, 153-156, 159-160, 221, 225-226, 239, 241, 246, 251, 254, 256, 287, 289, 294, 306 drugs 102, 305 dry rice 31, 58, 121, 150 Dumont, L. 99, 104, 221, 229, 234235, 296, 307 Durrenberger, E.P. 223 Durrenberger & Tannenbaum 65, 306 earth 69-70, 150, 153-154, 172, 200, 201, 203, 276, 287 east/west 124, 171, 295 edge 94, 101, 209 egalitarian society 32, 43, 75-76, 117, 119-120, 156, 281, 290 elders 105, 107, 132, 133, 136, 138, 146-147, 150, 158, 162, 166, 167, 178, 185, 186, 203 electricity 310 elite approaches 215, 235, 240 Ellen, R. 29, 291, 295 emboxment 215, 230-233, 306 encompassment 43, 45, 74, 99, 104106, 107, 109, 115, 132, 133, 136, 138, 143-144, 154, 216, 221-222, 228-235, 296, 307 contextual 234, 307

324

SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

Endicott, K. 65 entrapment 160, 173, 205, 211, 225, 266-267, 301 epidemic 91, 109, 114, 154, 258, 259, 309 Errington, S. 65, 90, 221, 228-229, 231, 233, 283, 290, 306 ethnic identity switching 285, 288 ethnic markers 76 even-odd 193-194, 303 evil spirits 42, 44, 54, 55, 67, 68, 82, 87, 92, 100, 101, 109, 110, 114, 134, 137, 152, 160, 164-165, 173, 189, 207, 211, 225-227, 242, 251, 267, 276, 296-297, 310 as hunters 267 evolutionary approaches 232-233 exclusion 85, 106, 113-114, 119, 143, 151-153, 285 exemplary center 104, 107, 144, 146, 215, 225, 307 exile 113, 114, 255 expulsion 55, 76, 161, 179, 184-185, 190-191, 302, 310 extortion 75, 281 extraction 28, 74, 75, 106, 288 Feingold, D. 34-36, 284, 289 fermented rice section 177, 209, 252, 302 fertility 65-67, 82-83, 90-91, 105, 112, 120, 129, 139, 150, 200-201, 220-221, 246, 253, 260-261, 287, 297, 308; see also life force; see also potency direction 84, 86, 205-206 mother 127, 163, 165, 256, 295296, 299 spirits 247 field 53, 59, 67, 82, 86, 91, 98, 108, 117, 118-119, 121-127, 122-127, 130, 133, 135, 137, 138, 144, 146, 183184, 274-275, 286, 288, 289, 291, 293, 294-295, 306, 310

establishing 122, 294 marking 123, 294 offering 144, 308 offering basket 124 rotation 123 shrines 118 spirit hut 124 spirit offering 183 fieldwork 13, 15, 21-22, 23, 28, 32, 34-38, 41, 59, 60, 61, 65, 70, 7475, 89, 91, 93, 102, 105, 110, 119, 140, 149, 180, 188, 216, 239, 247248, 250-253, 256, 259, 282- 284, 286, 289, 292, 293, 295, 297, 300, 304-306, 309, 310 fines 67, 88, 223 fire 65, 93, 99-100, 153, 205, 206, 286 fishing 58 flat 91, 258; see also level ‘flesh’ 253, 254 focal center 207 ‘focal couple’ 295 focal point 96, 103, 137, 218, 289 fooling (deception) 190, 192, 204205 forced labor 75, 281 forced migration 281 forced repatriation 305 foragers 79-80 forest 82, 109, 113, 249 belt 58, 122 Formoso, B. 307 Forth, G. 133 founders’ cults 98, 241 Fox, J. 65, 68, 298 Freedman, M. 283 funeral 58, 60, 93, 94, 130, 132, 136, 152, 163, 172, 195, 199, 203, 291, 295, 298, 304, 310 Gal, S. 24-25 galactic polity 44, 104, 215, 233, 292

ENGLISH LANGUAGE INDEX

Geertz, C. 44, 104, 229, 231, 233, 236, 306 gender 90, 122, 135, 138-139, 141, 143, 150, 152, 167, 178-179, 265266, 288, 290-291, 293, 295296, 299, 302, 305 genealogy 35, 52, 119, 131, 172, 201, 203, 204, 284, 287, 295 geomancy 241, 287, 306 George, K. 234 Gibson, T. 77, 298 ginger 177, 181, 184-185, 278, 301 goat 58, 186-187, 188, 204 gold 205, 223, 252 gong 251 grain 160, 201, 224, 299, 305 granary 118, 294 grave goods (brought into village) 261 Gray, C. 306 ground 173 group interaction 25 guests 89, 143, 155, 158, 166-167, 175, 179, 188, 190, 210, 246, 300, 305 Gullick, J.M. 229 Gupta, A. & James Ferguson 24-25, 27, 38, 47-48 Hanks, J. & Lucien 50, 51, 285 Hansson, I. 15, 36, 94, 112, 134, 148, 150, 186, 298 Harvey, D. 26 Hayami, Y. 25, 89, 241, 283, 287, 298, 306-307 Hayashi, Y. 79 headdress 309 subgroups 34-35, 282, 285 headman 15, 33, 51, 52, 56-57, 61, 63, 88, 89, 272, 285, 287, 290 Heine-Geldern, R. 220-221, 223, 228-229, 231, 233, 237, 306 herding 58

325 hierarchy 40, 104-106, 115, 140, 143, 146, 152, 158, 160, 221, 224-225, 228-229, 396 alternative 231 contextual 225, 227, 232, 236 reversals 225-227, 234-236 Hirsch, E. 281 history 25, 28, 30-31, 34, 47-63, 70, 74-75, 77, 118, 237, 239-241, 281286, 288 Hmong 29, 36, 213, 241, 287, 306 holism 14, 26, 38-40, 213-214, 217, 240-242 honor 132, 164-165, 181, 190, 208, 273, 275 honor ceremony 181 hospitality 15, 158 house 117-156, 257 establishment 129, 295 post 123 household 71 establishment 245 owners 131-133, 143-147 passageway 145-146 segmentation 118, 144, 150, 294 village relationships 154-156; see also village-household relationships Howe, L. 229 Hugh-Jones, S. 113, 133, 298 human-spirit origin story 157 separation 100, 173, 189, 202, 205, 207, 211 hunting 58, 89, 142, 183, 259, 263, 266, 267, 277, 291, 302 Hutheesing, O. 15, 29, 307 hydraulic metaphors 148 identity construction 25, 46, 54-55, 75-77, 109-110, 285 ethnic 125, 234-235, 241 identity switching 119 ideology 233

326

SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

illegitimate birth 82, 107, 117, 149, 151, 153, 160, 260 illness 113, 126, 130, 141, 151, 153-156, 160, 162, 163, 165, 168, 170, 177, 196, 197, 203, 225, 227, 245-251, 258, 265, 309 imbalance 44, 51, 126, 162, 165, 262, 295 imprisonment 267 impurity 38, 93, 141, 162, 163, 189, 191, 246, 249-250, 255, 257, 259, 265, 299 incest 84, 113, 293 incorporation 182, 190-191, 222-223, 231-232, 239 indexical approaches 46, 217, 235, 237 Indians 305 individual 38, 40, 67, 120, 143, 144, 203, 214, 229, 233, 236, 260, 285, 299, 305 infertility 66, 87, 112, 113, 122, 148, 151, 193, 205-206 inside deaths 276, 298 inside meat 191, 193, 275 inside/outside 103-104, 121, 137, 157214, 239-240, 288 inside spirit chanting 104, 131, 141, 164, 175, 176, 178, 179, 184, 187, 195- 197, 199, 200, 202, 245-248, 273, 276, 277, 298, 301, 304 inside spirits 247 integration 288 inter-ethnic contexts 52, 233-234, 237, 240 relations 53, 55, 217, 225, 241-242, 285, 287 interpretive approaches 229, 233, 236 IPA 17 irrigation 222, 293 ditch 107-108, 144, 148, 149-150, 151-152, 187, 245, 278, 297; see also spiritual irrigation ditch

systems 31, 127, 282, 148-151, 292; see also terraces isomorphism of space, place and culture 26, 242 Jackendoff, R. 24, 307 Jadae state 48, 49, 272, 284 Janowski, M. 142, 295 Jerndal & Rigg 54 de Jong, P.E. 220, 229 Jonsson, H. 29, 47-51, 118, 281-282, 284-285 Kachin 32, 271, 281, 283, 290, 292 Kammerer, C. 15, 29, 34-36, 50, 54, 65, 79, 85, 89, 137, 281-284, 286290, 292-294, 296-297, 301-302, 304, 306-307 Kandre, P. 117, 290, 297-298 Karen 29, 89, 283, 287, 298, 306307 Keesing, R. 294 Keyes, C. 52 killing a human being 284 kinship 32, 70, 83-85, 120, 193, 288289, 293-295, 303-304; see also descent system; see also marriage system Kirsch, T. 21-22, 65, 220, 306 Kondo, D. 302 Kulke, H. 306 Kuper, H. 27 labor 28, 51, 57, 58, 74, 75, 87, 119, 120, 122, 130, 180, 225, 281, 292 labor rate 180 ladder 103, 112, 135, 148, 227, 246, 248, 303 land purchase 59, 286 land rights 59 land use 122, 286 Lang, H. 28-29 language 34, 36, 41, 58, 111, 125, 129, 134, 145, 175, 190, 194-196, 202,

ENGLISH LANGUAGE INDEX

205, 206-208, 252, 266, 272, 281, 291, 295, 297, 300, 304, 308 Laos 29, 33, 49, 52, 74, 223, 243, 281, 283, 292 Lawrence, D. & Low, S. 27 Leach, E. 32-33, 44, 52, 73-74, 217218, 281, 286, 290, 292, 306 Lefebvre, H. 241 Lehman, F.K. 33, 47, 52, 241, 307 Lewis, P. 34-36, 51, 65, 83, 89, 91, 99, 105, 109-110, 113-114, 122, 129, 137, 150, 156, 182, 189, 248249, 262, 266, 269, 282, 284, 287, 290-297, 299-302, 304-305, 308-310 Lewis, P. & Elaine 31, 35, 86-87 level 126, 134, 258, 290-292, 297; see also flat Lévi-Strauss, C. 45, 117, 298 Li, T. 285 Lieberman, V. 22, 284, 307 life force 65-67, 90, 121, 159-160, 239, 284; see also potency; see also fertility 31, 53, 66, 67, 68, 82, 83, 84, 87, 90, 91, 96, 101, 105108, 112-113, 114, 117-156, 163-165, 172, 191, 193, 194, 200, 201, 205207, 220, 221, 241, 245, 247, 253261, 265, 274, 287, 289, 293, 295- 297, 299, 307 direction 68 lifespan 158, 201, 248, 268, 279, 303, 308, 310 light 99-100, 292 lightning 160, 206, 257-258, 264, 265 Lintner, B. 284 Lisu 15, 29, 33, 38, 54, 56-60, 74, 76, 84, 89, 93, 125, 188, 283, 286, 288, 301-302, 307, 309-310 logging 60 Loimi 33-37, 41, 56-58, 74, 86, 110, 282, 286, 294-295, 298, 304-305

327 ‘lords of the land, streams, rocks, trees’ 288 Low, S. & Lawrence-Zuniga 24, 2627, 241-242 lower/upper 93, 103 lowlands 109, 158-159, 174, 185, 211, 213 relations with 59 Macdonald, C. 117 Maggots 160, 246, 250-251 main house post 128, 138, 175, 197 mandala 44-46, 67, 96, 215-216, 218-219, 220, 228, 233-234, 283, 287, 306 marginalization 54 market 185, 186, 190 market metaphor 185 marriage 119, 268 alliance relationships 62-63 system 32, 70, 83-86, 120, 130, 150, 163, 175, 193, 197, 281, 287, 294, 297, 303-304, 308; see also asymmetric alliance; see also wife-giver; see also wife-taker Marxist approaches 217, 229, 231, 233, 237 meal of respect 85, 106, 223, 292 measles 259 ‘meat in bowls’ 175, 303 offering of 162, 191 menstruation 170, 246, 252-253, 298, 308 mercenary soldiers 22, 59, 75, 281 merit 287, 306 Merry, S. 38 methods 77, 288 microcosm 42, 83, 79, 85, 88, 96, 112, 115, 133, 143, 145-146, 148, 240, 297, 299 middle 90-95, 133-134, 165, 199, 287, 290, 305 house post 138, 291, 296 path 94-95, 199

328

SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

Mien 29, 49, 282, 290, 297-298 migration 26, 27, 37, 49, 50, 51, 56, 60, 75, 112, 204, 221, 281, 286 migratory context 242 minority nationality 29, 284 minority status 286 Mischung, R. 89 modernity 23, 27, 52, 281, 283-284 Moerman, M. 33 Moertono, S. 229, 292 money 57, 75, 110, 176, 179-180, 182, 226, 277, 286, 300, 309 ‘money bag’ 176, 182, 300 monstrous birth 107, 113-114, 140, 149, 152, 160, 173, 213, 246, 255, 258-260, 290, 292-293, 300-302; see also multiple birth monstrous death 114, 213, 255-256, 261, 267, 269, 304; see also multiple death moral/amoral 165, 188, 189, 260 Morton, M. 15, 37 Mueggler, E. 281, 285 multi-ethnic context 22, 47, 242 multiple births (twins) 113-114, 255; see also monstrous birth multiple death 114, 255, 258; see also monstrous death Mus, P. 229 naming system 35, 71, 82, 144 nation state 13, 23, 25, 28, 29, 40, 41, 47, 49, 50, 52, 54-56, 60, 74, 77, 78, 103, 214, 237, 241-242, 283-285, 288-289, 292 ‘navel’ 222 New Year’s ceremony 129, 255, 273, 299 nine 196, 303 noises 160-161, 251, 258, 263, 265 non-discursive practices 37, 43, 55, 76, 78, 114, 143, 156, 171, 174, 213, 239-241, 243

non-incorporation 78, 109, 143, 153, 231 non-linguistic practices 24, 25, 78, 207, 307 non-modern 21, 23, 47, 240, 242, 289 non-state system 21, 23, 240, 289 numbers 193, 303 Nu Quây 33 O’Connor, R. 47, 51, 231 ‘opening’ 170-171, 183-184, 202, 205, 249-265 ‘opening the village’ 260 opium 31, 34, 50, 57, 58, 59-60, 286, 288 armies 75, 80, 281 bandits 56 oral histories 33, 49, 283, 288 oral texts 53, 89, 99, 111, 172, 194207, 220-223, 275, 303 orality 40, 42, 53, 231, 240, 243 origin myths 31, 86, 164, 172, 200201, 302 origins 148, 199, 203-204, 305 orthopraxy 111, 118 outside animals 170, 191, 309 outside death 298 outside meat 191-193, 276, 303 outside spirit chanting 91, 104, 114, 134, 137, 141, 142, 145, 152, 155, 162, 172, 176, 178, 179, 185, 190, 195, 215, 246, 249-269, 276, 291, 298, 310 outsiders death in village 310 method for dealing with 213 ‘owner’ 4, 66, 83, 86, 127, 131-132, 158, 163, 167, 201, 208, 246, 247, 272, 274, 277, 291, 295, 299 pairs 187, 256, 288 Parkin, R. 105, 235 ‘payoff’ 190

329

ENGLISH LANGUAGE INDEX

people-spirit separation story 305308 peripheral groups 42, 43, 158, 234, 240 pests 121, 160, 194 Phami 35-36, 278, 304 Pigeaud, T.G.T. 229 police 59, 75, 102, 272, 281, 287, 301, 305 political dominance 54, 240, 243 economy 239 system 32-33, 48, 52, 73-74, 76-78, 214-215 technology 106, 115, 158, 214, 241 Pollock & Maitland 21 polygyny 151 population 24, 29-30, 50, 56, 220, 230, 237, 241 porters 75, 305 post-marginal 54 postmarital residence rule 287 posts 86, 127, 129, 138, 173, 183, 190, 274, 291, 294-295, 302 potency 24, 42, 55, 65, 67-68, 90, 97, 102, 107-108, 110-111, 115, 121122, 133, 144-145, 148-149, 151-153, 160, 163-164, 171, 173, 215, 218, 220, 228, 237, 240, 242, 245, 250, 258, 287-289, 293-294, 306307; see also fertility; see also life force direction of 65-66, 67, 96, 109, 114, 138, 141, 160, 174, 184, 191, 193, 227, 236, 239-240, 297 generation of 68 hydraulic metaphors 66 power 23, 27, 29, 39, 40, 42-47, 51, 53, 65, 66, 67, 74, 87, 90, 106, 107, 110, 114, 120, 155-157, 190, 204-206, 210, 211, 213, 215, 218, 227-229, 231, 233, 235-236, 237, 240, 242, 257, 265, 287, 289, 290, 292, 298, 306, 307

pragmatic approaches 46, 97, 162, 171, 207, 214, 235, 236, 240, 304 precedence 74, 107-108, 113, 121, 132, 147-149, 174, 190, 293, 300 pregnancy 117, 293 prostitute 117 protection 51, 53, 65, 82, 101, 120, 122, 130, 210-211, 222, 240-241, 258 purity 93, 101, 105, 164-165, 178, 180, 184, 187-188, 221-222, 245, 257, 265, 308 Quigley, D. 283 raids 22, 59, 66, 74, 110, 174, 226, 305 rain 87, 203, 254, 257, 265, 276 rape 305 rats 114, 160, 246, 256, 308 red 58, 134, 182, 252, 292, 297 regalia 221 regional approach 239 regional context 217 Renard, R. 29, 52, 220, 285, 291 residence system 32 resistance 117, 136, 185, 156, 207, 232, 234, 237, 239, 240, 241 to state 115, 242 resources 50, 54, 55, 76, 237, 288 respect 68, 85, 130, 132, 136, 158, 164, 181, 190, 272, 274, 278. 290, 297 respect ceremony 181, 274 retention 184, 191, 254, 310 Reynolds, C. 215-216 Rhum, M. 291, 296 Rice 31, 34, 44, 49, 58, 68, 91, 92, 106, 107, 108, 118, 121, 122, 124125, 128-129, 259, 274, 277, 278, 282, 286, 288, 294, 295, 297, 299-302, 306, 308, 309 harvest 146 measurement 301

330

SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

prices 180 spirits 118 steamer 309 steamer moans 251, 263 ritual/mundane 184-186, 302-303 rituals 118 models of 232 of aggregation 104, 106-107, 144146, 222-224 of dispersion 104, 107-109, 132, 146-147, 222-223 offerings 176-186 suppression of 237 ritual specialists 32, 162, 178, 206 Rival, L. 290 road 59, 60, 273, 286 rotation 130 Roux & Tran 33, 95 ruined engagement 267 rule by force 66, 237 rulers 105, 154, 156, 160, 173, 174, 221, 223, 228-229, 237, 246, 273, 277, 284, 285, 288, 292 sacred water source 79, 107-108, 112, 149, 156, 222, 297 Sahlins, M. 88-89 Sargent, Inge 316 Scholz, F. 36, 298 schools 59, 213, 287 Schrieke, B. 220, 229 Schulte Nordholt, H. 89-90, 231 Scott, James C. 13, 22, 46, 215, 217, 240, 281, 283, 288 semantic approaches 46, 91, 218, 224-225, 235, 291 servant 117-118, 153, 279 sexual abstinence 144, 297 sexuality 139, 145, 220-221, 246, 253, 293 shaman 86, 95, 103, 109, 112, 136, 148, 150, 162, 194, 195, 207, 290, 304, 309 divination 298

trance 136 Shan 29, 33-34, 49-51, 59, 73-74, 89, 110, 143, 234, 281-282, 286-287, 290-291 shifting cultivation 32, 53 Shorto, H.L. 229, 231 silver 180, 182, 185, 190, 205, 223, 278, 300 silver/gold 205 sinking status 215, 231, 233, 236 Sipsongpanna (Tai) 50-51, 277, 278 sky 33, 69-70, 112, 150, 172, 200, 201, 203, 249, 254, 275-286, 287 slope 43, 67-68, 79, 90-95, 112, 115, 126-127, 133-134, 137, 296 Smith, A. & Nicholas David 27 Snodgrass, A. 220, 223, 235 social connectedness 159 social structures 24, 117, 215, 236 soldiers 22, 53, 59, 82, 102, 171, 213, 267, 269, 301 sorcery 306 soul 67, 93, 96, 103, 109-110, 124, 134, 152, 158-159, 160, 164, 160, 170, 172, 173, 179, 180, 186, 188, 195, 211, 247-248, 263, 273, 275, 276-277, 300-301, 308, 310 loss 109-110, 124, 152, 170, 213, 225, 226, 266-267, 268, 300 of rice 124 sounds 33, 251-252, 258, 262, 291, 299, 310 contexts 251 direction 251, 262-263 Southeast Asia 13, 22, 24, 30, 44-45, 47, 51, 65, 68, 74, 78, 89, 98, 117, 131, 133-134, 142, 158-166, 213-223, 228-229, 233-234, 240243, 283-284, 287, 290-291, 295, 297-298, 306 Southwest China borderlands 29 space as actively produced 24, 241 as background setting 24, 242

ENGLISH LANGUAGE INDEX

as constitutive 24 as defensive mechanism 25 as passive 281 as pre-cultural 281 as qualitative 65, 37 as relational 153-154, 221, 242 as technology 27, 40, 104, 115 collection of 79, 96, 106, 115, 122, 145, 147, 153 comparative 240 continuity 125 direction 65, 67-68, 90 historical context 25 in context 24 non-linguistic 24 orientation 67, 90 qualitative 239 signifiers 65 transnational 242 universal dimensions 307 space-time 111, 175, 293 spatial domains 69, 211 spatial tactics 27, 43, 74, 117, 241 Sparkes & Howell 133 speech 21, 24, 34, 37, 194, 206, 236, 251, 272 genres 194 spices 181, 301 spirit chanting 43, 104, 150, 157-214 human separation see human-spirit separation hut 294 ‘spirit chasing ceremony’ 100-101, 142, 146, 211, 263, 274, 289 types of 164-166 weapons 100-101 ‘spirit owners’ 66, 99, 155, 159-160, 172, 201, 247 spirit priest 15, 62, 84, 86, 93, 106, 131, 145, 150-151, 162, 162, 184, 189, 190, 192-196, 198-199, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206-210, 213, 227, 245, 248-250, 252-254, 265-266,

331 268-269, 272, 277, 289, 290292, 297-299, 302-305, 308-310 installation 163 spirit/lowland parallels 207, 211, 218, 221 spiritual calling 245, 254, 308 geography 304 irrigation ditch 144, 148, 152, 245 weapons 212 spit 184, 185, 190, 302-303 stillborn 189, 310 stores 286, 301 strong man 89, 203, 274, 290; see also warrior structuralist approaches 24, 217, 231, 236, 289 Sturgeon, J. 37, 48-51, 53, 56, 284, 286 Subsistence 31, 32, 53, 58, 119, 121, 185, 217, 285 subtribes 34, 35-36 sun 94, 124, 160, 171, 206, 220, 228, 254, 257, 276 swidden agriculture 31, 50, 60, 122 swing 79, 81, 86, 91, 92, 96-97, 105, 107, 123, 129, 147, 149, 156, 209, 264, 290, 295, 299 symbolic approaches 218, 235 symbolic meaning 237 Tambiah, S. 15, 24, 34, 44, 92, 104, 220-222, 229-231, 233, 287, 291292, 306 Tanabe, S. 229-230, 237 Tannenbaum & Kammerer 98, 287, 306 Tannenbaum, N. 65, 222-223, 231232, 287, 291 Tapp, N. 52, 213, 241, 287, 306 tea 177, 179, 184, 185-186, 239, 275, 302 ‘ten beginnings’ 23, 299, 304

332

SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

terraces 31, 49, 127, 272, 283, 288; see also irrigation textual ‘path’ 195-201, 202-206, 304 Thai-Burma border 28-29 Thailand 15, 21, 28, 29, 31-37, 41-42, 49-51, 53, 56-58, 70, 74-75, 158, 182, 243, 272, 278, 281-286, 288289, 292 theater state 104, 231, 233 theft 309 Thongchai, W. 220, 223, 289 Thornton, R. 21, 39 ‘three beginnings’ 172, 201, 202, 271, 277 thresholds 124, 146 throat clearing 100, 124, 161 thunder 251 time 130, 148, 149, 152-153, 166, 171, 172, 174-175, 197-199, 201, 204, 206, 208- 211, 251, 296 Tooker, D. 13, 23, 27, 29, 31-33, 3742, 48-49, 52, 54-55, 60, 65, 7678, 84, 99, 100, 111-112, 118-119, 127, 129-130, 146, 150, 157, 203, 214, 218, 220-221, 223, 235, 237, 281-282, 284-285, 287-293, 295296, 298, 302, 305, 307 top-down models 45, 215, 227, 231, 234, 236 totality 40, 122, 133, 143-144, 146, 68-69, 70, 79, 83, 95-97, 110, 112, 115, 153, 154, 157, 191 totalizing approaches 40, 46, 154, 216, 233, 235, 237, 282 Toyota, M. 29, 37, 285, 289 trade 59, 180, 181, 185, 285, 289 ‘traditional’ 23, 26, 50, 102, 230, 241, 282 traps 266, 267 tribute 28, 50-51, 57, 74-76, 106, 121, 163, 174, 223-224, 284-285, 292 Tsing, A. 77 Turton, A. 48, 52, 156, 222, 284-285, 306

types of plants 182, 184, 191, 265266, 300, 302 types of rice 177-179, 181, 184-185, 263, 300-302 underworld 103, 160, 165, 172-173 unnamed babies 189, 310 upland-lowland parallels 306 relations 73-75, 78, 110, 115, 217225, 234, 281, 283, 285, 307 upstream/downstream 111, 172, 173174, 199, 274 urban migration 289 urination 298 Vietnam 29, 49, 52, 243, 283 village 73-115 as socially constructed 77-79 boundaries 168, 175, 262, 289, 299 establishment 59, 79, 98-99, 288 founder 92 gate, secondary 289 gates 100-101, 103, 107, 145, 264, 292-293, 305 landmarks 79 prosperity 259 ‘ruler’ 87-90, 105, 208, 290 sacred structures 79 segmentation 108, 122 specialists 86 sublineages 60 village/household relationship 176, 207-211, 227, 236, 239; see also household/village relationship Wa people 80, 213, 269, 271, 283 wage labor 286 Walker, A. 224, 283, 291 ‘walled city’ 272, 299, 305 Wang, J. 31-32, 34, 37, 48-49, 54, 240, 283-284, 288 warfare 50, 176, 221, 289

333

ENGLISH LANGUAGE INDEX

captives 51 warrior 49, 89, 222; see also strong man waste products 180, 190, 263, 303 Waterson, R. 23, 45, 65, 90, 133-134, 296 weapons 100, 102, 142, 211, 263, 305 weave (types of) 302 weddings 117, 139, 146, 150, 195, 294, 297-298 officiant 294 Weiss, B. 282 westerners 33, 305 wet rice 44, 49, 174, 282, 288 wife-giver 63, 67, 83-86, 120-130, 147, 150, 193, 197, 199-200, 277, 287, 297; see also marriage system wife-taker 32, 62, 63, 67, 83-86, 120, 130, 147, 175, 193, 200, 276, 287,

297, 303, 304; see also marriage system wild 42, 55, 58, 76, 79, 80, 82, 92, 100, 109, 120, 121, 142, 159, 160, 183, 186, 189, 207, 242, 255, 258259, 260, 261, 262-264, 266, 277, 290, 296 wild animals (coming inside village) 262 wind 122, 203, 245, 286, 304 Wheatley, P. 231-233, 306 whiskey 106, 138, 177, 179, 182, 184, 252, 272, 302 Wolters, O.W. 229, 306 Woodward, M. 289 Xishuangbanna (Chin.) 50-51, 277278, 288 Zomia 13, 281, 288 zonas de refugio 52

Akha Language Index

All terms are Akha unless otherwise noted. ádjǝ̀ Ámɛ́

70, 119, 193 15, 41, 60, 62, 93, 286

193-194, 199-200, 292, 304, 308 Àkà 21, 95, 119, 281 àmánàda 193 àpø̀ lɔ́-ǝ 132, 164, 251, 303 Àpø̀mìjɛ́/Àpø̀ùjɛ́/Àpø̀m̀jɛ́ 86-87, 111113, 148, 205, 254, 293 àpø̀pì 131, 164 àpø̀ pɔ̀q lɔ̀q 118, 127, 129, 151, 175-176, 184, 207, 245-246, 256, 294 Àpø̀ sḿ bɛ íkán 172, 201 àtjɔ̀ 82, 100, 119, 130, 211, 262, 295 Àtsu 15, 80, 112, 141, 144, 271 àghø

Djabɛalàn

172

Djadɛlán or Jadae

48-49, 86-87, 111113, 284, 299, 305 djèjɛ́ 66, 159 Djə̀djɔ́ or Àdjɔ́ 34-35, 282 Djə̀ghø̀ 35, 282 djm 94, 99, 127, 129, 136, 196-198, 295 djmbàn 127, 296 djmghø 197, 303 djmgý 127 djmzǝ́ 129, 138-139, 147-148, 184, 197 dzánmí àma

baan

201 90, 93 dzéhù 90, 292 dzø̀-ə 99, 105 dzø̀dzà 86-87

bɔ́tsàn

dzø̀̀jan lɔ́-ǝ

(Thai) 89, 230 79-80 bɔqlɔq pɔ 135, 142-143, 179 bíjɛ́ 66, 159 bǿmɔ̀ 62, 86, 106, 145, 150, 162, 165, 227, 290 bø̀søq ábɔ́ 300 bùsɛ́ 33, 51, 89 bjɛqtoq

138, 139, 296

171, 211, 301 138, 194 dɛ 91, 134, 258, 297 dɛkhàn 83, 91-92, 105, 149, 297 dɛjá 150, 297 dɛma 127, 150

dzédàn

15, 32-33, 43, 52, 58, 61-63, 67, 79, 82-93, 95-96, 99-101, 103-109, 111-115, 121-122, 124, 127, 132, 138-139, 143-144, 147, 149, 151, 154-155, 167, 193, 207-211, 220-223, 225, 227, 234, 236, 259, 264-265, 286, 290-293, 295, 297, 301, 305 affliction by 155, 210, 227

dzø̀ma

dànò dɔ̀dà

gátán pá-ǝ

129 32, 61, 267 gy 131, 137, 179, 181, 189, 196, 197200, 248, 250, 300, 309 gydjm 131, 198 gykán 93 gù

336 gypɔ

SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

112 24, 40, 42, 65-66, 84, 87, 107108, 140, 143, 148-151, 162-163, 193-194, 200-201, 237, 239, 242, 245, 247, 250, 257, 284, 293, 297-298, 309

gỳlàn

ghánkán djmàkán

94 90, 92, 123 ghoqkhɛ̀ 134, 137, 141, 145-146, 170, 173, 184, 192, 208-209, 248, 253, 258, 266, 268 ghø̀ dzø̀ dàjan 155, 210 ghántjɛ

91, 145, 170-171, 174, 183-184, 187, 191-193, 202-205, 249-250, 262, 264, 309 khɛ̀ ghɛ-ə 91, 249-250, 252, 255-260, 263-266, 308-310 khm̀mà tjì-ǝ 162, 175, 191 khm̀pì játjḿ 124 khm̀pì lɔ́-ǝ 144, 183-184, 296 khǿ khɛ̀ tó-ǝ 171, 183 khǿ nɛ̀q 141, 163-164, 172, 195-196, 200-201 khǿ sjà 191, 275 khɛ̀

ládù bǝ̀-ǝ

135-136 hɔ́mɛ́pɔ 136 hɔ̀ 139, 177, 178, 181,250, 251, 263, 300-301 hɔ́bipɔ

111 71, 118 ímɛ́ 111 íbi

íkán

já dàn

126 126 jásà 80, 93, 255, 262 ja jɛ́ àma 127, 151, 165, 256, 295 jatjiq mɔ́pùq tu-ǝ 132-133, 301 jɔsán 86, 105, 131-132, 143, 158, 160, 163, 166-167, 172, 178, 197, 201, 208, 210, 246, 254, 295 jɔ sá 91, 95, 290 jɔ sjà 91, 95 jɔ sjɔ́ 164-165, 167, 177-178, 184, 188 jɛ́dán pi-ǝ 63, 294 já hm̀

134 170 lá kú kú -ə 248 lan-ə 85, 310 lan dan tàq-ǝ 70, 175 lan dɔ tàq-ǝ 288 làqbỳ 286 làqkhǿ 103, 162-163, 187, 197, 227, 245, 246, 250, 252, 347 làqnjí 103, 162-163, 187, 210, 227, 266, 267 lɔ́-ǝ 132, 164, 181, 183, 184, 190, 208, 210, 251 lɔ́kàn 100, 103, 145-146, 184, 187, 207-208, 258, 264, 289 lɔ́khɔ̀q 107, 149, 303 lɔkà 135, 192 lághoq

m̀

69, 112, 200, 203, 249, 254

maghø

197, 303 170, 175, 196-197, 202,

mɔ́ sjɔ̀ sjɔ̀-ə

208 66, 159 ká jɛq jɛq -ǝ 100, 129, 142, 146, 211, 263, 289, 305 kuq 183, 190 kájɛ́

179 66 khaqma 89, 203, 222, 290 khàpỳ khàlɛ́ khaq dzà-ǝ

Mɔ̀ ǿ jɛ́ sá

248, 253-254 302 mǝ̀ 42, 54, 66, 70, 73, 154, 300 mǝ̀ dzà-ǝ 66 míkhàn 69-70, 203, 290, 297 mí oq pɔ 173, 256 mítsà 69, 200, 203 mí taq pɔ 173 mɛ́ tjɛ́

337

AKHA LANGUAGE INDEX

193 (Thai) 32-34, 41-42, 45, 52, 66, 70, 73-75, 77-78, 81, 93, 100, 106, 109-111, 154, 156, 163, 207, 216, 222, 225, 230, 236-237, 281, 288, 292

193 151, 175-176, 184, 207, 245246, 256, 294, 300 pu 69-70, 78, 80, 91, 99, 102, 109, 176, 183, 187, 203, 209, 210, 249, 258, 259, 261, 264, 290, 301, 309, 310 pu djɔ̀ sjə̀-ə 106, 208, 209 pu dzé 209 pù bɛq 176

mìdzé mìma

písjà

muang

pɔ̀q lɔ̀q

nan mỳ

109 67, 79, 82, 87, 100, 104, 130, 141-142, 145-146, 152, 157, 162165, 167, 170-173, 179-180, 187, 189-190, 194-196, 200-204, 206207, 210-211, 245-246, 248, 251255, 257, 260-267, 296-298, 301302, 305, 308-310 nɛ̀q tó tó-ǝ 162, 189, 194 nm̀ sjí-ǝ 298 nɛ̀q

131, 137, 171, 197-200, 248, 304, 309 njakán 93 njapɔ 112 njí khɛ̀ tó-ǝ 171 njí nɛ̀q 141, 163-164, 167, 170, 180, 195, 202, 205-206, 246 njípà 86, 162, 195 njípà sjí-ǝ 195 njí sjà 170, 191 njḿ 71, 93, 118, 131, 134-135, 142, 144, 151, 179, 197, 201, 245, 291, 293, 296-297 njḿ dàn dàn í-ǝ 118, 144 njḿma pɔ 142, 296 njḿ dzé 93 njḿsán àda 131, 151, 197, 201, 291, 293 njḿsán àma 131, 151, 197, 201, 291, 293 nja

oq doq ghɔ́-ǝ

146

32, 69, 70, 71, 118, 166, 175, 203 pɛ̀zà 69, 71, 246, 288 pìghø 197, 303 pà

300 32-33 sàqlá 93, 163, 166, 195, 247, 263, 268, 308, 310 sísaq 178, 182-184, 302 Sḿ bɛ 172, 197, 201-203 sḿmɛ́ 197, 199 Sḿ mí ó 172, 201 sàlà

sànpà

sjaq

114, 213, 255, 267, 298, 301, 304 114 sjì né tìq-ǝ 166-168, 174, 177, 210 sjaq sjí-eu

tàq-ǝ

70, 175, 288 165, 187, 190, 210 tu-ǝ 130, 132-133, 164, 178, 181, 190, 301 tó dzɛ-ǝ

tjàq í-ǝ

164, 310 90, 92, 108, 123, 151, 177-185, 256, 259, 263, 291-292, 294, 300-302 tju-ǝ 132, 295 tjɛ́

82, 100, 164, 305 105, 132, 138, 146, 208, 250, 265 Tsɔ́ǿ 35 tsỳq 130-131, 195-196, 201, 203, 304 tsɔ́hà

tsɔ́mɔ̀

Ùbjàq Ùló

35-36, 286 35-37, 50, 56, 70, 74, 285-286, 289, 292-295, 298, 304-305

338

SPACE AND THE PRODUCTION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE AMONG THE AKHA

Ùtjǿ

35

ýkhɛ̀

149-151, 187, 245, 297 150-151, 187

ýkhɛ̀ djɛ̀q-ǝ

zán

29, 37-38, 40, 66-68, 71, 75, 8389, 91, 96, 102, 105, 107-109, 111, 113-114, 118-119, 130, 132, 134, 151, 163, 165, 179, 189, 197, 200201, 204, 206, 221, 252-253, 258261, 282, 291-292, 296, 298, 302

Biographical Note about the Author

Deborah E. Tooker, Ph.D. is Associate Professor of Anthropology at Le Moyne College, Syracuse, New York, and is a Faculty Associate in Research, Southeast Asia Program, Cornell University.

Publications Series

Monographs Marleen Dieleman The Rhythm of Strategy. A Corporate Biography of the Salim Group of Indonesia Monographs 1 2007 (ISBN 978 90 5356 033 4) Sam Wong Exploring ‘Unseen’ Social Capital in Community Participation. Everyday Lives of Poor Mainland Chinese Migrants in Hong Kong Monographs 2 2007 (ISBN 978 90 5356 034 1) Diah Ariani Arimbi Reading Contemporary Indonesian Muslim Women Writers. Representation, Identity and Religion of Muslim Women in Indonesian Fiction Monographs 3 2009 (ISBN 978 90 8964 089 5) Euis Nurlaelawati Modernization, Tradition and Identity. The Kompilasi Hukum Islam and Legal Practice in the Indonesian Religious Courts Monographs 4 2010 (ISBN 978 90 8964 088 8) Khun Eng Kuah-Pearce Rebuilding the Ancestral Village. Singaporeans in China Monographs 5 2011 (ISBN 978 90 8964 332 2)

Edited Volumes Sebastian Bersick, Wim Stokhof and Paul van der Velde (eds.) Multiregionalism and Multilateralism. Asian-European Relations in a Global Context Edited Volumes 1 2006 (ISBN 978 90 5356 929 0) Khun Eng Kuah-Pearce (ed.) Chinese Women and the Cyberspace Edited Volumes 2 2008 (ISBN 978 90 5356 751 7) Milan J. Titus and Paul P.M. Burgers (eds.) Rural Livelihoods, Resources and Coping with Crisis in Indonesia. A Comparative Study Edited Volumes 3 2008 (ISBN 978 90 8964 055 0) Marianne Hulsbosch, Elizabeth Bedford and Martha Chaiklin (eds.) Asian Material Culture Edited Volumes 4 2009 (ISBN 978 90 8964 090 1) Hans Hägerdal (ed.) Responding to the West. Essays on Colonial Domination and Asian Agency Edited Volumes 5 2009 (ISBN 978 90 8964 093 2) Derek Heng and Syed Muhd Khairudin Aljunied (eds.) Reframing Singapore. Memory – Identity – Trans-Regionalism Edited Volumes 6 2009 (ISBN 978 90 8964 094 9) Friederike Assandri and Dora Martins (eds.) From Early Tang Court Debates to China’s Peaceful Rise Edited Volumes 7 2009 (ISBN 978 90 5356 795 1) Erich Kolig, Vivienne SM. Angeles and Sam Wong (eds.) Identity in Crossroad Civilisations. Ethnicity, Nationalism and Globalism in Asia Edited Volumes 8 2009 (ISBN 978 90 8964 127 4)

Khun Eng Kuah-Pearce and Gilles Guiheux (eds.) Social Movements in China and Hong Kong. The Expansion of Protest Space Edited Volumes 9 2009 (ISBN 978 90 8964 131 1) Huhua Cao (ed.) Ethnic Minorities and Regional Development in Asia. Reality and Challenges Edited Volumes 10 2009 (ISBN 978 90 8964 091 8) M. Parvizi Amineh (ed.) State, Society and International Relations in Asia. Reality and Challenges Edited Volumes 11 2010 (ISBN 978 90 5356 794 4) Philip F. Williams (ed.) Asian Literary Voices. From Marginal to Mainstream Edited Volumes 12 2010 (ISBN 978 90 8964 092 5) Philip Hirsch and Nicholas Tapp (eds.) Tracks and Traces. Thailand and the Work of Andrew Turton Edited Volumes 13 2010 (ISBN 978 90 8964 249 3) Derek Heng and Syed Muhd Khairudin Aljunied (eds.) Singapore in Global History Edited Volumes 14 2011 (ISBN 978 90 8964 324 7) Sebastian Bersick and Paul van der Velde The Asia-Europe Meeting: Contributing to a New Global Governance Architecture. The Eighth ASEM Summit in Brussels (2010) Edited Volumes 15 2011 (ISBN 978 90 8964 343 8)