Unplugged Photography

Original Peoples of Asia

2005-09-24T22:36:00.001-04:00

Introduction

First, a note on semantics. China has 52 ethnic minority groups. Taiwan has 12 aborigine tribes. Mongolia has multiple ethnic populations, as do every country in Asia. In an attempt to link so many diverse groups and cultures into a maneageable frame of thought, I refer to them as "Original Peoples," a direct translation of "yuen ju ming," the Chinese word for aborigine. In Taiwan, the aborigines are truly are indigenous to the Isla Formosa, possibly the ancestral home of all Polynesian peoples. The other groups I photographed are not original in the strictest sense. In Yunnan, the Tai people (now called Bai or Dai) were the first peoples, and the Naxi and Yi later immigrants from Tibet. The Mongolians are descendents of varied backgrounds as their nomadic and warring ancestors mingled blood of conquered and befriended tribes. I use the term "original" because although they are not necessarily the first, they are the oldest remnants of their regions, having preserved languages and cultures for hundreds and even thousands of years.

The following galleries are images and thoughts from my encounters with the original peoples of Asia. As an outsider in the primarily Han Chinese culture of Taiwan, I felt an instant connection with the local Rukai aborigines, who themselves outsiders in the greater culture. Walking through the colorful streets of Outai, I received none of the curious stares and "Hellllooooo" cries to which I had become so accustomed to on the streets of Southern Taiwan. Another part of the connection was superficial. The Rukai (and Naxi and Mongolians), with their strong features, dark skin, and chiseled muscles frequently fit more closely into the Western mold of beauty to which I am accustomed. They clapped and danced on the two-four beat of songs as in the west, pronounced English phrases without difficulty, and shared certain habits and quirks with which I was familiar. Last, but definitely not least, they lived in the most beautiful places of Asia, preserving fascinating cultures on the mountains and steppes, to which I was immediately enticed.

These are galleries of people and cultures who are certainly no longer in isolation. I am not a great adventurer, rather a fortunate traveler who encountered these original peoples at a crucial point in history. Modernity, and I with it, has reached the far places of the world, and is being incorporated into lifestyles that have stood largely unchanged for thousands of years. The transition from old to new is sometimes regrettable, sometimes welcome, but always fascinating. Satellite dishes feed on solar panels in Mongolian ghers. Rukai tribesmen drive trucks to jobs in the city; fifty years ago there were no roads at all. Naxi guides suprise me with English phrases.

The centuries of isolation, however, are still carved in the wrinkles of each elderly face. There is still authenticity and truth to traditional life, however threatened it may be. I consider myself fortunate to have witnessed it.

*A big thanks to my wife Arianna, the Henry Luce Foundation, Asia Foundation, Pingtung Christian Hospital, Dr. Neoh, Dr. Chou, Ann, Amy, Dan, Ankhe, and all the other Luce scholars for making these marvelous adventures possible.

For what I've been up to lately: http://www.unpluggedphotography.com

2005-09-23T00:00:00.000-04:00

Wind House

2005-09-22T23:59:00.000-04:00

Cross

Fishing at sunset

Floppy

Lanyu ~ Culture

2005-09-22T23:56:00.000-04:00

For centuries the Yami people have derived their sustenance from the sea. With nets, oars, and hand crafted canoes, they venture out in search of flying fish which will subsequently be dried and consumed throughout the year.

Outsiders are treated with much suspicion on Orchid Island. Historically, as in many colonial and exploratory endeavors, the Yami have wound up on the short end of dealings. As Taiwan has changed hands frequently in the past centuries, so possesion of Lanyu has shifted. But as a six-hour boat ride rendered Lanyu virtually isolated until recent years, the island people had no good reason to consider themselves part of Taiwan, Formosa, or any other occupying nation. Now planes and boats make the trip frequently and the Taiwanese utilize Lanyu for recreational diving trips as well as a controversial storage site for radioactive materials.

Life on the island is largely transparent. While younger people own homes, many of the elders still sleep in wind-houses; open-aired huts that allow the cool ocean breeze to penetrate. Consequently I am met with stares, scowls, or piercing disregard as I walk the streets. I try to tread softly. As I travel, I am almost literally walking through a Yami bedroom.

Lanyu ~ People

2005-09-22T23:52:00.000-04:00

Puppets

Dressed in the traditional clothes of Yami men, puppets are used to teach the children about the culture of their ancestors. The Yami are very camera-shy, and in fact generally unwilling to grant pictures. I did make a handful, but in many ways, the varied and lifelike expressions of the puppets do more justice to the Yami than actual portraits.

Our host, the director of arts for the island, was a puppeteer who passed away unexpectedly nearly a month after our visit. I reminded saddened, suprised, but at the same time thankful that we were privelidged to experience his magical world.

Fishing at sunset

Outai additions

2005-09-20T17:17:00.000-04:00

2005-08-29T23:38:00.000-04:00

I Don't Belong Here

Ama's Tools

2005-08-29T13:51:00.000-04:00

Woman with Child

Lukai Baby

Mary, Jesus and Carving

2005-08-29T13:49:00.000-04:00

Handshake

Jesus Face

Place of Fog

2005-08-29T13:47:00.000-04:00

Crying face

Old Woman sewing

Outai Village

2005-08-29T13:44:00.000-04:00

Best way to sell a pencil

Woman resting

2005-08-29T13:42:00.000-04:00

Outai at Night

Looking at the Sun

Poinsettas and Lilies

2005-08-29T13:39:00.000-04:00

Mary, Jesus, Lukai Chief

Church at night

Little Santa

2005-08-29T13:37:00.000-04:00

Statue

Tools

Ama Carving 1

Ama: Rukai Woodcarver

2005-08-29T13:35:00.000-04:00

Ama reaches toward his bookshelf beneath a gallery of awards for his carvings and songs. Photos depict his travels and renown – one on stage in Japan, another shaking hands with Taiwanese president Chen Shui Bien. He pulls out a stack of thin plastic-bound books. “Teaching materials,” he explains. They depict various geometric patterns and the meanings of each color and shape. I glance around the studio again and take note of similar shapes snaking up and down the beams and shelves.

Hundreds of carvings make their home in Ama’s studio, many smaller, ranging from one to two feet in height. But he also created a series of larger-than-life sized figures based on the Lukai creation myths. In the beginning the God Bururunanu created eight people. Two of them, Moa Gai Gai and Kene Lele were married gave birth to the Lukai people. Bururunanu, according to Ama’s depiction, is a huge warrior, nearly eight feet tall, with a square frame and the tools of war in his hands. In the past, the Lukai exhibited their domination over neigboring rivals by hanging heads under a huge oak tree on the boundary line of the tribal lands. Consequently Bururunanu wears on his belt heads with various expressions, some happy, some in pain, symbolizing the supremacy of god over the people. Moa Gai Gai has a baby at her breast to show her fertility and Kene Lele, the father of hunters, carries a deer home on his shoulder.

Ama knows the stories well, having served as a chief for some twenty years in Old Haucha, the original village where the Lukai settled. He carved them as a visible reminder to his people of their history. Now a Christian minister, Ama does not worship Burunanu nor Damao-ounale, a later god worshipped by the tribe. But he draws connections between the religion of his forebears and Christianity.

"They prayed to Bururunanu for food, shelter, and protection. We pray to God for the same things,” Ama says.

Moreover, Ama claims that God has given him the inspiration for his carvings. Years ago he made a deal with God. In exchange for the ability to carve and sing, he would put any profit toward missions. This weekend he was paid by the government to entertain a group of visitors. On another occasion he was paid 20,000 NT ($6000 USD) to perform his music in Taipei. Next week he will be in Hualien, speaking to a group of university students. For his end of the bargain, Ama has already founded one church and is in the process of building another. He also uses proceeds to support an assistant pastor at his church and to support foreign mission teams to places like Burma and Malaysia. On the other end, the Almighty seems to have been faithful to the pledge, for Ama is clearly an extraordinary craftsman.

I am not the first to take note of his skill in carving. A visionary and an inventor, his images have often been imitated. Lukai chiefs are denoted by the symbol of a hundred-pacer viper on their cermonial clothing and homes. From this traditional symbol, Ama created a special headpiece with three serpents which is worn by him alone. He pulls it off the shelf to show me. But it an image I have seen before, carved by others in a nearby aboriginal culture park. “I created this! I was the first,” he says. “Now as soon as I create an image I go straight to the government for a copyright.”

One can hardly blame another carver for imitating him. He attacks the common subjects of aboriginal carvings and paintings with an impressionistic chisel. Thus when looking at his people, focus isn’t centered on the typically fascinating items of clothing, head-dressings, jewelry, and weapons. Nor is the viewer’s eye drawn to the events like the hunt or the wedding. Instead, through Ama’s carvings, one is given a glimpse into the eyes and heart of the people.

Though a minister, his works are far from puritanical. He is often bold, creating scenes of nudity, death, and violence. In addition, there is the huge twelve-foot carving of Damouounale, which his ancestors would have used in worship. He points to the spirit post. “I have been criticized for this,” he says. “How can a Christian minister keep something like this in his home? I believe in God. But this is my history. It is important. And it must be protected.”

Ama is the man standing in the gap for his people, seeking to pass a disappearing culture to younger generations. In his mind, the old people don’t really know the culture and the young don’t care to learn. Thus he has taken the burden upon his own shoulders and set his mind to the advancement his two faiths: Christianity and culture.

In execution, Ama exudes pride similar to my grandfather who grabbed his bootstraps and pulled himself through the great depression with a nose to the grindstone ethic and morality-first motto. Grandfather was a salesman in a time when the job was still marked by integrity and carried out with a sharp concern for appearance, punctuality, and honesty. Like Grandfather, Ama is very meticulous, never without a tie and a perfectly ironed shirt. He weighs his words for both for effect and affect, and they never fall lightly on the ears.
His pride has brought him to his position of leadership in the church and village. It has earned him countless honors, awards, and invoked the audience of the president. Pride is the reason he teaches Lukai art to the children of a local high school. It is a pride of strength, creativity, culture, and of absolute faith. Although God gives him the vision of his carvings, I imagine that he wrestles the wood through every minute of creation, lest it try to change his vision. He is not the sort who will let man, carving, nor anything else have the better of him.

Ama's pride may be hubris. It brews fear for the future of his people, making for tired eyes and sleepless nights. It pushes him to create, but restrains him from freely sharing his works lest they be imitated or stolen. It is staunch independence that may hinder him from achievements only attained through community effort. Ama’s pride refuses to be a pillow, giving him rest in his accomplishments and gifts.

Yet every day pride places him in the space between past, future, God and man on his people’s behalf. If his intuition proves correct, a great part of the Lukai culture may disappear with him. So he waits and searches for someone to stand in the gap after he is gone.

2005-08-29T13:31:00.000-04:00

Jesus Wheelchair

Jesus Fish

Lukai Choir

David

2005-08-29T13:28:00.000-04:00

There is a weightiness about him, a lingering silence that belies the restlessness of his heart. He is a good man, honest, a devoted father, a caring minister, a loving husband. But the valley ground is mud, and each step is made with much effort and much inner struggle.

David was born on the mountain to a father who lived to be 95 and a grandfather who lived to be the same. His eyes show a deep understanding of his world – as I watch him inhale the morning mountain air, it fills not only his lungs, but his mind and spirit. They are the perpetually red-rimmed eyes of a hunter who instinctively rises in the predawn and burns the other end of the night for family. The hills speak to him, and I watch his face as he listens, wondering what the secrets are. There is a deep awe and peace in these thoughtless moments where even the thought of prayer seems a sacrilegious assertion of human will into the peace and still of God’s creation.

Like so many men of the village, a mantle holds David’s crown of manhood, obtained after killing six wild boar. It once was a symbol of great honor, reminiscing the tests that one must pass to become a warrior. In the Lukai society of old, there was a social stratification of Chief, Noble, and Commoner based on birth, with the lowers of society serving the landowners in return for housing and protection. Class status could be changed through marriage, improving or decreasing societal rank based on the choice of a spouse. There was one level of status not based on marriage or family name, however. A noble could born or bred, but a warrior earned his position through his own merit and feats of heroism. Before the majority of the Lukai converted to Christianity in the mid-1800’s, one of the requirements for warrior status was to capture the head of an enemy. As the days of warring passed, hunting remained the standard of heroism. Upon killing his sixth wild boar, a man earned the right to wear an eagle feather and the headdress adorned with the teeth of the boar. Hunters returned to a village greeted by streets lined with children seeking a tasty morsel of success.

In David’s lifetime such a culture has disappeared. He was born a hunter-warrior, but the need for the hunt disappeared as roads to the Lukai villages were built. Feeling he could better serve his people by becoming a pastor, he went to a seminary on the coast of Taiwan. While there he fell in love with a beautiful, petite Malaysian woman. Now the image of her, young and smiling, in a wedding dress hangs opposite the hunter’s headdress. As so many of the Lukai and Paiwan have, they settled in a little city in the shadow of the mountains, feeling it was best for their careers and for their children to receive a good education. Thus our paths crossed, as I was given the desk across from his wife at the hospital chaplain’s office in a neighboring town.

Daybreak is finishing its work, and we must begin the drive home. David recalls making the full day’s hike to Pingtung as a teenager, before the roads were built. Now, piling into his well-worn van, we can make the same drive in a little over an hour. I watch his eyes in the rearview mirror as he leaves his home behind once again, the feet intended to traverse the mountains instead pressing the brake pedal of a car headed back to an exilic home on the coastal plains. They are not bitter, nor sad. But they carry the resignation and confusion of a man who is unsure of his home.

2005-08-26T01:15:00.000-04:00

I want to thank you for giving me the best day of my life
Oh just to be with you is having the best day of my life
- Dido

Combat boots, flannel shirt, hair spiked and bleached. Spotless brown skin, bright black eyes. Well-choreographed dance moves, perfectly rehearsed. A beautiful voice without the slightest trace of an accent. A brazenness of youth unaccompanied by self-awareness. A phenomenal performance.

Most Taiwanese girls dress in one of two styles: cute JC Penny advertisement or Kurt Cobain preservation society. As those on the margins of Taiwanese society, aboriginal teenagers gravitate toward grunge. Mismatched clothes are cool. Dyed hair is cool. Bad attitude is cool. Even though the style is ten to fifteen years tardy, America is cool. And two Americans walking through the slate streets of your village - very cool.

Two friends sit nearby. A male wearing mascara and a female in similar grunge – they are familiar with the performance but curious about the new audience. From a quick introduction we gather she does not speak English. But the Lukai tongue is a member of the Austro-polynesian language group, sharing many phonetical characteristics with English. Thus, even though she doesn’t fully understand her words, she can form them perfectly. And her voice is strong enough that I close my eyes, just might be fooled into thinking I’m really listening to the British singer who made the song famous.

What is the future for a gifted Lukai child? Would anyone other than her audience of four ever care to hear her sing? The stream of Chinese tourists trickling by certainly didn’t bat an eyelid. Roger Lee of Sony paid a recent visit to the village. His purpose, however, was to expose a group of European composers to eclectic instruments and styles such as the nose flute, not to root out hidden talent. I wonder, as the Lukai elders must wonder, where are the young people headed? Moreover, who will they be when they arrive?

One possible outcome is for the young people to be trapped on the mountain. Some of the younger generation may gladly make a career in the tradition of their forebears. Surely there is nothing wrong with hunting, weaving, and farming. But there is an increasing world-awareness among the aborigines. Every family has a TV, some have computers, and most know more about pop culture than I do. In addition the outside world makes a daily march through the villages, pulling up in tour buses, poking around the houses, buying beads, hats, and trinkets, then moving along. The village is a glass house at best, always open for the outside world to look in. At worst it is a zoo.

My wife comments on the faces of several women whom she visits every week. Tourism has just exploded within the past year or two. Thus when we arrived, it was still a bit novel to have guests in the village. It is fun to smile and display goods and there is a hope of a good payday. But the smiles on those faces disappear as reality sets in. The smiles are replaced with lines of resignation, etched as by each person who passes by, gives a slight glance, and then walks to the bus having gained an hour’s entertainment but given nothing back either in terms of money or cultural appreciation.

The elderly tend to be more resilient. I am told that there is a cultural imperception of the insults that seems so obvious to me. “Their hearts are pure. They don’t understand that question,” I was told upon asking if people were offended by government aid. I have seen it firsthand. The tour group comes through, the old woman hobbles over to her sales table of hand-made beads. No one buys anything. She sits down and resumes sewing on a piece of cloth that will soon join the sale rack. She is unfazed. I am perplexed.

A better scenario than resigned bitterness is for the youth to receive a good education, see the world, and bring their knowledge back to the mountain to serve the tribe. One example is Igung Shiban of the Taroko tribe, who moved to Japan for to receive a better education. Upon her return she and her Japanese husband became involved in a land struggle between Asia Cement company and the Taroko tribe. She explains her reason for service: “My husband, who can speak to the older indigenous people (educated before 1945) in Japanese and himself also speaks pretty good Mandarin Chinese, has helped me unselfishly and provided me the resources to dedicate myself to this matter. No one else in our village had the resources to pursue this legally.” The matter of unlawful annexation of tribal lands has proceeded all the way from the coast of Taiwan to the United Nations and is yet unresolved. Even still, the fact that the tribespeople now have a voice is a significant development in the case, as well as a call to educational arms for young people in all the other tribes.

Will they return, however, is the essential question. Mrs. Shiban returned to her people for circumstantial reasons - that her husband might recover from an illness. But what are the circumstances begging the other youth to return? Each young Lukai man is bound to two years of military service required of Taiwanese citizens. Then should he choose to attend university he will be absent from his home another four years. Opportunities on the mountain are few and he has already begun to forge a life as a normal Taiwanese citizen. Is he to be blamed if he remains in the city?

Consequently cultural identity is being redefined for the Lukai. A child may not learn the language, to hunt, or to sew. He or she may live on the coastal plains, only returning to the mountains for special occasions or a visit to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. For children like these, new ideas are being tried and tested, such as creating school clubs and musical groups aimed at retaining and teaching culture. The mirror might speak of their heritage, but a workbook will teach them about it.

One such endeavor is ITV – indigenous television, a government-sponsored station scheduled to commence under an aborigine educational grant in July of 2005. The station’s vision is to serve as an educational and entertainment resource for people of all tribes, with history programs, soap operas, children’s shows, and the like. An interesting twist is that a large number of the actors and workers will be aboriginal students at various universities on the island, thus engaging a disappearing generation of aboriginal youth in learning and teaching about their cultures.

Indigenous youth issues are suddenly on the world’s mind with the recent school shooting on a Native American reservation. But the producers of ITV have already been looking to the world for help, drawing inspiration primarily from successes of indigenous peoples in Canada and the Maori of New Zealand. The vision of their programming is consequently not limited to Taiwan in subject, as they hope to display occasional Discovery Channel and National Geographic features on tribes in other parts of the world. Nor is the programming limited to Taiwan in style. One special feature that has been proposed is tellingly entitled “Aborigine Idol.” There may be hope for the future of my teenage bleach-blond superstar after all. Hope is exactly what she needs.

Celebrating Christmas with Taiwan's Aborigines

2005-08-26T00:38:00.000-04:00

The drive up the mountain is spectacular. Four-foot poinsettias line the highway, fully bloomed, forming a pristine gold and crimson guardrail against the mountain wall. On the ascent to the Rukai Christmas celebration in Taiwan, literally half a world away, the flowers make me feel oddly at home, as if this free-growing symbol of Christmas is more natural than the man-made icons to which I am so accustomed. Already the air is chilly, always fifteen or twenty degrees cooler in the mountains, and this night is perhaps the coldest of the year. A bit late-coming, I hike in to town, passed by aborigines in full garb toting bundles of blankets to keep warm. I have no idea what to expect of an aboriginal Christmas celebration, but whatever seed of a thought exists in my mind is nothing compared to the tree I will encounter.

The school is remarkable even during the day, with its open windows viewing the mountains and the red-dirt track that has bred some of Taiwan's swiftest runners. Traditional carvings adorn the walls, just as in all corners of Outai village, with the interspersion of a few paintings by the more talented children. Tonight, though, spotlights shine down from the school's roof, and a huge stage with a professional sound-system pumps music across the crowds. Hundreds of people fill the temporary bleachers erected for the occasion. “How in the world did they drive a truckload of equipment up here?” I wonder, still surprised by the resourcefulness of the Rukai people. Lights hang from every vertical object in sight and stars adorn many of the rooftops. A manger scene with Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus serves as the backdrop for the event. In a country that is 98% Buddhist, aborigines converted by European missionaries in the 18th century have transformed the mountains into a haven of Christianity, recognizable, but still unique.

A 70-30% split exists between those dressed up in traditional ceremonial clothes of beads, boars teeth, and lilies, and the Christmas costume wearers, predominately santas and angels. The whole show is a continuation of the mixture of traditional with foreign. An Emcee in tribal garb will speak in Chinese, but the chiefs from all the various villages speak alternately Mandarin and Rukai. Songs like Jingle Bells and Joy to the World are balanced out with traditional hymns. Electric guitars and circle dances; on and on the melding continues.

The celebration is a fitting depiction of the current state of the Rukai people. Few sit on the fence between tradition and change. Rather they have one hand in each pot. A few weeks earlier my wife and I watched the Bush-Kerry election results on satellite TV as our host strung together traditional beaded jewelry. Children learn basic English in school and in increasing numbers receive higher education. Yet at the same time, they are taught traditional dances and songs. Young men wear the eagle feather of the hunter in their hats. Carvers pass down their craft to a new generation. The old and new co-mingle.

Wisely, the Rukai embrace both worlds, as the fight against modernity is seldom won. The perks are evident, especially tonight. A people with a penchant for creating have used technology to their advantage. Chained lights lend the stone-hewn church an ethereal glow. Propane tanks heat slate slabs, making a savory surface for barbecuing wild boar. They slash, burn, plant, cultivate, and dry crops using ancient techniques, and prepare crops and afterwards, store them in a refrigerator. Trucks and motorcycles, hand made from scrap parts, rumble through the streets. Years ago such novelties may have been a curiosity to be resisted, but now they are a fact of the Rukai life.

Despite common modernization, differences exist between the tribespeople and their Chinese neighbors on the coastal plains. One of the most evident differences is in music. I am thrilled to hear the audience clapping on the two-four beats of the songs (whereas the Chinese are accustomed to 2/4 time and consequently clap on the 1-3 beat of 4/4 music, rendering dance virtually impossible). Traditional songs are of manhood, marriage, and the hunt, but Christmas hyms are easily incorporated, translated into the traditional dialect and set to familiar tunes. The Rukai sport spectacular singers as well, both in traditional and modern styles, so listening is a treat, especially to one honey-voiced tenor who, had he been born in another time and land, could have given Sinatra and other legendary crooners of Western renown a run for their money.

Various Rukai villages dot Taiwan's central mountain range and missionaries from different churches visited each, resulting in a denominationalism that strongly resembles American Christianity. The Baptist choir from one village sings, then the Methodist choir from another. One of the ensembles even sports choir robes, save for the chief, serving as director, wearing traditional clothes. The Catholics, fittingly, enact a drama centering around the Magnificat and the Virgin Birth. The emphasis is unity, however, reinforced by the popular Chinese CCM song, “In Jesus we are a family,” sung by all. And everyone walks away side by side, illuminated by the hundreds of glow-in-the-dark crucifixes offered as parting gifts.

The music eventually fades and the mountain silence descends over the village once again as people trickle to their homes and vehicles. A cloud-wrapped full moon looks down on the villagers. The moon is the keeper of the celebration, striding confidently across the sky in the same path as when ancestors first settled the mountains. It offers a silent testimony of Christmas, like the mountains and the poinsettas, just as it did centuries before the first missionaries arrived on the island. Suddenly, a world away, I realize why I feel at home.

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Yunnan Province

2005-08-12T21:30:00.000-04:00

Only a foolhardy traveler would skip out on the beautiful Yunnan province in Southwest China in the foothills of the Himalayas. The very beauty of the reigon may lead to demise of its charm as tourists pour into Tiger-leaping Gorge and flood the streets of Lijiang. Modernity arrives at a full gallop, though in a different fashion than the skyscrapers of Shanghai or futuristic opera house in Beijing. Here it is Jeeps full of foreign passengers with news of the outside world chugging up a mountain for a scenic getaway. It is new-era Naxi entrepreneurs crafting their culture so that Taiwanese tourists can take a bit home. Chinese characters are used for writing, while traditional heiroglyphics are preserved as engravings for sale. Older men and women walk the town in their navy blue peasant suits, but ask a dollar for a photograph. Yunnan is not untouched.

Yet remnants of the old remain. Wenhai Ecolodge, a hostel on the outskirts of Lijiang gained international recognition after a New York Times feature. But although a steady stream of westerners frequent the lodge, few venture beyond its walled courtyard unguided. Several hundred yards becomes several hundred miles on muddy horse-paths that lead Naxi harvesters at work in the wheat fields. Further on is a magical old Yi village best reached either on foot or by horseback.

Yunnan is home to a dozen or so ethnic minorities, a widely varied landscape, and magical charm available to those brave enough to venture off the beaten track. The following images attempt to capture that captivating, picturesque world.

Yi School

2005-08-12T21:25:00.000-04:00

Yi schoolchildren

Smile

Wood and slate schoolhouse

Eldest girl

In the Window

Mono Portraits

2005-08-12T21:06:00.000-04:00

Yi Grandmother

George Burns

He

Yi Washing

Daddy's shoulders

Into the mist

Group

2005-08-12T20:51:00.000-04:00

Arianna

Ann and Tyler

Ann and Tyler

Muddy hike

Out for a stroll

Portraits

2005-08-12T20:33:00.000-04:00

Naxi Boys with Umbrellas

Woman harvesting

An ageless face; anywhere from fifty to eighty, but she is limber enough to maneuver through treacherously muddy slopes with her heavy load. Once again I am impressed by the agility of elderly Asian people.

Sick Child

Though smiling politely, the Yi woman must be terrified. Her granddaughter is very ill, and the nearest doctor is a four hour walk down the road. I want to run home to enlist Arianna's help, but she has no instruments nor medicines with her. There is nothing I can do but silently pray as we go our separate ways.

Yi Women

Naxi Child

Details

2005-08-12T19:48:00.000-04:00

Basket of Eggs

Tea and cigarette

Cobblestones

Along with the slate roofs, a hallmark of Lijiang.

Spears

Fenceposts sharpened for driving.

Life in Lijiang

2005-08-12T19:43:00.000-04:00

Lijiang at Night

Naxi Orchestra

Preservers of traditional music through the purges of the cultural revolution now perform on a mixture of Naxi songs on historically Chinese instruments.

Underground church

Early on a Sunday morning I find a curious number of people reading Bibles at a scenic overlook of the city.

Jump Shot

Forgoing the usual rigors of Tai-chi for a basketball workout.

Homework

I was captivated by the idea of carving out a normal life amidst a world of tourists. The school is a haven, it's joyful noises carrying across the city on the afternoon breeze.

Bricklayer

Lijiang is growing rapidly, and many business owners are remodeling and expanding their old homes. Labor is all manual, with an ant-like stream of workers hauling cement and bricks up and down the hillside.

Landscape

2005-08-12T19:08:00.000-04:00

Walking at sunset *photo by Arianna Shirk

Lake at Wenhai

Wenhai Valley

Women and Fields

Grazing

Silver Fields

Naadam Festival

2005-08-11T11:23:00.000-04:00

Young Horseman

Mongolia. The word conjured up a vision in my mind remarkably akin to this image, of rugged, stern men and beautiful animals, immune to harsh winters, capable of conquering continents; last remnants of a dying age where man rather than political circumstance reigns the land, but where nature is still king even over the sturdiest of man.

Blood covered faces stumble down the streets of Ulaan Baatar, skin broken in frequent fistfights. In the rural outpost of Bayankhongor, men wear either traditional leather deels with a colorful sash, or an open shirt to expose a muscular chest. Women dress in western fashion, mascara, heels, pearls, and miniskirts. It seemed a heightened environment where the overflow of testosterone may be tamed only by a barrage of tough feminine beauty.

The annual Naadam festival is a celebration of this rugged land and its people. Horse racing, wrestling, and archery, the three "manly" sports are the featured events of fierce competition.

The three-thousand year-old festival historically served a functive purpose of unifying the nomadic peoples in a celebration where alliances and friendships could be forged. The Mogolian countryside still converges, either to sum capitals for the competitions, or to nearby ghers with a satellite dish and TV tuned into the Ulaan Baatar festivities.

2005-08-10T23:03:00.000-04:00

Walking to the starting line

A silence of ceremony and expectation hangs in the air as riders and families trickle out from nearby Bayankhonger. The horses are visibly agitated, gathering anger that will soon turn to raw speed. They stamp and snort, mysteriously knowing what lies ahead. Veterenarian Dan Schar marvels at the horses: "It's a miracle they even survive the winter, let alone run a 15 km sprint several months later."

The race starts and we also launch into motion, our Soviet van rumbling west across the plains in the most intense audience participation ever into a sporting event. At one point a horse veers off course, right for the van. We cheer the rider on, offer instructions to whip the horse's left cheek, and the pair lurch back on the course eventually finishing third in the most challenging race of the weekend.

Start of the six-year-old race

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Gher

Animal skin-lined homes that have provided shelter during frigid winters and cool shade during scorching summer days for several millenia. A roof flap can be removed to make room for a central stovepipe or to provide extra daylight. In addition, the home can be broken down for transport in a matter of hours, useful for the pastoral nomadic lifestyle, in which herdsmen will dwell in one place as long as good weather and adequate grass for flocks permit.

Ghers and Horses

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First place

The race finish is a swirl of dust, color, cheers, and hoofbeats. Fathers meet children at the finish line, thundering through a human shoot, inches from where I've positioned myself with the camera. Sweat of the winning horse is auspicious; a crowd will soon chase the tired animal across the steppe, slapping the flanks for good luck. The winning rider however, is whisked from the horse, placed in the shade, and all but ignored. His time will come later day as he receives ayrag and gold medals for his efforts.

Finish Line

I am most struck by the transformation of young riders into virtual machines; glazed eyes, dust-caked face, mechanically whipping exhausted animals across the finish line as if they are riding into eternity.

Last Place

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Proud pose

Accustomed to the camera-shy Chinese, I was delighted to find photographs are welcomed, even coveted by the proud young men. Naadam is the days of glory, openly reveled in and displayed for the world to view.

Gallop

I walked out into a path on which riders frequently passed. At the sight of the camera, riders would spur their horses to a gallop, thundering past in a Mongolian version of chest-thumping.

The sight of two riders thundering off into the distance reminded me of the now extinct Urtuunii alba - the Mongolian postal service established by Chinggis Khan in 1234 which employed some 100,000 horses and transported Marco Polo across the steppe.

Riders

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Rider

He wore the thin, piercing expression of a jockey well experienced beyond his years. He seemed one with the horse, as if it were his home, not the earth. His eyes were a bullet. I was mesmerized at this child who carried the weight of life on young face.

Superman's cape

Rider II

Wrestling

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Wrestlers

Legend has it that the odd open-fronted shirts originated in the uproar after a woman won the competition. Referees life the contestant's helmet to start and restart the match, which consists of endless jockeying for position. The first man to hit the ground is the loser, so an attack is very calculated and may up to an hour after sizing up the opponent.

Championship Match

Wrestling Champion

Performing the falcon dance, a symbol of power. Depending on the number of championships he wins, the wrestler will be referred to as a lion, falcon, or elephant for the remainder of his life.

Man and Beast

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Tying the foals

Man and animals live closely together, very much dependent on each other for survival. Foals are tied up to keep the parents nearby, but do not react happily to being bridled. Later in the evening they will be released to graze freely.

Some families will milk the mares who produce up to 2 liters of milk per day during the summer. The milk will then be fermented into beloved ayrag in animal skin pouches.

Yak Milking

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Milkmaid

Milk is a central source of sustenance for Mongolian herdsmen. Mare's milk is fermented into a coveted drink called ayrag. Yak and cow milk will be curdled into cottage cheese that is either eaten or sold to merchants on the road to Ulaan Baatar. Mornings are spent with the animals. The young are penned up at night and release shortly after milking, allowed to nurse only as much as neccessary to sustain them, before being returned to the enclosure.

Milk Bucket

Herdsman

Animals

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Horses

White Horse

Yak

Bull Yaks

Ghost Goats

Landscape

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Mongolian Steppe

The rolling hills and rounded mountains are sparse and rugged through the window of a Soviet 4x4, lurching through creekbeds and dirt roads. No sooner than I stepped onto the land, though, the toughest survivors of life became visible. Grasshoppers sprang from underfoot, with a helicopter flapping of wings. Wild sage offered a fragrant tint to the dusty air. Horses, goats, sheep, and yaks grazed in every valley, livestock outnumbering humans 4 to 1. Life teems under the huge Mongolian skies.

Gobi Desert

Pass north from Bayankhonger

Sunrise by the river

Steps from the warmth of a tent, a chilly morning stroll is well rewarded.

Portraits

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Blue Eyes

Youngest Fans

Amga

Drunk Man, Drunk Horse

Cowboy

Grandpa

Details

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Horse's Eye

In the horse's eye, I am just a speck in the center of an immense lanscape and blue skies.

Prayer cloth

Mongolians practice Tibetan Buddhism, which has made a rapid comeback after the damage of the Soviet era. As I composed a picture our curious driver driver grabbed, serendipitiously providing the missing human element from the religious picture.

Horhock

Hospitalitiy frequently centers around offerings of mutton, ayrag, and vodka, hence a goat was killed for the foreign guests. The meat was cut into manageable chunks and tossed into this homemade pressure cooker along with hot stones, onions, and fermented mare's milk. The result was fabulous, juicy meat and heart-stopping gravy that attracted visitors from all around the valley.

Meat, cheeses, and milk are the favored dietary staples, possibly an open rejection of the Chinese diet of vegetables and fish. As a Mongolian saying goes: "Meat for man, leaves for animals."

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Group

Fifteen passengers in a Soviet van, steaming west across roughest roads known to mankind. There were some harrowing moments before I realized the van could not physically be flipped. We laughed, bounced, screamed, and ultimately relished the adventure.

Picnic

Jason at the frigid Tul river

Martha

Jana

Dan at sunrise

Jason

Dan

Arianna

Me (David)

Elderly

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