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Chinese reindeer wrangler won't be herded into city

Ninetysomething Maliya Suo decided to let the beasts, not the government, determine her path after members of her tribe were forcibly relocated to a theme-park-like site with the soul of the projects.

December 13, 2011|By Jonathan Kaiman, Los Angeles Times
  • Once her tribe's best reindeer herder, Maliya Suo, a last link to the traditional Ewenki language and way of life, lives in an encampment in the woods in northeastern China.
Once her tribe's best reindeer herder, Maliya Suo, a last link to the… (Jonathan Kaiman, For The…)

Reporting from Genhe, China — Maliya Suo is more than 90 years old, but she can still skin a squirrel. In her prime, she could shoot a pheasant in flight. She was once the greatest reindeer herder in her tribe.

In her old age, Suo is taking on an even tougher adversary: the Chinese government. A member of the nomadic Ewenki community that lives primarily in China's Inner Mongolia region, Suo has resisted the government's effort to resettle her in the world of buildings, money and cars.

In 2003, Suo and 2,000 fellow tribe members were forcibly relocated from their encampment to a "resettlement site" 120 miles away, on the outskirts of Genhe, a dilapidated riverside city. Government officials confiscated their hunting rifles and urged them to leave their herd of reindeer behind.

Suo, wanting no part of modern urban life, soon moved back to the woods, where she has been ever since.

"The city doesn't smell good," said Suo, whose deep-set eyes are cloudy and who wears an old wool vest and a pink-and-beige patterned head scarf. She doesn't speak much, and when she does it's in a pained warble. Yet her manner conveys a matriarchal authority.

After Suo insisted on leaving the resettlement site, several family members said they had no choice but to follow because she was too old to live alone; exactly how old, nobody seems to know.

"We go into the mountains because Maliya Suo is in the mountains," said Zhang Dan, a 37-year-old craftsman. "Nobody is willing to move her."

The Ewenki, about 30,000 strong in China, are among hundreds of thousands of nomadic herders from the country's northern hinterlands who have themselves been herded into permanent settlements.

Government officials say their aim is to provide new opportunities for the nomads while protecting the environment from overgrazing and hunting. In some cases, relocations are a consequence of government-backed initiatives to excavate mines on herders' grazing land, critics say.

Officials say they are promoting diversity by bringing nomadic minorities into mainstream society, but the relocations are strictly carried out only on the government's terms.

According to a 2007 report by Human Rights Watch on the resettlement of Tibetan herders, such relocations "often result in greater impoverishment, and — for those forced to resettle — dislocation and marginalization in the new communities they are supposed to call home."

"When changes happen to an ethnic group in this way, so quickly, this can be very painful," said Bai Lan, a professor at the Inner Mongolia Academy of Social Sciences.

The encampment where Suo lives, in a patch of sparse forest in the Greater Hinggan mountain range, is an assemblage of four wedding party-style tents near a shallow stream. There are no power lines or cellphone service. Nothing lies between the encampment and the border with Siberia except a 50-mile swath of birch trees and frozen ponds.

Suo and four others live there, along with a herd of 400 reindeer, most of them owned collectively by those at the resettlement site.

The interior of Suo's tent remains dark during even during the day and smells strongly of wood smoke. Old rags and fresh meat hang side by side in the tent from lines strung across its metal frame. Plastic trinkets mingle with animal bones on a crude wooden shelf in the corner

Suo, a last link to the traditional Ewenki language and way of life, spends her days sitting on her bed or on the ground in the tent, munching on pine nuts and tending the fire.

Day-to-day life at the encampment, which is packed up and moved every few months, is guided by simple survival. The herders spend many of their waking hours chopping firewood in preparation for the winter, when the temperature can reach 40 degrees below zero and snow piles up waist-high.

Before the Ewenki were resettled in 2003, the reindeer were used mainly to haul tepees and bedrolls on long expeditions to hunt for moose, bear and wild boar. Economic necessity has transformed them from beasts of burden into money makers: The herders now make a modest living selling their antlers for use in traditional Chinese medicine.

The herders subsist on reindeer milk, a staple of the Ewenki diet, and whatever game they can find in the woods, supplemented by garlic and cabbage from the city.

Squirrel is a special treat, and occasionally one of the hunting dogs nabs a roe deer; the herders immediately eat its liver raw and save the rest for later.

"We've always depended on our hunting for survival," said Ma Lindong, 45, a herder who is married to one of Suo's nieces. "If we don't have that, then what else do we have?"

The resettlement site, called Aoluguya, Ewenki for "grove of poplars," has a different set of problems.

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