The Telengits of Southern Siberia: Landscape, Religion and Knowledge in Motion (Routledge Contemporary Russia and Eastern Europe Series)

The Telengits of Southern Siberia

This new and engaging study explores the religion and world outlook of the Telengits of Altai. It provides an account of the Altai, its peoples, clans and political structures, focusing primarily on the interactions between different modes of religiosity exhibited among the Telengits, in a situation when formal state structures begin to influence religious choices of the citizens. As the demand for national recognition grows among such people, and with it the development of new, post-Soviet state structures built around the nation, religion too begins to become formalized, and loses its all-pervasive character. With the Telengits, this takes the form of a debate as to whether the state religion of their polity is to be Buddhism or, contrary to the character of practices of local shamans, a formal, structured, fixed shamanism. This is a comprehensive anthropological account of the contemporary religious life of the Telengits; holding important implications for wider debates in sociology, anthropology and politics. Agnieszka E. Halemba has conducted anthropological research in southern Siberia since 1993. She received her first degree from the University of Warsaw, Poland. In 2002 she received her PhD in social anthropology at the University of Cambridge, UK. She is currently a Postdoctoral Researcher at the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology in Germany, and a Visiting Lecturer at the Institute of Ethnology and Cultural Anthropology, University of Warsaw, Poland.

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The Telengits of Southern Siberia Landscape, religion and knowledge in motion Agnieszka E. Halemba

The Telengits of Southern Siberia Landscape, religion and knowledge in motion

Agnieszka E. Halemba

First published 2006 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group © 2006 Agnieszka E. Halemba

This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2006. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Halemba, Agnieszka, 1970– The Telengits of Southern Siberia : landscape, religion, and knowledge in motion / Agnieszka Halemba. p. cm. – (Routledge contemporary Russia and Eastern Europe series; 7) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Telengit (Turkic people) – Religion. 2. Altai Mountains Region – Religion. I. Title. II. Series. BL2370.T35H35 2006 299⬘.433–dc22 ISBN10: 0–415–36000–5 (Print Edition) ISBN13: 978–0–415–36000–5

2005023108

Contents

List of plates Acknowledgements A note on languages Introduction

ix xi xiii 1

Structure of the book 3 The situation in the Altai since 1999 5 PART I

Landscape and movement 1

The Altai, the Altaians and the Telengits

9 11

The Altai 11 The Republic of Altai – political structure 14 The Altaians 16 The Telengits 20 Clan composition of the Southern Altaians 22 What is the Altaian religion? 27 2

Sacred land and the significance of places

39

Ere Chui 42 Villages 50 3

Moving through a powerful landscape Altaidy˘ eezi and Altai Kudai 63 Sacred mountains 67 Taming the land 70 Travelling with town-dwellers 71

62

vi

Contents Travelling in Ere Chui 78 The land and the personhood 85

4

Rites of springs

88

A trip to Buguzun arzhan suu 90 The senses and the experience of place 103 Ritual, difference and consensus 105 PART II

Ritual and knowledge

109

5

111

Chaga bairam Chaga bairam among the Telengits and in Inner Asia 111 Chaga bairam in Kökörü village 115 Communal celebrations of Chaga bairam in Kökörü 120 The variety of practices: Chaga bairam elsewhere in Ere Chui 124 Complexities of the communal 127 Chaga bairam in the Republic of Altai 131 Unification 133

6

Ontology of the spirits

135

Cosmology 136 The occult 138 Modes of existence of the spirits 140 Knowing the spirits 141 Varieties of understanding 147 Seeing more 149 Searching for the spirits 150 7

Lamas and shamans

151

‘People who know’ in Ere Chui 154 Lamas 160 The institutionalization of religion 163 8

Ritual and revival Altai tagylga in an Inner Asian context 168 Remembering the rituals 171 Reviving Altai tagylga in Ere Chui 178 The case of Saratan – continuance of ritual practice 180

166

Contents vii Ritual practice and religious authority 182 Political significance of the communal ceremonies 184 Conclusions

187

Glossary Notes References Index

196 199 208 217

Plates

2.1 2.2 2.3 3.1 3.2 4.1 5.1 7.1

Üle next to Kurai village, a popular stopping on the international road Chuiskii Trakt Telengit family in front of kiiis aiyl – a felt tent Kurai village Tepse˘ bash – a sacred yiyk mountain next to Beltyr village Turguzu – a vessel for spirits, a marker of spirit presence in the house Sa˘ ceremony at Buguzun sacred-healing spring (arzhan suu) Family Chaga bairam in Kökörü Daughter of Bidnova örökön showing tü˘ür of her mother

45 49 53 69 84 96 119 158

Acknowledgements

I am grateful to the many Telengit and Altaian families who hosted me during my fieldwork. It is impossible to mention them all, so here I will limit myself to those few who have given me unwavering support over the course of many years. My warmest gratitude goes to Dinara Paraeva-Achubaeva, her family and friends for unconditional help, encouragement and trust. Special thanks to Nina D. Shonkhorova and her family. Her house in Kosh-Agach was for me a little haven of peace and quiet. Nina N. Yakoyakova and her family offered me genuine friendship and acceptance as well as help with the Altaian language. Heartfelt thanks go to Vera K. Alchinova and her family for their constant support, assistance in fieldwork and above all for choosing me to be kindik ene of Vera’s daughter Agnesha Alchinova. I have fond memories of my many friends in the various villages of the Altai. Special thanks are due to the people of Kökörü, Beltyr and Kurai, as well as other villages in the district of Kosh-Agach: Ortolyk, Telengit Sortogoi, Chagan Uzun, Mukhor Tarhata. I also greatly appreciate help offered by the people of Saratan, Balyk tuyul’, Pasparta and Ust Ulagan (district of Ulagan); Kyrlyk, Mundur Sokkon and Ust kan (district of Ust Kan); and Ongudai (district of Ongudai). I sincerely thank the administration of the district of Kosh-Agach and of all the villages of the district, especially the staffs of the Houses of Culture and libraries. I would like to acknowledge the help of the Gorno-Altaisk State University, especially Rector Yuri V. Tabakaev, who facilitated my year-long visit to the Altai. During my research in Gorno-Altaisk, the capital of the Republic of Altai, I benefited from fruitful discussions with many people, including Svetlana Tyukhteneva, Vasilii Oinoshev, Nadezhda Surkasheva, Mergen Kleshev, Brontoi Bedyurov, Nikolai Sodonokov, Altaichy Sanashkin, Nikolai Shodoev, Aleksandr Bardin, Anton Yudanov, Vladimir Kydyev, jaisa˘dar of Altaian clans, members of Tös törgö, journalists of the Altaian newspaper Altaidy˘ Cholmony, chief editor of P.S. newspaper Nikolai Vitovtsev, and many, many others. I would like to express my utmost gratitude to my PhD supervisor, Professor Caroline Humphrey. She agreed to supervise my research when I first went to Cambridge as a British Council Research Fellow in 1997. Thanks to her encouragement I started my PhD research under her supervision, and over the years to come she offered guidance, patience and support. My deepest thanks and

xii

Acknowledgements

appreciation go to Dr Piers Vitebsky for including me in the research activities of the Anthropology, Russian and Northern Studies Group at the Scott Polar Research Institute, University of Cambridge. I benefited immensely from his advice, support and unfailing optimism. I benefited greatly from discussions with many colleagues, and I can only mention a few of them here: David G. Anderson, Tanya Argounova, Ludek Broz, Brian Donahoe, Rebecca Empson, Katharina Gernet, Joachim Otto Habeck, Martin Holbraad, Hurelbataar, Carlos Mondragon, Morten Pedersen, Andrzej Perzanowski, Fernanda Pirie, Johan Rasanayagam, Istvan Santha, Vera Skvirskaja, David Sneath, Katherine Swancutt, Virginie Vate, Sari Wastell, Rane Willerslev, Emma Wilson. Among the many people whose support and advice I want to acknowledge, I would like to single out Œukasz Smyrski (Institute of Ethnology and Cultural Anthropology, University of Warsaw). His encouragement, advice and unconditional support have been a driving force for many years of my work in Altai and the neighbouring republics. I am also grateful to him for permission to use his photographs in my book. The writing of this book was made possible by a Richard Carley Hunt Fellowship, granted by the Wenner-Gren Foundation. The 12 months of fieldwork in Altai in 1998–9, during which I gathered the core material for this book, was supported by UNESCO Hirayama/Silk Road Programme and research grant (1 H02E 029 14) of the State Committee for Scientific Research, Poland. At various stages the research that has led to this book was also supported by H.M. Chadwick Fund, Leverhulme Trust, Soros Foundation and the Royal Anthropological Institute. In the final stages of writing I benefited from the academic atmosphere of the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology in Halle, where I am presently based as a postdoctoral researcher. Finally, I would like to thank my parents for their unconditional support and ask them to forgive me for pursuing work and studies that have kept me living so far away from them for all these years.

A note on languages

All Telengit, Altaian and Russian words are italicized. Most of the words used in this book are Telengit, and they also correspond to the Altaian vocabulary. Wherever Russian words are used, this is marked clearly in the text. The transliteration system from Cyrilic alphabet is included below. According to this transliteration system the name ‘Telengit’ should be transcribed ‘Tele˘it’. Still, I decided to adopt a version which is already well established in the literature in English and Russian. I use the plural form ‘Telengits’ instead of the plural used in the Telengit language ‘Tele˘itter’, to make reading easier for an English-speaking audience. Cyrilic (Russian)

Latin

Cyrilic (Telengit)

Latin

a б

a b v g d e e zh z i i k l m n o p r s t u f kh ts

a б

a b v g d e — zh z i i k l m n o p r s t u — kh —

B

г д e ё ж з и й к л M H

o п p c T

y

ф

x ц

B

г д e — ж з и й к л M H

o п p c T

y — x —

(continued)

xiv A note on languages Continued Cyrilic (Russian)

Latin

Cyrilic (Telengit)

Latin

ч ш щ ъ ы ь э ю я

ch sh shch ‘’ y ‘ e yu ya

ч ш щ ъ ы ь э ю я ö ÿ j

ch sh shch ‘’ y ‘ e yu ya ö ü j (as in English “juice”) ˘ (as “ng” in English “long”)

b

Introduction

Ailu-kündü Altaiym, Altyn syndu Altaiym, Eelü ene Altaiym, Erjinelü bai Altaiym, Erkemendü kin Altaiym, Agash-tashtu Altaiym Kulja ta˘malu Altaiym

My Altai of the Moon and Sun My Altai of the golden ridge My eelü mother Altai My rich treasured Altai My beloved native Altai My Altai with trees and stones With ornamented seal my Altai (Alkysh – hymn of praise, blessing: Muytueva and Chochkina 1996: 27)

This book is devoted to an exploration of contemporary religious life among the Telengits – the people living on the Russian side of the Mongolian–Russian– Chinese border within the Altai Mountains. I have chosen to start with the alkysh – a blessing, a hymn of praise – to the Altai, because the Altai as both land and spiritual entity is of the utmost importance for the people among whom I worked. Among the Telengits, words like these are used on numerous occasions: as part of the blessing in a wedding ceremony; during rituals of land worship; at ceremonies to mark the beginning of a new year; as opening words at locally organized conferences and meetings devoted to discussions on the future of the Altai and its inhabitants. The main theme of this book is the contemporary religious life of the Telengits, placed within the broader context of the social and political changes taking place in the Republic of Altai in the 1990s. It is based on research I have carried out among the Telengits since 1993, though most of the material presented in this book was collected during the 12 months I spent in the Altai from August 1998 to September 1999.1 Throughout this book I use real names of people and real place-names, apart from a few occasions when the issues discussed concerned deeply emotional and private matters. At the beginning of the 1990s many anthropologists began conducting research in the former Soviet Union, a region which for political reasons had not been easily accessible to foreign researchers before that date.2 Many of them were fascinated by the so-called national-cultural revival (natsionalno-kul’turnoe vozrohdenie),3 which lends itself quite willingly to interpretations within the ‘creation of

2

Introduction

tradition’ approach (Hobsbawm and Ranger 1983). It seemed that almost everywhere, from the Ukraine to Kamchatka, new history books were introduced, new monuments to national heroes erected, new national symbols designed and new national festivals introduced. The covering phrase for these all processes, which was used locally by the intellectual elites, was precisely ‘a national-cultural revival’. At the beginning of my research in the Republic of Altai I was fascinated by the activities of the mostly city-based, educated Altaians, who were incredibly productive and resourceful in generating ideas concerning the future of the Altaian nation and propagating them by means of local media networks, organizing conferences or attending meetings with people even in regions far away from the Republic’s capital, Gorno-Altaisk. Hence, my first work on the Altai and subsequent publications (Halemba 1995, 1996, 2000a,b) concerned these activities and were theoretically inspired by works on national identity and nationalism by Gellner (1983), Hobsbawm and Ranger (1983) and Anderson (1983). Although the Altaian intellectuals cannot be treated as a homogenous group and individuals often adhere to very different visions for the Altaian future, they are nevertheless united by their goals. These are people, mostly trained within the Soviet higher education system, who want to have a say in the shaping of a cultural and national future of their nation. In the Altaian case, they often see themselves as the intellectual elite of the Altaian nation (collective articles in the local press are sometimes even signed using a common ‘altaiskaia inteligentsia’ authorship), although they may not agree on whether this nation actually exists or will exist in the future. It is certainly true to say that there is an identifiable group of prominent intellectuals who are well known in the Republic and who actively participate in public life. The present book, however, is not an analysis of the notion of ‘national intellectuals’, nor is it about a detailed description of their activities. Rather, certain ideas that underscore seemingly diverse or even apparently contradictory objectives of the Altaian intellectuals, serve as a background for an analysis of the contemporary religious life of the Telengits, one of the Altaian groups that has been caught up in, but is also actively engaged in shaping, the contemporary processes of ‘national-cultural revival’. One of the main areas of activity of national Altaian leaders since the 1990s has been a search for communal celebrations that might serve as national unification ceremonies (cf. Connerton 1989). I was struck by the fact that while some of the suggested ceremonies have been willingly accepted and have quickly evolved into popular mass gatherings, others have been much more difficult to introduce, while still others have been impossible to implement at all, despite numerous attempts. It seemed plausible that in order to understand the complexities of contemporary processes, one should carry out research at the intersections of these processes and of the basic practices and notions of the everyday life of the people. As religion was one of the most hotly discussed subjects, both in the capital and among the Telengits, I decided to ground my research in that sphere, and this book is an outcome of that endeavour.

Introduction 3

Structure of the book This book is arranged in two parts, each divided into four chapters. The first part of the book is concerned with identifying and analysing the most salient dimensions of Telengit life, namely landscape and movement. Chapter 1 provides basic information about the Altai, the Republic of Altai and its inhabitants. It shows that the Altai is a name of the chain of mountains, but it is also a notion, which plays an important part in the imagination of people in Russia and in the mythology of Turkic-speaking peoples throughout the world. In this context, the Altai is attributed an air of mystery, and considered either as a far-away, mystical place of origin or a beautiful land possessing powerful energy. The relations between the Telengits and the larger national group of the Altaians are explored, including the ways in which the political situation in the region during the twentieth century facilitated the construction of these notions. The contemporary processes of ‘national-cultural revival’ are then introduced, and attempts to create national unity among the Altaians are highlighted in the discussion of ethnic and clan structures and the contemporary religious situation in the region. Chapter 2 identifies the land as the primary component underscoring everyday practices (including religious ones) in Telengit life. It shows that connection with the land is the most important aspect of Telengit and Altaian identity. People and land are so tightly bound together that at times they cannot be conceived as separate, qualitatively different ontological entities. This chapter also refers to anthropological discussions on different ways of experiencing landscape (Bender 1995; Hirsch 1996; Humphrey 1995; Feld and Basso 1996; Ingold 2000; Pedersen 2003) and distinguishes between the district of Kosh-Agach as an administrative unit and Ere Chui as a notional area. Chapter 3 focuses on movement as the second underscoring component of Telengit life. Movement is important both in its literal meaning (mobility underlies Telengit life as in many other regions of Inner Asia) and in its metaphorical extension. Mobility is crucial in everyday practices and the perception of land changes as people travel through the Altai. The places are not necessarily attributed with fixed meanings, but instead, the perception of place changes with a person’s movement. The basic religious notions used among the Telengits are introduced as well as different types of sacred, meaningful and powerful places. The way in which the places are present within the domain of national ideology is juxtaposed with the Telengit practices of moving through the landscape. Chapter 4 provides a detailed analysis of interactions between people and one particular type of sacred place – a healing spring (arzhan suu). The focus is on the sensual experiences of people visiting the spring, who contend that the power in places can be felt, even if it is not represented in the form of spirits. This chapter also introduces the first analysis of ritual practice. People argue over the details of a given ritual and arrive at the agreement necessary for the ritual’s performance, after which this agreement is lost again. In this context the ritual does not exist as a set of rules that may be explicated in the absence of ritual practice.

4

Introduction

The second part of the book, building on the notions introduced and analysed in the first part, explores Telengit ritual practice and spiritual knowledge. Mobility, which underlies their practice and ideas about land, can also be seen in their attitude to religious knowledge. In turn, such an understanding often comes into conflict with a notion of religion as understood in the context of contemporary national ideology. Chapter 5 brings together three lines of argument: nation-building, ritual, and the significance of place. It does this through analysis of a ceremony to celebrate the beginning of the new year according to the lunar calendar (Chaga bairam). This ritual survived during the Soviet time especially strongly in one particular village in the Kosh-Agach region. The chapter explains why the survival of this ritual in this particular place is important and what role this rite plays in contemporary processes of nation-building. It also introduces in more detail a theme of the contemporary Buddhist influences in the Republic and their affinity with the goals of national ideology. Chapter 6 offers a detailed exploration of basic concepts within local animistic religious traditions. Drawing on the theory of the agency of objects developed by Alfred Gell (1999), it proposes the understanding of spirits as indices of the occult. It also explores the context in which the need for more fixed images of spirits becomes important and identifies three such areas: clan structure, influence of national ideology, and encounters with institutionalized religious traditions. Chapter 7 shows why in the local animistic religious traditions the process of understanding is more highly valued than the content of the knowledge gained. It can be said that knowledge of local religious practitioners is always in motion. The practice of kamdar (shamans) and other biler ulus (‘knowledgeable people’) is based on the interaction with ever-changing worlds of spirits. The verdicts and judgements of these spiritual specialists can never be certain and arguments concerning the power of particular knowledgeable people should be viewed as an integral part of religious life. Such an understanding of religious knowledge is compared with the kind of knowledge and authority held by religious specialists working within institutionalized religious traditions, such as Buddhism (Ortner 1978; Mumford 1989; Samuel 1990, 1993; Mills 2003). The categories of ‘lamas’ and ‘shamans’ are viewed as ideal types, understood as spiritual specialists who respectively see knowledge as ‘a corpus of things to be known’ and as ‘a process of understanding’. The argument also explores the reasons for the growing support for Buddhism on the part of local national ideologists. Chapter 8 brings together all the above arguments concerning landscape, knowledge, movement, nation-building and different kinds of spiritual authority. It refers to a broad spectrum of Inner Asian studies concerning communal rituals of land worship. Through an exploration of the contemporary attempts at reviving one communal ceremony (Altai tagyry) it address issues of knowledge and its applicability in various ritual and political contexts. It also explores the ways in which rituals are legitimated and clarifies how the specific conceptualizations of spiritual knowledge underscore the contemporary dialogue between Telengit

Introduction 5 religious practice and national ideology. While the Telengit shamans and biler ulus see spiritual understanding as a fluid and unfixed process of negotiation, national ideologists are concerned with the content of knowledge and the authority of religious specialists.

The situation in the Altai since 1999 As noted earlier, this book is based mainly on material collected in the Republic of Altai through the 1990s. Although the processes of ‘national-cultural revival’, which helped provide me with insights into the religious life of the Telengits, still influence life in the Republic, they are no longer discussed as hotly as in the 1990s. This is largely because the people of the Republic have witnessed important recent changes that have understandably occupied their attention. In the summer of 2003 I was returning to Gorno-Altaisk, the capital of the Republic of Altai, from Kosh-Agach. I asked my friend who was driving to stop next to a big arzhan suu (a sacred healing spring) close to the international road (Chuiski Trakt), some 30 kilometres from the capital. I remembered from my previous visits that it had been the first place in the Republic where one could buy souvenirs, photo albums and CDs and tapes of Altaian music, and I was eager to see what was new. I got out of the car and started walking towards the first wooden counter offering souvenirs, when my friend asked: ‘Are you going to walk all the way down?’ It was only then, when I looked away from the glittering goodies on the first stall, that I saw a long line of stalls, disappearing beyond a curve in the road. On my previous visits there had been just three or four modest counters. The vendors, almost exclusively Russian, were offering all sorts of books, postcards, guides, wooden sculptures of so-called Altaian spirits, musical instruments, horse whips, figurines of animals, stones carved with mysterious signs and so on. I spotted a young Russian man with a falcon on his arm and another one, a little older, dressed in an Altaian chegedek, which is a kind of long waistcoat usually worn by married Altaian women, and curious-looking headwear. Both were offering to be photographed for a fee – respectively with the falcon and in what was advertised as ‘traditional Altaian costume’. The place was crowded with tourists. It was the first time I myself have experienced what my friends were writing in their letters sent to me in Europe – namely, that the Altai has become a mass-tourist destination in the past couple of years. Tourists have been visiting the Altai since Soviet times, but their numbers only reached significant proportions in the late 1990s, a time when international tourists also began to arrive. The growing presence of visitors, the investments made by tourist businesses, as well as the initiatives of NGOs and international organizations concerned with environmental protection all evoke a range of responses and emotions among the local inhabitants. On one hand, tourism is seen as a potential source of income, encouraging some local entrepreneurs to secure a niche for themselves in an industry hitherto occupied mainly by business people from the big Siberian cities of Novosibirsk, Tomsk, Barnaul, or even from

6

Introduction

Moscow. On the other hand, local communities try to find a way of communicating to tourists and investors about the relationships that exist between the Altai and people living there. Examples of early stages of this process of communication are given in Chapter 3. Yet, in order to be ‘taken seriously’ as partners during negotiations with various stakeholders (which today also include environmental NGOs and international organizations such as WWF, UNESCO or UNDP), the local people have to present their position on issues such as the significance of sacred sites. I hope that by the end of this book it will be clear to the reader that this is not an easy task. The situation in southern Siberia reminds me of the processes studied by the Comaroffs in Africa (1992), which led them to develop a concept of the ‘colonization of consciousness’. They argue that faced with the need to discuss their religious beliefs with missionaries, the Tswana had to present these beliefs as a clearly structured whole and learn to argue their point of view in a way understandable to the missionaries. The Comaroffs write: For the Tswana, the encounter with a people preoccupied with techniques of self-representation and rationalisation brought forth a sense of opposition between sekgoa (European ways) and setswana (Tswana ways). The latter was perceived, for the first time, as a coherent body of knowledge and practice in relation to the former, which they have learned to see as the system of belief. Similar processes can be seen in the Altai today. Material presented in this book concerns Altaian encounters with national ideology, but other processes taking place in the Altai also involve conversation and negotiation. On top of these profound changes, came another one – an event that has since overshadowed the lives of people in the Altai. On 27 September 2003 the Altai was shaken by an earthquake, the first in a long line of quakes, which continue to the present day. The most affected region is the one where I have worked – the district of Kosh-Agach. In Chapter 2 I describe the village of Beltyr as it existed in the 1990s. This village, as I remember it, does not exist any more. There are still people living in the wooden houses that survived the earthquakes, but many Beltyr inhabitants moved away to other villages, or even further away to other districts in the Republic. Most are still waiting for the houses in the village of New Beltyr, planned by the authorities and sponsors on the barren steppe close to the district centre, to be completed. It may be that some people, especially those working in the local cooperative farm (a successor of a Soviet kolkhoz) will stay in the valley among the mountains, where the old Beltyr was situated, but the lives of all the local people have been profoundly changed as a result of the recent earthquakes. Although I worked in other villages in Kosh-Agach and beyond – and I think with fondness of my many acquaintances and friends living there – I am sure that they will judge me kindly when, in this difficult situation, I dedicate my book to the people of Beltyr. There are also other, more subtle but equally significant changes in the Kosh-Agach district, mostly related to activities and aspirations of a younger

Introduction 7 generation. For example in the Kökörü village some people joined a Christian movement of ‘New Life’, claiming either that religion of their parents cannot provide them with moral guidance necessary in contemporary life, or that Christianity gives them salvation from a burden of dangerous shamanic heritage. Some of the people, whom I knew as teenagers in Kyzyl Tash have grown up to be among the most active defenders of Telengit rights to land. Although these changes are interesting and I will follow them in my future work, this book concerns the basic paradigms of the Telengit religious life, which so far are still present. Though, I must admit that during my last trip to Altai before this book went to print, I was often thinking about the work done by Piers Vitebsky in India. In his monograph Dialogues with the Dead (1993) he meticulously described relation between the dead and the living among the Sora. When he returned there 20 years later, no-one was talking to the dead anymore, as all the young people became Baptists. I do not think that any form of Christianity will take such a strong hold in the Kosh-Agach district of Altai in the near future. Still, religious changes are going on and I obviously cannot know if ‘knowing in motion’ will still be a paradigm of religious knowledge in 20 years.

Part I

Landscape and movement

1

The Altai, the Altaians and the Telengits

The Altai An introduction to the life of any group of Altaians has to start by introducing the Altai, which, as a geographical notion, is a mountainous area that is divided by the state borders of the Russian Federation, Kazakhstan, Mongolia and China. The Republic of Altai is situated in that part of the Altai Mountains that belongs to the Russian Federation. The contemporary political borders influence the perception of ‘our Altai’, especially when combined with the partial sedentarization of the Altaians that occurred during the Soviet era. The restriction placed on movement by these international borders and the political delineation of the territory of the Republic (in Soviet times an autonomous district) have largely confined Altaian and Telengit discourses on their land to the territory of this political unit. The character of the Altai Mountains varies considerably. In the north, the mountains comprise small hills coated with thick forest; to the south they boast high peaks covered with snow; and the open steppes, in the district of Kosh-Agach, are surrounded by yellowish bare hills. There are many beautiful places in the Altai, and admiration for the beauty of the landscape is so frequently and colourfully expressed in the Republic that it becomes a kind of cliché. Within the region itself, the Altai is considered to be one of the most beautiful places in the world. The Altai also has an important place in the imagination of people living in Russia.1 Not everyone may know where exactly it is situated, who lives there and what its history is, but tell anyone from Russia that you have been to the Altai and they will congratulate you on visiting a place of such natural beauty. If you happen to talk to someone with an interest in spirituality, personal development or mysticism, you can be sure to hear a longer narrative about the power and mystery of the Altai and the potential spiritual revival that awaits you through interaction with the Altai’s natural and mystical qualities. Viktor Erofeev, a famous Russian writer, mentions the Altai in his recent book An Encyclopaedia of the Russian Soul2 in a somewhat ironic way, while describing one of his characters, Sasha, who among other spiritually self-enriching activities (such as reading Russian philosophers, studying Buddhism, Hinduism and Theosophy or

12

Landscape and movement

trying to be a hermit) was ‘looking for his way in the Altai’. Thorough analysis of the Altai’s place in the universe of images and notions that are meaningful to people in contemporary Russia would have to include many different narratives, but all of them would share at least one common feature. Stories about the Altai focus on the land, on its beauty and its power. The Altai in the Russian imagination is a place of nature to be appreciated and nurtured, of power or energy to be received and enjoyed, of wildlife to be protected and admired. The Altai is famous. Yet the Altaians are not. The popularity of the Altai can be accounted for in part by the activities of Nicholas Roerich, an artist, philosopher, occultist, and, as it is often claimed, a political visionary, whose life history and ideas have inspired many followers to this day. There has been much written about Roerich, though one has to wade through mountains of largely uncritical and glorifying literature on his activities, as well as those of his wife Helena and his friends and family.3 Much of this is to be found on the websites of groups worldwide which are concerned with propagating and popularizing Roerich’s ideas and works.4 The most well-known exploits of the Roerichs are the two great expeditions (1925–8 and 1934–6) when the family travelled through Eurasia. The philosophical and literary works, paintings and memoirs that appeared as a result of these expeditions indicate that Tibet, Mongolia, India and the Altai were the most important destinations for the Roerichs. The precise aims of the Roerichs’ travels are still a subject of debate (McCannon 2002). Yet despite doubts and disagreements concerning the political goals of the expeditions (e.g. the alleged espionage by Nicholas Roerich), one issue is beyond doubt. Apart from being a writer, a painter and perhaps a clandestine political activist, Roerich was, most importantly, a mystic. The image of the Altai has been implanted with an aura of mystery, power and hidden meanings through Roerich’s mystical teachings, paintings and writings. He placed the Altai at the heart of his artistic, political and mystical visions. He searched for the connections between the Altai and the Himalayas (significantly, one of his two accounts of the 1925–8 expedition was entitled Altai-Himalaya), he saw in the Altai the mystical land of Belovod’e5 and envisioned it as the centre of a new civilization, which would come to replace the technocratic Western dominance. Most importantly, however, his ideas concerning the Altai have been popularized, and today they attract followers in Russia and beyond. The devotees of a spiritual movement of Agni Yoga (established by the Roerichs in the 1920s) still visit the Altai, and the Uimon Valley where the Roerichs’ expedition stopped in 1926 has become their site of pilgrimage. A Roerich Centre in Barnaul (a large Siberian city closest to the Altai) promotes Roerichs’ mystical beliefs and humanitarian goals (McCannon 2002: 184). This focus on the spiritual potential of the land, nature protection and the beauty of the Altai has not been monopolized by the Roerichs, however. There have been many famous initiatives in the Soviet Union (and later the Russian Federation) that have turned public attention towards the Altai as a site of natural potential and beauty. These include the establishment of so-called ‘Kedrograd’ in

The Altai, the Altaians and the Telengits 13 the late 1950s and early 1960s, and the protests against the construction of a hydroelectric power station on the Katun River some 20 years later. ‘Kedrograd’ was a forestry enterprise that worked on an ecological basis of sustainability and care for the environment. It was initiated by a group of students from Leningrad, distressed by the unlimited exploitation of forests by the Soviet lespromkhozy (state forestry enterprises). ‘Kedrograd’ was largely successful for almost 10 years, but later it was closed by the Soviet authorities – though whether this was for political or economic reasons remains unclear.6 Importantly though, ‘Kedrograd’ has since become a symbol of sound ecological principles, love and respect for nature on the part of ordinary citizens in the Soviet Union, and a proof that, despite the oppressive authoritarian system, some people did care about the land and tried to stop its reckless exploitation. Nowadays there are multiple organizations, enterprises and ecological initiatives in the Russian Federation that either draw their inspiration from this early initiative or even use the word ‘Kedrograd’ in their name. Likewise one of the first ecological protests in the Soviet Union to be reported widely in the media took place in the Altai in the 1980s. The attempts of ecological activists to stop the building of the hydroelectric power station on the Katun River in the Altai are remembered in Russia today as the first successful demonstration of citizens’ dissension over ecologically sensitive development by the government. Plans for the hydroelectric power station were abandoned following these protests, and they have only recently been revived by the new authorities, though this time on a local level. The way in which a particular place can penetrate the social imagination is an interesting theme and the Altai could serve as an engaging focus of such a study. Until now the Altai has been the focus of various international initiatives. A large part of the territory of the Republic is included under the UNESCO World Heritage Programme. There are two strictly observed Natural Reserves (Altaiskiy Zapovednik and Katunskiy Zapovednik including respectively Lake Teletskoe and Mountain Belukha), as well as the Ükok Quiet Zone, which until 2004 was covered the UNESCO programme. In the latter case, UNESCO was mainly interested in protecting the natural resources of the area. While this was also very important to local activists, as well as to many other Altaians (including Telengits), the Ükok Plateau is valued primarily for being the site of the tomb of the Ice Maiden. The Ice Maiden is the mummy of a Scythian woman that was discovered by a team of Russian archaeologists in 1993.7 The tattooed body of this mummy is seen to embody much of Altaian history, as everything that is found in the land is seen as having a direct link to the present population of the Altai. What distinguishes the Altai from other ecologically rich regions in the Russian Federation is its aura of mystery, spiritual energy and power, which, as we have seen, was inspired to a large extent by the Roerichs and the subsequent popularity of their works. It is no coincidence that, in the post-perestroika era, the flagship of the tourist industry in the Altai is the so-called energy tourism (energeticheskii turizm). ‘Energy tourism’ refers to the activities of tourists who believe that the Altai is a place filled with various sorts of energies and who go there in order to

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‘charge themselves up’ and ‘find themselves’. The Altai today is frequented by people arriving alone or in groups, dressed all in blue, in white, in orange or stark naked, bald or with long hair and beards, travelling on foot, by bicycle or on horseback, meditating on the mountain passes and conducting rituals unknown to the local people. While local Russian peasants see the ‘energy tourists’ as either harmless eccentrics or, at worst, as morally ambivalent, the Altaians can see them as dangerous. I hope that the argument pursued in this book will, among other things, throw light on the reasons for the Altaian scepticism towards the ‘energy tourists’. Despite these powerful images of the Altai, the starting point of my work was not the land but the people – the Altaians. Nevertheless, it quickly became clear that their personal, national and religious dimensions all revolved around the land. Hence, although this book is about the Altaians (more precisely about one of the groups among them, the Telengits), the Altai remains the crucial point of reference throughout this work, and corresponds, I believe, to the way in which Altaians see themselves. The rituals, modes of self-perception, kinship ties and claims for national unity, which are analysed in this book, can be understood only in reference to the Altai. The relationship with the Altai underscores many, if not all, aspects of the Altaians’ life. The notion of Altai encompasses much more then just the Altai Mountains as a geographical location. The land gives the basis for a national identity, a sense of history and symbolic attachment. Most importantly, the Altai is worshipped by every one of the Altaian ethnic groups. The Altaians live in the Altai and talk about the Altai in a way that makes this particular relationship the most important life-shaping factor.

The Republic of Altai – political structure The Republic, covering an area of 92,600 square kilometres, is divided into ten districts with Gorno-Altaisk as its capital – and its only town. According to the latest statistics,8 of the Republic’s total population of 200,000, Russians currently make up 60 per cent, Altaians 31 per cent and Kazakhs 5 per cent. Some 23 per cent of the population live in the capital. The Republic of Altai is a federative unit of the Russian Federation. The Constitution of the Republic states that this is ‘a democratic state with a republican form of government, included as a subject in the Russian Federation and inseparable from it’ (Konstitutsiya 1997). The Republic has its own parliament and government, and at the beginning of the 1990s a flag and coat of arms for the Republic were approved. In December 1997, the first Head of the Republic was elected by popular vote. The coat of arms and the flag of the Republic of Altai (designed respectively by Altaian artists Ignatii Ortonulov and Vladimir Chukuev) stress the link between the people and the land. The blue background of the arms represents the Sky. The three-peaked mountain is a symbol of Üch Sümer mountain (the highest mountain of the Altai Mountain range) and of the Altai as a whole. Gryphon, whose silhouette is based on the archaeological discoveries on Scythian culture,

The Altai, the Altaians and the Telengits 15 is a symbol of the historical past of the Altaians, found in the soil of the Altai. At the bottom there are the two main rivers of Altai – Biya and Katun’ – with Teletskoe Lake in the middle. The tripod is a symbol of eternal life, fire, family home and friendship. Vladimir Chukuev told me that originally he designed the flag as an enlarged fragment of the embroidery used on Altaian fur coats, and the colours were much darker than those finally employed. However, the committee responsible for choosing the flag re-interpreted his design as representing two main rivers of the Altai (Katun’ and Biya) and the white background as the underlying purity of the Altaian faith.9 Until 1990 the administrative unit that is now the Republic of Altai was an autonomous district (Gorno-Altaiskaya Avtonomnaya Oblast’) within the Altai Region (Altaiski Krai) – a large administrative unit of the Russian Soviet Socialist Republic with Barnaul as its capital. In practice, this meant that all dealings with central government in Moscow had to be channelled through Barnaul. Present-day Altaian politicians emphasize that until 1990 their region had much the same status as any other district within the Altai Region and it was only after the establishment of the Republic that a direct relationship with the centre in Moscow was established. This means that now both taxes and central subsidies for the region are allocated directly, without any intermediary. This is important as the Republic of Altai is one of the most heavily subsidized regions of the Russian Federation. In the district of Kosh-Agach, where I conducted most of my research, there are few Russians, but the majority of the inhabitants of the Republic are Russian. Until the beginning of the nineteenth century the Russian settlements in the territory of the contemporary Republic of Altai were almost entirely confined to villages of Old Believers, who had fled into the remote areas after the Nikon reforms. The Altai Mountains were also a shelter for peasant fugitives, who could live undisturbed in this far-off country. After the introduction of a Russian protectorate over northern and central Altai in 1756, official Russian settlements were forbidden beyond the so-called Biisk’s line. However, from the beginning of the nineteenth century, colonization of the Altai was carried out more openly, and despite the official prohibition, was encouraged by local administrators (Satlaev 1995). By the end of the nineteenth century, 21.1 per cent of the inhabitants of the Altai were Russian-speaking (Troitskaya 1996). Since the beginning of the twentieth century there has been a steady growth of the Russian-speaking population. Nowadays, the Republic is a relatively peaceful place in comparison with other parts of the Russian Federation. There are no ethnic conflicts which might lead to violence, as for example in neighbouring Tuva at the beginning of the 1990s. However, there is a constant struggle for political power in the Republic between the Altaian and the Russian-speaking populations. This conflict was highly visible during the election for the Head of the Republic in 1998. The Russian candidate (Semon Zubakin) won the election but the final contest between him and the Altaian candidate (Yuri Antarodonov) was very tight. Discussions and conflicts over the relative extent of Altaian and Russian influences in the Republic are now a daily part of political life.

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The economic situation in the Republic in the 1990s was dire. According to government statistics, 85 per cent of the inhabitants of the Republic lived below the poverty line (as established for the Russian Federation). The average life expectancy is still just 44 years (Golubchikov 2000), while a large proportion of deaths are attributed in the statistics as ‘accidental deaths’, which includes suicides, murders and accidents. In 1998 in the district of Kosh-Agach, 174 deaths were registered, out of which 66 were classified as ‘accidents’. Among them there were 22 suicides, 10 cases of poisoning (some of which I believe should be treated as suicides) and 14 car accidents.10 In the districts where I did my research, there was a general atmosphere of hopelessness and pessimism. The difficulties of the current situation were seen, on one level, as the outcome of the general crisis in the Russian Federation, but on another level as signum temporis, something that was beyond human control or influence. Since the beginning of the 2000s the economic situation is getting better and people attribute these positive changes to the governance of Russian President Vladimir Putin. Salaries are paid on time. In the region of Kosh-Agach they are reasonably high, as this region, because of the difficult climate and long winters, is marked in the Russian laws as a ‘northern region’ and receives governmental subsidies.

The Altaians The notion of Altaians (in Russian: altaitsy) has been known from written sources since the nineteenth century. Russian missionaries and merchants attributed this name to all Turkic-speaking inhabitants of Altai, excluding Kazakhs, though they were aware that it was not a self-appellation. The Orthodox missionaries collected interesting material concerning the language, traditional culture, and beliefs of the people of Altai. In their works they stressed that people inhabiting the Altai Mountains did not think of themselves as one group. Furthermore, the name altaitsy is not the only one that can be found in Russian publications preceding the October Revolution. In Russian documents from the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries and in travellers’ descriptions, one can find such names as gornye kalmyki (Mountain Kalmyks), altaiskie kalmyki (Altai Kalmyks), belye kalmyki (White Kalmyks), oiroty (Oirots) (Verbitskii [1893] 1993; Tokarev 1936; Potapov 1953). The last term was the official name of the Altaians at the very beginning of the Soviet period. In the Soviet Union each ‘indigenous’ (korennaya) group was generally assigned one or two ethnographers from leading research centres in Moscow, St Petersburg or Novosibirsk. These ethnographers would in time become specialists for these particular groups. For many years, Leonid Potapov was the main Soviet researcher working among the Altaians; he published his first works in the late 1920s (Potapov 1928, 1929) and was still publishing in the 1990s (Potapov 1991). The other ethnographer working in the Altai was Vera D’yakonowa (1980). Her valuable book on the Telengits (D’yakonova 2001) appeared only after Leonid Potapov’s death and even then it was published by the

The Altai, the Altaians and the Telengits 17 small local Altaian publishing house Ak Chechek, and not by one of the mainstream Russian academic publishers. Later, Andrei Sagalaev, a researcher based mainly at the University of Tomsk, published extensively on the Altaian culture (Saglaev 1984a,b, 1986, 1992). There are also a number of researchers who have written about the Altai within a larger comparative context (Vyatkina 1964; Alekseev 1984, 1992; L’vova et al. 1988, 1989; Sagalaev and Oktyabr’skaya 1990), as well as ethnographers based in Gorno-Altaisk (e.g. Surazakov 1985; Muytueva 1990; Kydyeva 1995; Oinoshev 1995) but Leonid Potpov nevertheless retained for many years his ‘expert voice’ on the matters concerning the Altaians. In 1969 Leonid Potapov wrote: ‘Before the Great Socialist Revolution, the narodnost’11 of the Altaians did not exist. They did not have one common ethnic name. They were divided into several tribes and clans, often isolated from each other, with great differences concerning economy and way of life, ethnic origin, etc. They used only clan and tribe names to identify themselves’ (Potapov 1969). Potapov claimed that consolidation processes among the various groups of future Altaians emerged only after the revolution and ‘[t]he limited, narrow tribe–clan identity, characterising a long-lasting period in Altai history, was replaced by one common national self-identity’ (p.14). Potapov may be right in claiming that the common identity of the national-type emerged among the Turkic-speaking peoples of Altai under Soviet rule. However, it was not only an awareness of belonging to a larger national group that appeared but also other kinds of categorizations which influenced the identification of the future Altaians. The most important and influential classification introduced by Soviet researchers was a division of the peoples of Altai into Southern and Northern Altaians, based primarily on linguistic differentiation.12 Taking into account language differences, territorial divisions and differences in material culture, several groups in the Altai were labelled and subsequently divided into the Southern and the Northern clusters. Altai kizhi, Telengit and Teleut were classed as Southern Altaians, and Tuba, Chalkandu and Kumandy as Northern Altaians. Potapov also described Tölös as Southern and Shor as Northern Altaians. In these works the peoples of Northern Altai were described as hunters and gatherers, and the peoples of Southern Altai as pastoral nomads. The differences between Southern and Northern Altaians in types of houses, clothes, food and means of transport were described in detail. Religious beliefs were rendered also to be significantly different. Shamanism and the cult of spirits of nature dominated in the North, while in the South, the influences of Buddhism were evident. Although shamans were also active in the South, they differed in the forms and symbolism of their coats, drums and animals, which were most important during rituals. Oral tradition in the South was based on heroic epics, while in the North it was dominated by short stories and legends (Potapov 1969). However, despite these differences, all these various groups were expected to become part of a future Altaian socialist nation. ‘The Altaians’ is thus the common term used in academic and political contexts to refer to several communities, divided into two groups, Northern and Southern, on the basis of ethnographic and linguistic studies. There are many arguments

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over this ethnic categorization, which sometimes reach the political level with important social and political outcomes, as is shown later in relation to the Telengits. Nevertheless, I want to underscore that despite all these arguments Altaians do see themselves as a community, but through a specific prism. What undoubtedly links together all Altaians (according to their own perception) is a set of common attitudes and practices towards the Altai Mountains. The special attitude towards the Altai can be seen not only in the cults of spirits of mountains, which are well known in many regions of Asia, but also in a form of a great admiration for the beauty and power of Nature – recently linked closely with ecological protests and movements. More importantly, Altaians not only see the Altai as being of special value. It is not enough to say that the Altaians nourish a special relationship with the Altai, treating it as their historical homeland, object of worship and a basis for their subsistence. The relationship between the Altai and its people goes beyond the object–subject division. It is probably unwise to use the word ‘between’ here at all because it presupposes ontological existence of two spheres – humans and land – between which the relation can be established, broken, sustained or abandoned. Instead, the Altaians and the Altai are so tightly bound up that at times they cannot be considered as ontologically separate. The more accurate phrasing would probably be that personhood includes the Altai just as it includes parts of the body, emotions, hopes, feelings and sensual abilities. This is to say more than just to acknowledge that the Altai is a spiritual being, a subject with consciousness and intentionality. Instead, people and land are one. Among the Altaians relations with the land constitute the explicit basis of social practices and identities. The Altai is seen as forming part of a person, and the processes taking place on the land directly affect people. There are also many narratives of the impossibility of ever abandoning the Altai. The Telengits say that if an Altaian leaves the Altai, he or she will become ill and die. This is not because of any longing or emotional distress, but because of physical separation. It is as if part of a person was severed, such as when people fall ill and die when parts of their body are removed. This theme of a personhood that incorporates the land is a central thread of this book. One of the implications of such an approach to the land–people interface is a claim that anyone who lives in the Altai and respects it should be regarded as Altaian. People who live in the Altai today are very aware that different groups of people can be categorized in various contexts (as under Soviet and Russian law), not by their practices and ideas about the land but by such features as language, ethnic origin or cultural characteristics. Many of the activities aimed at creating one Altaian nation, as I show later, are engineered along those lines. Nevertheless, understanding group identity through the prism of the land–people interface is a recurring motif. For instance, such an approach lies at the root of the 10 year-old conflict between the Russian archaeologists from Novosibirsk and the Altaians over the ‘Ice Maiden’, mentioned earlier. The matter concerns a mummy of a Scythian woman, which was found in the permafrost of the Ükok Plateau in the Altai

The Altai, the Altaians and the Telengits 19 Mountains. In short, the story is as follows: an astonishingly well-preserved and elaborately tattooed body of a young woman was discovered by a Russian archaeologist, Natalia Polosmak, in 1993. It was subsequently taken to Novosibirsk and Moscow for further investigation and preservation. From the very beginning this move was opposed by both the Altaian intellectual elite and people from villages in the Altai, who claimed that the woman belonged to the Altai and subsequently to them, and that she should not have been disturbed. Currently, however, the mummy is still in Novosibirsk. For our purposes the most important issue concerns her identity. Who she was? The Altaians have no doubt that she was Altaian; the Russian academics are convinced that she was not. This is because the idioms of argumentation are different. The Russian academics argue their position according to principles of modern genetics. First, research on the bodily structure of the mummy was conducted in order to determine her racial origin. Later, genetic samples were obtained from her remains. An archaeologist, Vyacheslav Ivanovich Molodin, deputy-head of the Siberian Branch of the Russian Academy of Science, claims that she is most closely related genetically to the Selkups, who now live to the north of Tomsk region.13 According to him only a small part of a similar genetic pool can be found among contemporary Altaians. However, most of the Russian public and many other academics skip the details of the genetics and go straight to the conclusion that the Ice Maiden is not a foremother of contemporary Altaians as she is not like them either in genes or in phenotype. The Altaians remain completely unconvinced by such arguments. They claim that the woman is Altaian because she was found in Altai. Through land she is related to the people, and this cannot be changed by genetic research. The explicit statement on this was made by an Altaian member of the local parliament, Vladimir Kuchukovich Sabin, in direct response to Molodin’s genetic arguments. He said: ‘Her nationality does not make the slightest difference. What is important is that she was found here and belongs to our heritage.’14 It must be mentioned here that the Altaians are quite consistent in their insistence that what is from the Altai is Altaian. For example, in the discussions about strengthening and stabilizing the position of the Altaian clans (see later), much consideration has been given to the special position of the Russian old settlers. The Russians do not have clans, but there is an ongoing debate about the necessity of integrating them into the system of Altaian clans. This is because, in a sense, they are Altaians – they have lived on this land for generations and their nationality is not the most relevant issue. Nevertheless, Russian law does not (and perhaps cannot) take into consideration such subtle distinctions in determining self-identification. The state education system, censuses and laws on the rights of ‘indigenous people’ perpetuate the idea of ‘the Altaians’ as a category based on linguistic, historical and racial characteristics. Presently, peoples who are described as Northern Altaians live in the districts of Choya, Maima and Turachak in the Republic of Altai. In none of them do they form even a quarter of the population (respectively 7, 20 and 6 per cent) and they are also numerically much smaller than the Southern Altaians. Some

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Kumandy live outside the Republic, in the Altai region. The economic situation of the Northern Altaians is worse than that of their Southern counterparts. Their forests were destroyed on a massive scale in the 1960s and the policy of suppressing small villages (neperspektivnye derevnii) led to the depopulation of these districts. Many people moved to the towns and big cities in the nearby Siberian regions (Kydyeva 1993). National schools were abolished, while the percentage of Russians was constantly increasing. Southern Altaians comprise a majority in the districts of Ongudai (71 per cent), Ulagan (69 per cent) and Ust Kan (64 per cent). In the remaining three districts, Shebalino, Ust Koksa and Kosh-Agach, they are in the minority, but their proportion is still higher than that of Northern Altaians in their districts (37, 23 and 39 per cent respectively) (Kydyeva 1993). In Kosh-Agach the majority of the population are not Russian but Kazakh (see Chapter 2). The Soviet period had less effect on the way of life and environment of Southern Altai than in the North. Although most of the population now live in villages, mobile animal husbandry is still a dominant economic activity, which makes the contemporary process of privatization more complicated, as most Russian laws are based on models of sedentary agricultural communities. The subsistence of villagers depends largely on herders and, even after the collapse of the Soviet Union, the kolkhoz took care not only of its employees but also of disadvantaged groups in the village. Hence, kolkhozy (collective farms) have been reorganized only very recently in these districts (since the beginning of the twenty-first century). The official Altaian language was developed (mainly by Orthodox missionaries) on the basis of one of the Southern dialects. In the Soviet period, if the Altaian language was used in schools at all, it was in its official literary version. There are significant differences between the Northern and Southern dialects. Because of the predominance of Russians in the North, the official Altaian language is not widely used in the villages, and so Northern Altaian children have tended to choose Russian as their only language from their very first day at school (Satlaev 1992). There is no doubt that the period of Soviet rule has had an enormous influence on the national identity of the Altaians. It has contributed to the emergence and spreading of a common name to refer to all indigenous inhabitants of the Russian part of the Altai Mountains. The particular and well-defined division between Southern and Northern Altaians can be seen as an outcome of this period, as well as decisions on which Turkic-speaking groups of Southern Siberia belong to the Altaians.

The Telengits According to the works of Leonid Potapov the Telengits live mainly in the territory of the contemporary district of Kosh-Agach and belong to a larger category of Southern Altaians, together with Altai kizhi, Teleut and Tölös (Potapov 1953, 1969). This last group is of particular interest. In his influential work on the ethnic composition and the origin of the Altaians, Potapov (1969) vigorously argued that most of the inhabitants of the district of Ulagan should be

The Altai, the Altaians and the Telengits 21 regarded not as Telengits but as Tölös. He supported these claims with a discussion on the different origins of these two groups. In my view, however, an academic debate on who should be regarded as the ancestor of this or that group is less important than the fact that nowadays most of the inhabitants of the Ulagan district consider the Tölös as one of the Telengit clans (söök – see later) and identify themselves ethnically as Telengits. It was the political leaders of the Ulagan district who first advocated that the Telengits be recognized as a separate indigenous group within Russian law. In this book I therefore regard Tölös as one of the Telengit clans.15 Until 2002, the Telengits were not demarcated as a separate group in the Soviet and Russian censuses, and the people who might identify themselves as Telengit were included under the name of the Altaians. This situation was changed in the year 2000, when the Telengits were included in the list of ‘Small-numbered Indigenous Peoples of the Russian Federation’.16 In the Russian census of 2002, the Telengits were for the first time enumerated under their own name as a separate category. This census and its subsequent publication (in 2004) has had important repercussions among Telengits, as it has brought home the reality of their separate status and the possibilities of appropriating it in their struggles over various resources. According to the 2002 census, some 2,398 Telengits live in the territory of the Republic of Altai.17 At first sight, this number seems surprising. If the vast majority of non-Kazakhs living in the districts of Ulagan and Kosh-Agach are Telengits, there should be at least 8,000 or 9,000 of them living in the Altai today.18 Still, if we take into account the specific context in which the census figure was generated and my earlier discussion on the notion of the Altaians, this may not be so surprising. Although my research has concentrated on the district of Kosh-Agach, I also spent a few months in the Ulagan district and I believe that the people’s self identification as Altaian and Telengit in both districts does not exclude each other (Halemba 1995, 1996). People living in this region regard themselves as Altaians and as Telengits, and they might respond to a census questions differently depending on the way in which the question was posed. For instance, if the question was asked in the Russian language, they might tend to describe themselves as Altaians (altaitsy) whereas if it was asked in the Altaian language, people in the districts of Kosh-Agach and Ulagan would be less likely to describe themselves as Altai kizhi. Another reason can be identified at the political level. Just before the 2002 census the local media had campaigned for the unity of the Altaian nation. This theme was a dominant thread through the 1990s, but media activity intensified just before the census (Filipova 2003). According to Svetlana Tyukhteneva, an Altaian researcher, there were many articles and broadcasts in the local media in which people who considered declaring themselves as Telengits during the census period were labelled as traitors of the united Altaian nation.19 This was again related to the complexities in Russian law in which one of the characteristics of ‘small indigenous peoples’ is that their number is below 50,000.20 The republican political activists were afraid that if the number of Altaians fell below this

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threshold, the status of the whole political unit would be put in jeopardy (Modorov 2003). At the same time the leaders of the neighbouring administrative unit of Altaiskii Krai (Altai Region) were advocating re-incorporation of the Republic of Altai under their administrative control. Although such fears were not really justified given Russian law,21 such statements were used locally effectively and many people in the Republic, both in the capital and in the Telengit districts, expressed such concerns. Hence the choice between declaring oneself as Telengit or Altaian has become for many people a matter of Altaian national patriotism. Nevertheless, by the time of the next Russian census the situation may be different again. The inclusion of the Telengits on the list of small indigenous peoples has become an important factor in local politics, and the mutual relations between the Telengits and the Altaian majority have become a matter of open discussion. In December 2004 the NGO ‘Development of the Telengit People (narod )’ was established.22 There are also other Telengit organizations and movements which are active players in the local political arena, especially with regard to the issue of Telengit land rights. Their activities begin to shift the position of Telengits in the social and political landscape of the Republic.

Clan composition of the Southern Altaians Another issue that has become important in discussions of ethnic categorization and a national future for Altaians is their division into a number of clans. Altaians belong to clans whose boundaries do not coincide with those of ethnic groups. Hence, people belonging to the Kypchak clan, for example, can be found both among the Telengit and the Altai kizhi. There are also clans who are considered to be exclusively Telengit or exclusively Altai kizhi. For example, söök (clan) Todosh, which was not recorded in the Telengit districts during the census of 1897, is now strongly represented in that region. Among Telengits today we can find all the clan names that were recorded by researchers in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (Shvetsov 1910). The clans of the Northern Alatains are different and, for reason of space, remain outside the scope of my work, which has focused mainly on the so-called Southern Altaians. I use the English word ‘clan’ as an equivalent to the Altaian term söök (pl. sööktör), which means literally ‘a bone’. Generally speaking, sööktör are patrilineal and exogamic. Their marriages tend to be patrilocal. My own research accords with the conclusions reached by Vera Kydyeva (1995: 95)23 that Altaian clans ‘reside quite locally in territorial terms although they are seemingly dispersed’. It means that although nowadays members of all Altaian sööktör live throughout the territory of the Republic, there are places that are more densely inhabited by members of one söök. What is also important is that there are particular parts of districts or villages that are considered by the people as the core territories of particular sööktör. As Tokarev (1936) writes, Altaian clans had their own sacred places, spirits that they worshipped, and revered animals and trees. Knowledge about these is scarce now, but in recent years there has been a resurgence of such knowledge,

The Altai, the Altaians and the Telengits 23 introduced to people through newspaper articles and school education. This re-introduction is at the same time bringing with it a sense of unification and stabilization. For example, while the material gathered by Tokarev shows a diversity of spirits, places or trees that were worshipped, the material presented in contemporary popular publications shows a tendency towards unification (Maskina 1993). As Kydyeva (1995) empahsizes, it is difficult to count the number of sööktör. There is little agreement among people about what constitutes a clan and what its subdivisions are. For example, according to Kydyeva, subdivisions of söök Tölös are called Jeti tas, Kara and Orgonchi. However, not everyone knows the subdivisions of the söök, and furthermore not everyone knows that a söök has subdivisions at all. She also claims that this knowledge is territorial, that is in one district people might say that the Orgonchi and the Tölös are two separate clans, while in another that the Orgonchi is a subdivision of the Tölös. Another feature of Altaian clans, which has important implications for the contemporary situation, is the karyndash relation between clans. Karyndash is an Altaian word for a younger brother, but in this case the notion implied is a general idea of ‘brotherhood’, as there is no hierarchy involved. Karyndash sööktör are considered as being related and, theoretically, marriages between their members are forbidden. However, nowadays most people do not remember which clans their own clan is related to hence the presumed exogamy between karyndash sööktör is often broken. The karyndash relationship has become important again today on a wave of ‘national and cultural revival’ (see later). There is an ongoing discussion in the Republic about the advantages and disadvantages of clan divisions in the contemporary situation. Should the clans be viewed as a culturally specific feature of Altaian life that distinguishes them from the Russians and links them culturally to the peoples of Inner Asia? Or rather, is it a hindrance to developing a common national Altaian identity? The genesis of many Altaian sööktör links them to the history of Inner Asia. Sööktör such as the Kypchak, Irkit and Maiman have names in common with clans of other peoples in this region. This gives greater credence to claims about the past, which are important for sustaining national pride. On the other hand, this also provides grounds for differentiation, which could work against Altaian national unity by underlining differences of power and influence between clans. Altaian clans are patrilineal, but the relations with the mother clan is important and could probably provide excellent material for classical anthropological kinship studies such as those by Radcliffe-Brown, Levi-Strauss or Fortes (Needham 1962; Fortes 1969; Levi-Strauss 1969). Taai is a name for the relatives from the mother’s clan who have an important role in a person’s life, by taking obligatory part in certain rites. They are also extremely important in spiritual life. According to my field research, most Telengit shamans and other spiritual specialists inherit their power from their matrilineal ancestors. There is also a special kind of emotional attachment with matrilineal relatives. The relations with one’s own (i.e. one’s father’s) clan are those of obligation and necessity while relations with one’s mother’s clan are those of emotional attachment and feelings.

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Moreover, although clan membership is generally patrilineal, individual cases may be more complex. As clan or kinship structure is not the main theme of this book, I will just give one example, which illustrates that clan membership can be a matter of complex decision-making. A young man called Sasha (name changed) was born when his mother was still unmarried. She was from the Todosh clan, as was her father in whose house Sasha lived as a child. Later, his mother married a man from Sagal söök and Sasha moved with her to the house of her new husband. Sasha’s mother told him that his biological father was from Köbök clan, but during all rituals and ceremonies Sasha took part as a member of the Sagal clan – as his mother had instructed him to do. One day, however, Sasha became seriously ill and his mother took him to a knowledgeable person (biler kizhi – see Chapters 6 and 7). As the biler kizhi has to know which clan a person belongs to before commencing the healing, the mother introduced Sasha as Sagal. Still, after consulting her spirit helpers, the biler kizhi said that Sasha was not really Sagal. She did not declare his clan as Köbök – the clan of his biological father. Instead, for her, Sasha was a member of Todosh clan, as in an early childhood he was growing up in the house and next to the fireplace (ochog) of his maternal grandfather. Sasha was actually pleased with her statement and since then he counts himself as Todosh. His case is not unique in the Telengit context. My elderly Telengit interlocutors mentioned that in the past children born outside wedlock were often regarded as otty˘ balazy (lit. ‘a child of a fire’) and their söök was decided on the basis of the place of their birth and early upbringing. As children are welcomed by the Telengits regardless if they are born in or outside wedlock, such decisions on the söök to which a person should belong have to be made quite often. During a meeting for the election of clan leaders in the village of Kököru in 1999 (see later), this whole issue was heatedly discussed. Not all single mothers want to reveal the clan to which the biological father belongs. Despite general agreement that knowing the biological father’s söök would be ideal, the gathering decided that the mother should have the right to decide whether or not to reveal the father’s clan. In a small village community, this would in many cases point towards a particular person, what may not be desirable either for the parents or their immediate families. Hence, it was agreed that such children could be considered to be members of the maternal grandfather’s söök. Importantly, this was a decision taken by members of a group, which in academic works is usually considered to be strictly patrilineal. The function of a clan leader, jaisa˘, is of great interest to contemporary Altaians. The word is of Mongolian origin. However, Tokarev (1936) assumes that a position, which was subsequently described as jaisa˘, had its origin in the times preceding Mongolian domination over Altai (when it was probably known by a different name) and subsequently changed its characteristics. He writes that in all available sources, jaisa˘ was described as being the leader of a group of sööktör. The group of sööktör found under the rule of one jaisa˘ are not necessarily connected through the karyndash relation. Jaisa˘ of the group of sööktör (up to 1870s the position of the jaisa˘ was hereditary) came from one söök. However, Tokarev writes that during his fieldwork people told him that earlier every single

The Altai, the Altaians and the Telengits 25 söök had had its own jaisa˘. He concludes that they must have referred to times when the clan structure and the territorial-administrative structure were separated. Under Russian influence, the territorial principle became more prominent and the position of jaisa˘ evolved, adding a territorial dimension to the kinship ties. Hence, by the nineteenth century the jaisa˘ was the leader not only of one söök but of a group of sööktör. According to Radlov ([1893], 1989) who travelled in the Altai between 1860 and 1870, every jaisa˘ had helpers from each söök under his jurisdiction. These were called demichi. Other names of functions, which are mentioned in old sources, are shulengi, boshko, kiunde, arbanak (Tokarev 1936). As contemporary discussions between Altaian historians and politicians show, the exact meaning of each function changed with time and area. This is important, as nowadays there are attempts to redefine the Altaian clan structure according to the needs of a modern nation-state. The fate of jaisa˘dar (pl.) and other Altaian clan leaders under Soviet rule, as well as the theme of repression in general, has not yet been properly researched. Materials concerning the history of clan leaders and other prominent Altaian figures appear periodically in Altaidy˘ Cholmony24 and incidental publications. Without thorough archival research it is difficult to ascertain how severe the repression was and how many leaders were imprisoned or killed. However, the descendants of some jaisa˘dar survived and currently some of them make claims to authority on the basis of their descent. At the beginning of the 1990s, some of the largest Altaian clans began to organize their gatherings and elect their leaders – jaisa˘dar. The first big clan gathering was organized in 1989 by söök Irkit (Sel’bikov 1993). However, they did not elect their jaisa˘ at that time. The first söök to elect a clan leader was Maiman. They elected Aleksandr Kindishevich Bardin, who subsequently became aka-jaisa˘,25 that is, the head jaisa˘ for the entire Republic. There followed gatherings of other clans: Todosh, Mundus, Kypchak, Töölös26 and Sagal (Saal). In 1992 in Turachak, a jaisa˘ of Chalkandu was elected – Sergei Grigorevich Pustogachev. In this case, the jaisa˘ is the head of an ethnic group of Northern Altaians and not of one clan. Anton Viktorovich Yudanov has been widely recognized as a jaisa˘ of Tuba since the beginning of the 1990s, although the first official gathering (kurultai) of Tuba took place in 1999 (Syev 1999). The structure of clan leadership ( jaisa˘dar) has become increasingly complicated. During my several visits to the Republic in the 1990s, I have seen or heard about: ● ●

● ● ● ●

jaisa˘ for all members of one söök in the territory of the Republic; jaisa˘ for all members of one söök among one group of Altaians (e.g. Telengits); jaisa˘ for all members of one söök in one administrative district; jaisa˘ of all members (regardless of söök affiliation) of one ethnic group; jaisa˘ of all inhabitants of one district (regardless of söök affiliation); jaisa˘ of one söök in one village only.

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By 1999 the situation was so complex that Altaian activists in Gorno-Altaiask decided to address this issue at the II Kurultai (Gathering)27 of Altaians in February 1999. Earlier, a large campaign had been launched in the national newspaper, Altaidy˘ Cholmony, on Altaian TV and through the system of the Houses of Culture and the administration, advocating organization of meetings in every village when leaders of clans and delegates to the Kurultai were to be elected. Subsequently, the elected leaders were to meet in the centre of the district and choose the leader of each clan in the district, and the leader of the whole district regardless of clan affiliation. At this point, a question of terminology came into play and, apart from jaisa˘, other terms for leaders were used such as demichi, boshko and shulengi. There was much discussion of the need and legitimacy of such a kinship-based structure for Altaian self-government. In some districts (e.g. Ust-Kan) during the local meetings it was decided to elect territorial leaders, while in the others (e.g. Kosh-Agach) the kinship principle remained of key importance. The contemporary organization of clans was recently included in a structure of Altaian self-government, which is not entirely or even primarily kin-based. Moreover, self-government exists and is seen as running parallel to the official administrative structure. There are discussions both in the Altaian media as well as in the parliament of the Republic (El Kurultai) on the relationship between these two governing structures. The official administration is seen primarily as a top-down organization, passing down the orders and information from central governments (both in Gorno-Altaisk and in Moscow). The other structure (represented on the republican level by the Kurultai) is designed to be a bottom-up one, expressing the wishes of the local people and protecting their needs. The tension between kinship and territorial organization is the most crucial dimension in the structure of Altaian self-government. As A. Sel’bikov, the deputyeditor of Altaidy˘ Cholmony and an active participant in the political life of the Republic, told me, the movement towards Altaian self-government had started with gatherings of the clans and the election of jaisa˘dar. In the discussions before and during the II Kurultai, preference was given to the combined kinship–territorial structure, which in essence would be a form of Altaian self-government. The Kurultai itself was registered as a non-governmental organization. The first goal mentioned in the statute of Kurultai is ‘preservation and consolidation of the Altaians as one nation (people – narod)’ and the basic principle of activity is ‘accepting a priority of national unity over ideological or class convictions and superstitions’ (Ustav 1999). The governing body of the Altaians was organized according to the resolutions of the II Kurultai. Jaisa˘dar became only a part of this governing body (Tös Törgö), which consists of 14 jaisa˘dar,28 11 heads of districts29 and 14 deputies, elected by the delegates to the II Kurultai and responsible for culture, medicine, sport, politics, religion and other issues. The structure of self-government below district level was left to the discretion of local populations. In some districts (e.g. Kosh-Agach) the clan divisions still serve as a basic principle of self-governance. In other districts, people opt for a territorial principle, electing delegates for Kurultai from villages and districts, rather then clans.

The Altai, the Altaians and the Telengits 27 There are only 14 jaisa˘dar included in Tös Törgö, which means that few Altaian clans are represented. The clans that are included are those that organized a clan gathering at the Republican level and managed to elect a jaisa˘. Some of the clans registered themselves as associations. Membership in these associations is an interesting issue. For example, a statute for the organization of the Töölös clan says that ‘members of the “Töölöstör” association are representatives of the Töölös, Köbök, Almat, Orgonchy, Jabak, Jaryk and Shakshylyg clans, regardless of their place of living and religion’. The jaisa˘ of Töölös, G. Aiyldashev, told me that any of these clans could of course form their own separate organization, although he deems it as unnecessary, as he sees these sööktör as linked together either as subdivisions of the Töölös clan or through the karyndash relationship.

What is the Altaian religion? In the mid-1990s the religious beliefs of the Altaians was one of the most frequently discussed subjects in the Republic. Most of the following chapters of this book are concerned with the complexities of the religious life of the Telengits and here I provide a basic background to help the reader negotiate the forest of contemporary writings and discussions. Svetlana Tyukhteneva, an Altaian researcher, writes: In the ethnographic literature the religious beliefs of the Altaians have not been a subject of any fundamental research. One religious compound, which includes archaic, Shamanistic, Lamaistic and Christian beliefs and notions, is studied in separate sections. The lack of a precise, scientifically based point of view on the religion of the Altaians is reflected on the level of mass consciousness. (Tyukhteneva 1997: 8) I agree that Altaian beliefs tend to be studied in a way that disregards the fact that people simultaneously hold beliefs that researchers classify as belonging to different systems, for example, animistic, Shamanistic, Buddhist or Christian. There was a general tendency among Soviet ethnographers to describe religion in ‘layers’ ( plast), separating influences of various times and geographic areas (see, for example, Potapov 1978; Alekseev 1980, 1984, 1992; Konovalov 1984; Sagalaev 1984b). The focus was on history in terms of evolution and diffusion of artefacts and ideas. In the analysis of particular case, the main emphasis was placed on the separation of various influences (e.g. Potapov 1946). The history of religious ideas and religious influences remains a focus of interest for contemporary Altaian intellectuals, who were obviously trained in Soviet academic institutions. However, in the 1990s the issues of historical influences and evolution were supplanted by questions such as: What are the ‘real’, ‘true’Altaian beliefs? What should be classified as ‘the core’ of Altaian religious systems and what are merely ‘influences’ or even ‘restraints’? These contemporary discussions are not supposed to serve an entirely academic purpose. Religion is seen as one

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of the possible ways of unifying the Altaians as a nation. However, after several years of initial interest, the controversies concerning Altaian religious beliefs have contributed to a general doubt among many Altaian intellectuals as to whether religion can actually serve as a unifying factor for the Altaian nation. Nevertheless, the tendencies and notions that emerged during the discussions still play an important role in the political life of the Republic. What is also important is that many people in the villages began to discuss these issues. Initially there was a period of a genuine interest, which actually changed the perception and opinions of some people. This was followed by a growing realization that these debates were of limited relevance to the actual practising of one’s religious life – and indeed sometimes by annoyance that particular religious ideas were being imposed. Altai ja˘ and Ak ja˘ Ja˘ in Altaian means (1) authority; (2) faith; (3) custom, law, principle; (4) canon, ensemble of rules (Baskakov 1947). In a more colloquial but probably also more comprehensive usage, ja˘ can be understood as a general ‘way of doing things’. It is possible to say, while referring to a particular person, that this is her ja˘, that is, her way of doing things. However, in order to be addressed in terms of ja˘, the practice has to consider important matters of consciousness, faith, morality or custom. It is also possible to use ja˘ in the context of Sovet ja˘, meaning Soviet rule and authority, as well as Krestü ja˘ meaning the Christian religion. Hence, Altai ja˘ would mean the Altaian way of doing things. It can be understood as a general expression, whose precise content depends on the intention of the speaker. Ak ja˘ (ak – white) is sometimes equated with Altai ja˘. Still, Ak ja˘ is more closely related to matters of spiritual life, while Altai ja˘ would be understood in terms, for example, of wedding customs or national dress. Ak ja˘ is sometimes compared and contrasted with Kara ja˘, which is generally understood as a shaman’s (kam) domain, although there is a more precise term for the latter (kam ja˘). What is more, there is also a notion, though not a very prominent one, that there are ak (white) and kara (black) shamans (kamdar); hence, not every kam ja˘ is kara ja˘. Kara ja˘ would then be understood as everything, which is related to kara neme, that is, all things dark, Lower World and death. For an interpretation of the contemporary processes in Altai, the most interesting term is Ak ja˘. It denotes everything that is related to the realm of pure, white spirits, the Upper World and life. An Altaian ethnographer, K. Ukachina (1995), writes: ‘In this case [of Ak ja˘] ak stands not for a colour of ja˘ but for its essence. In mürgüül30 the word ak symbolises righteous character, gratitude, goodness, blessings from a pure soul.’ I use the terms Kara ja˘ and Ak ja˘ to refer to the discourse about them and not to the practices themselves. There is an inherent ambiguity in concepts and actions related to spiritual life. The relation between the Upper and Lower worlds cannot be generalized in terms of the relation between Good and Evil. The important point to bear in mind is that people talk about Ak ja˘ in opposition to

The Altai, the Altaians and the Telengits 29 Kara ja˘, stressing its purity, harmlessness and deep connections with Nature. There are many versions of the exact rules of Ak ja˘. Many of the articles in Altaidy˘ Cholmony concerning Ak ja˘ are typified by comments such as: Now about Ak Ja˘. Many people write about it, but nobody can give us a precise understanding . . . Everyone writes in the newspaper about Ak Ja˘, but nobody says anything clearly. Are we Altaian pagans ( yazychniki – in Russian), Buddhists or Shamanists? Or have paganism and Buddhism been united? (Maizin 1994) The bulk of the discussion about Ak ja˘ concerns its relation to Buddhism or through Burkhanism to Buddhism, which are both briefly presented later. The main question considers the level of Buddhist influence in Altai and the extent to which the claim that the Altaians are Buddhists is justified. Burkhanism Burkhanism31 is a commonly accepted name for a religious movement that arose at the beginning of the twentieth century in the Altai, although in the Altaian language this movement is most often called Ak ja˘. However, this use of the term Ak ja˘ cannot be fully equated with its contemporary usage. For some contemporary Altaians Ak ja˘ is the name for Altaian beliefs, which do not necessarily have much in common with the Burkhanism movement dating from the beginning of the twentieth century. Burkhanism is usually characterized on two levels – as a new religion with a messianic dimension and as a national unification movement (Mamet [1930] 1994; Gordienko [1931] 1994; Kolarz 1954; Sherstova 1989, 1997; Danilin 1993). It was aimed both at the integration of the community and against groups perceived as oppressors in a way similar to that of the Devi movement in Western India as described by David Hardiman (1987). Hardiman claims that the Devi movement was openly directed against local and British exploitation (e.g. by rejecting alcohol, the production of which was heavily taxed by the authorities), and on a deeper level it provided a meeting point between the tribal peoples of India (adivasis) and certain progressive members of the dominant classes. As I show later, this is also true for Burkhanism, whose followers were actually defended in court by Russian lawyers, who saw Burkhanistic ideas as progressive for the Altaians as a nation. The emergence of Burkhanism is linked to the events of 1904, which took place in the contemporary district of Ust-Kan, inhabited by the Altai kizhi. Chugul, the 12-year-old adopted daughter of Chet Chelpanov, an Altaian herder, described to her adopted father a meeting with the messenger of Oirot-khan, a mythical ruler of Altai, who left his people 200 years ago, promising to return. He passed messages to his people through Chet Chelpanov and Chugul. The messages concerned the freeing of Altaians from Russian rule, abandoning all Russian

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customs and objects, as well as the rejection of shamans. An employee of the Altai Orthodox Mission gave the following description of the initial events: Everything started when, in the upper course of the Yabogan river, three people appeared. One of them called himself Oirot-khan, the liberator of the Altaians from Russian rule. Jaisa˘(s) built several yurts for them, regarding them with veneration, and then the real propaganda started, explicitly directed at stirring up the inorodtsy32 against their authorities and the Altai Orthodox Mission. ‘From one point of view’, said the older agitator, ‘I am quite glad to see you in such a flourishing condition. I did not expect that and I am grateful to the Russian Tsar for that. But from the other point of view, you deeply disappoint me. When I left you 200 years ago, I ordered you to worship one God and you started to worship many gods and devils; many of you became baptised, which is also very sad.’ Then this agitator gave the following orders: ‘From now on you should not call God Kudai but only Burkhan. Money is without any value for the Altaians now, so try to dispose of it to Russian merchants; especially do not keep money with the image of the Tsar. Do not keep gunpowder and lead shot you have bought in your yurts – hide them in forests and mountains. Do not use white and red fabric for your clothes and for offerings to burkhans, but only yellow and blue. Destroy Russian clothes and all the Russian things. Stop trade and all contacts with the Russians. Worship the Sun and the Moon. Wait for the fire from the sky as a sign of His imminent arrival in Altai – Oirot-khan.’The outcome of such propaganda was as follows: drums and idols were burned, shamanising was forbidden. Kalmyks started to spend their money without counting, they were trifling it away. In Tuekta, Ongudai, Khabarovka all goods were bought up within two to three days. The rich gave away their money to the poor . . . Kalmyks stopped ploughing, sold all their horse-collars, duhas,33 harrows and ploughs; they tried to get rid of anything they had adopted from the Russians. They do not talk to Russians or to the newly baptised (Altaians), they are extraordinarily disturbed and restless. (Danilin 1993: 86) In the spring of 1904 gatherings of the Altaians began, which caused anxiety among the Russian settlers in central Altai. Subsequently, a Russian military unit and some local Russian peasants broke up the gathering organized in June 1904 in the Tere˘ valley, near the contemporary village of Kyrlyk. The leaders of the movement were arrested and put on trial. However, the defence organized by an ethnographer D. Klements, was so convincing that all the defendants were deemed not guilty (Kolarz 1954: 172). The main line of defence presented Burkhanism as an exclusively religious movement and denied its anti-Russian inclination. After the trial, Burkhanism spread to other parts of the Altai, although the centre remained in the area inhabited by the Altai kizhi. Nevertheless there are documents confirming that even Chet Chelpanov himself travelled to the upper

The Altai, the Altaians and the Telengits 31 reaches of the Chui river (Telengit area), where he met a Buddhist lama and promulgated his teachings. With time, Burkhanism began to adopt some elements of shamanistic ritual, even those that were initially the main point of attack on shamans’ practices, such as animal sacrifices (Tadina 1994: 289). As Walter Kolarz writes (1954: 173), the Soviet authorities at first treated Burkhanism with ambivalence. Burkhanism was explicitly directed against Tsarist Russia and the Altai Orthodox Mission and was persecuted by the Tsarist authorities, which were seen as positive points. On the other hand, there were a number of rich Altaians involved in the movement and some jarlykchy (spiritual leaders of Burkhanism) openly complained about the Soviet authorities. Generally speaking, until 1932 there is evidence of some jarlykchy praying at Bolshevik party meetings while some other were openly anti-Soviet (Collins 1993). From 1933 onwards, Burkhanism was persecuted both on the grounds of its political aspirations (nationalism) and its religious character. The link between the ritual repertoire of Burkhanism and Buddhism has captured the attention of many researchers. Andrei Sagalaev describes the ritual part of Burkhanism as a mixture of shamanic and lamaic rites, and also the traditional beliefs of the Altai people (worship of spring waters, spirits of places, the Master of Altai and so on), with the predominance of the last in a new, lamaised form. (Sagalaev 1984b: 99) Buddhist influences existed in Altai long before the beginning of the Burkhanist movement (Ekeev 1997). However, in Burkhanism there was an attempt to present Altaian beliefs as a system, backed by the authority of the messenger of Oirot-khan. Hence, in addition to details of rituals, there was also a structural similarity to Buddhism as a religious system based on a certain kind of authority, a point that I develop in the second part of this book. Burkhanism received support from some of the richest and most educated people of Altai, who saw it as a movement against Russian domination in the region. There is some material indicating that there were plans to organize Burkhanism in a more centralized and hierarchical form. The hierarchy of jarlykchy was established, which constituted relations between jarlykchy in a very different way from those between shamans (kamdar). Shamans could be considered more or less powerful, but there was no clear hierarchy between them in terms of dependency. However, there was such a hierarchical structure among jarlykchy. According to Sokolov (1994), Tyryi Agemchi was the head jarlykchy in Altai. Twice a year he gathered all the jarlykchy of the Altai (who were also divided according to rank) and explained to them the details of rituals. Unfortunately, materials concerning Tyryi are scarce. However, it is important to note that Burkhanism had a tendency towards monotheism, institutionalization, unification of practices and a hierarchical structure. Andrei A. Znamenski (1999) is right in stressing that the leaders of the Burkhanist movement saw it as a new ideology for the Altaians. Although many

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features of shamanic rituals were actually incorporated into Burkhanism, on an explicit level it was a movement against Russian influence, and at the same time its aim was to reshape the internal features of the Altaian way of life. As Znamenski writes: Burkhanism represents an example of such a cultural construction that emphasised the cultural unity of the nomads and capitalised on such symbols as the Altai as a synonym for a native land and Oirot Khan as a symbol of a common origin. (p. 237) These features of Burkhanism are very important in the light of contemporary processes in the Republic of Altai. The unifying, centralizing and national dimension of Burkhanism is in accord with aspirations of the contemporary Altaian intellectuals for whom at the beginning of the 1990s Burkhanism served as a special focus point. Books and leaflets on Burkhanism, as well as newspaper articles, were published and special conferences were organized. They stressed the importance of reviving and developing Burkhanist ideas and recreating it as a national religion, uniting all the Altaians. There were even plans to establish a committee on religious affairs, whose main concern would be to clarify and write down the rules of Burkhanism. Nevertheless, there was a growing tendency towards stressing Buddhist elements in Burkhanism. The shift from Burkhanism to Buddhism has political significance. It is noticeable that during the period of support for Burkhanism, the accent was put on its unique, national character, distinguishing the Altaians among other nations. Even when Burkhanism was seen as a branch of Buddhism, its specificity was consequently underlined. In the late 1990s, as the political potential of Buddhism came to attract the attention of Altaian intellectual leaders, the links between Buddhism and Burkhanism once more came to the fore. Buddhism There is no doubt that Buddhism has influenced the Altai region for many centuries, although Buddhism was never accepted as a religion of the Altai population and no monasteries or shrines are known in this region. I develop this issue further in Chapter 7. However, the existing Buddhist influences (cf. Sagalaev 1984b; Surazakov 1985) give a basis for interpretations pursued by contemporary national leaders concerned with the future shape of Altaian religious life. The key figure in the Republic of Altai who is promoting the Buddhist option is Altaichy Sanashkin, a journalist working for the Altaian state TV company. In the early 1990s he established an organization called Ak Burkan aimed at reviving Ak ja˘, which was understood as the Altaian faith-religion. However, this organization has gradually focused on Buddhism. I have been in touch with Altaichy Sanashkin ever since my first visit to the Republic in 1993. He has always claimed that the Altaian religion is a branch of

The Altai, the Altaians and the Telengits 33 Buddhism, but with the passing years his position has changed from supporting a revival of those Altaian rituals and customs that have their roots in Buddhism, to claiming that Altaians are actually Buddhists. Altaichy Sanashkin’s organization has sent several young men to study in Buddhist monasteries in Buriatya, Buddhist stupas have been erected in the territory of the Republic and there are plans to build a shrine. I have followed Altaichy Sanashkin’s personal studies and have seen how, each year, he has gathered more knowledge about Buddhism. He discovered the existence of various orders in Buddhism and finally decided to follow the Gelug-pa school. He also organized the visit of a representative of the Dalai Lama to the Republic. Altaichy Sanashkin also gradually changed his personal attitude towards Buddhism. It seems to me that initially his support for it was a political decision and an attempt to determine the true religion of the Altaians from an historical standpoint. Gradually, however, he became a follower of Buddhism, studying it and embracing everything that might contribute to his personal growth.34 Over time the Buddhist option has become more popular among Altaian intellectuals. There are a variety of reasons for this and any one of them can affect the decision whether or not to pursue this option. There is a general tendency towards emphasizing the ancient roots of Altaian Buddhism and presenting the Altaians as essentially a nation of practising Buddhists, though not necessarily of recognizing it. In this interpretation, Buddhism is seen as being embedded in local practices. Nevertheless, there is also a strong recognition of the political advantages of Buddhism (see Chapter 7). But not everyone is happy with the growing influence of Buddhism: in the autumn of 2002, for example, the first Buddhist stupa to be erected in the Republic of Altai (in a district of Ust-Kan) was destroyed allegedly by people from neighbouring villages. Other clashes related to the growing influence of Buddhism are described in Chapters 3 and 5 and the reasons behind them are explored in Chapters 6, 7 and 8. It is worth mentioning that the Gelug-pa school of Buddhism is not the only one present in the Altai today. The Altai became one of the sites of influence of Ole Nydhal, the leader of the Western branch of the Karma Kagyu school,35 whose followers built a small monastery near Gorno-Altaisk and in 1999 inaugurated a series of lectures on Buddhism. During my stay in the Altai in 2000, they were only just beginning their activities and relations between them and local Buddhists were practically non-existent. The Kagyu followers were not looking for contact with a local Buddhist organization (such as Ak Bukhan) nor were they interested in local traditions with Buddhist traits. My impression was that they were seeking rather to recruit new followers through missionary activities.36 Orthodox Christianity and other denominations The Christianization of Altai has been closely linked with Russian influences. Andrei Znamenski (1999) rightly underlines the difference in local responses and the success of Christianization between Southern and Northern Altaians. The Christianization of the North began much earlier and in the seventeenth and

34

Landscape and movement

eighteenth centuries the influences of Orthodox Christianity came through contact with Russians and not through organized attempts at religious conversion. The Northern Altaians, living alongside the Russian settlers and accustomed to their religious activities, were later, after the establishment of the Orthodox Mission for Altai, more eager to listen to the missionaries, even if out of curiosity. By contrast, the Southern Altaians were often more hostile towards the mission. Missionary zeal across the Altai began with the organization of the Orthodox Mission for Altai in 1828–30 (Potapov 1953: 199). In Tsarist Russia, Orthodox Christianity was a state-supported religion and Christianization was closely linked to policies of Russification. For example, baptized Altaians were supposed to settle down in villages and agriculture was strongly encouraged. Wearing traditional Altaian clothes was forbidden and newly baptized Altaians were instead given Russian-style garments (Sagalaev 1986). Until the beginning of the twentieth century, the missionaries’ main concern was to increase the number of baptized Altaians. They were most successful in Eastern and Northern Altai, with smaller numbers of baptized people in Western and Central Altai (Sagalaev 1984a). Nevertheless, by the nineteenth century there were missionaries who saw that a deep knowledge of the Altaian language and beliefs was necessary if longterm Christianization of the region was to be successful (see, for example, the works of Verbitskii (1893) 1993). The education of the Altaian people also became a concern of the Mission, which was quite exceptional among other Siberian missions at that time (Collins 1989). At the beginning of the twentieth century, baptized Altaians were allowed to become missionaries themselves, and Altaian translations of the Bible, prayers and hagiographies were published and widely distributed. One of the main targets of missionary activity was the Telengit area of what is now the district of Ulagan. As Sagalaev (1986) rightly points out, the Altaians were learning about Christianity and adopting Christian ideas not only through the mediation of missionaries. Russian peasants had been settling in the Altai and interacting with the local population since the nineteenth century. They brought with them a whole range of beliefs, healing methods and magic. Under Soviet rule, the Orthodox churches of the Altai were destroyed, but there were people who secretly carried on some church-related activities. For example, in the district of Ulagan there is a whole category of people (including Telengits) who are called polukreshchonnye (lit. ‘half-baptized’). They were baptized at home through a simple ceremony carried out by elderly local Orthodox believers. In the mid-1990s, the Altai Orthodox Mission was re-established, to the exasperation of many Altaian intellectuals. A number of letters were exchanged between the headquarters of the Mission, the leaders of Ene til (lit. ‘mother tongue’, a non-governmental Altaian organization), Ak Burkan and the council of the jaisa˘dar of the Altai. The Altaian leaders pointed out that the Orthodox Church should apologize for the way that Christianity had been introduced in the Altai in the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth centuries instead of trying to repeat their mistakes a century later. In particular, they wanted an apology for the breaking up of a Burkhanist gathering in 1904 in the Tere˘ valley

The Altai, the Altaians and the Telengits 35 (Boiyny˘ 1996; Ene-til 1996). The ‘Altaian intelligentsia’ (as the statement was signed in the newspaper) underlined that Altaians have their own ancient religion, Ak ja˘, which should be finally and openly acknowledged by the Orthodox Church authorities. The Church authorities did not agree with such statements and the Altaian Mission still continues its activities. Apart from the regions closest to the capital of the Republic, where the population is largely Russian, the region that is the most heavily influenced by the Orthodox Church is the district of Ulagan. In the capital this district is perceived as being so heavily influenced that at the beginning of the 1990s there were plans to organize a special conference with the aim of developing strategies for dealing with the spread of Christianity there. What is interesting is that the district of Ulagan is, on the one hand, the heartland of Altaian Christianity, yet, on the other hand, is the region where Altaian rituals of land worship are continued, despite having been abandoned elsewhere (see Chapter 8). Currently, Orthodox Christianity is not the only Christian denomination that is promoting itself among Altaians. A number of new Christian churches are sending missionaries to the Altai, including a group called the New Life (Novaya Zhizn’) which is particularly active. Its representatives have lived in the Altai for years, learning the Altaian language and customs, supporting their converts materially and slowly introducing them to a new religion. They give free English lessons, during which they use materials containing Christian messages. The Jehovah Witnesses are also very active, gaining popularity among women because they forbid alcohol. This situation worries the Altaian intellectuals, who would like to see the Altaians united in faith. Contemporary religious organizations of the Altaians Although the Altaian intellectuals can be viewed as a group in the sense that they actively monitor and debate the situation and future of the Altaian people, when it comes to details, their opinions are very diverse. I mentioned earlier that the first Buddhist stupa erected by the supporters of Buddhism in the Republic of Altai does not exist any more. It was destroyed in 2002 and allegations fall immediately upon a group of people from nearby villages, who belong to the Ak ja˘ religious movement, although they were not proved guilty. This movement was initiated by Sergei (Akai) Kynyev, an Altaian businessman who spent several years outside the Republic and who on his return to the Altai in 1997, established a religious organization Ak ja˘ based in the Ongudai (O˘doi) district of the Republic. From the outset Kynyev has organized meetings of Altaian spiritual practitioners (biler kizhi – see especially Chapters 6 and 7). In this way Kynyev wanted to create a forum for exchange of ideas concerning ritual practices, beliefs, knowledge about sacred places and annual celebrations, with the aim of establishing a common core of Altaian beliefs for the future. As he told me in 2000, he would like to see a special house built (in the form of a traditional Altaian wooden house – aiyl) in every village, where the knowledgeable people and elders would gather to discuss details of conducting communal rituals and

36

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other pressing issues related to the spiritual life of the inhabitants. For Kynyev, the crux of Altaian religious life is a cult of nature, so he does not want this building to become a shrine. However, it may become a place where a book describing Altaian beliefs is held – when such a book is finally written. His attitude towards shamans and their practices is ambivalent and changing. He opposes the development of Buddhism, as he claims that the Altaians have their own faith and do not need external influences. In the late 1990s, he claimed that shamanism is also passé for the Altaians and his assertions were closely linked to the ideals expressed at the beginning of the twentieth century by Burkhanists. However, I have recently met several people in the Altai, who attended his recent conferences and were surprised to hear from him that shamanism is the core of Altaian beliefs and should be revitalized within the scope of the Ak ja˘ movement. Sergei Kynyev has told me that he is pleased with the disagreements and discussions that his activities are causing in the Republic. For him these are an integral part of the process of homogenizing the Altaian faith. However, they also have led to the break-up of his organization into at least four branches of the Ak ja˘ movement. Subsequently Kynyev registered another organization: Kin Altai. These branches are mainly based in the district of Ongudai or in Gorno-Altaisk, often actively deprecating each other. Apart from Ak ja˘, which is both the most active and the most contested religious movement in the Altai, there are several other organizations, such as Ak Sanaa, Ak Suus, Agaru Ja˘ and Te˘ri, which are defined by local religious traditions, including shamanism. Most of these have a main leader, who usually claims some spiritual abilities. The spiritual leader of Ak Sanaa is Dzhana Alekseeva, considered by many to be the most powerful urban shaman in the Republic. She is a 30-year-old, elegant woman who is interested in finding a place for shamanism in the contemporary world. She openly enjoys and appreciates the advantages of modern life, likes dancing, good restaurants and feminine clothes, and is very conscious about the impact her lifestyle can have on her career as a shaman. She says that her shamanic abilities are something that she was given at birth, and she appreciates them, but otherwise, she wants to be a thoroughly modern woman with a career that is independent of her shamanic abilities – she is a lawyer. Ak Suus has a different character, as its leader, Nikolai Shodoev, stresses the scientific validity of Altaian religious traditions and, despite being a religious person, claims intellectual rather than spiritual foundations for leadership. This organization is explicitly opposed to the spreading of Buddhist influence in the Republic. Agaru ja˘ was established in 1996 and does not have a sole spiritual leader. One of its supporters is aka jaisa˘, Aleksandr Kindishevich Bardin. In its statutes it declares itself to be a pantheistic religious community, which supports the revival of shamanism. Te˘ri is an organization headed by Nina Antonova and Danil Mamyev. They advertise themselves as a ‘School of Ecology of Soul’ and promote what they call a ‘spiritual lifestyle’, based on the harmonious existence of humans and nature. One of the recent initiatives of Danil Mamyev has been the

The Altai, the Altaians and the Telengits 37 establishment of a nature park, ‘Üch E˘mek’, in Karakol valley (Ongudai region), the aim of which is to protect sacred sites in the Altai against uncontrolled economic development and tourism (see Conclusions). He claims that internal diversity is an inherent characteristic of Altaian religious life. The reason for that is the deeply rooted connection between religious practices and the land. As landscapes of the Altai vary from the vast steppes and high peaks covered with snow in the South to the gentle forested hills in the North, the religious practices of the Altaians, according to him, have to be equally varied. These organizations are well known among the Altaians all over the Republic. Altaian TV, newspapers, students travelling regularly to the capital, conferences and courses for teachers and House of Culture employees organized in the centre, all serve as a means of diffusing information. What is more, people in the villages seem to be genuinely interested in the discussions on religion, even if they complain about the intellectuals coming up with all sorts of strange ideas. They seem be well aware of what is happening within these organizations and among the town-based spiritual leaders. What we see happening nowadays in the Republic of Altai I would interpret as a multiplicity of attempts at institutionalizing local religious practices. This is in no way a process exclusive to the Republic of Altai, as it can be observed in many places in contemporary Siberia. In neighbouring Tuva, shamans have become organized into associations with quite strict rules regarding the acceptance of new members, identity cards, hierarchical structure and ritual conduct. I would argue that, in the Tuvan case, the establishment of shamanist organizations in such a unified form was an effect of the competition between shamanism and Buddhism for a place in the national ideology of the Republic, which was taking place in the early and mid1990s. The organizers wanted to prove that shamanism can function in an ‘orderly manner’, as a positive, unifying force within a framework of a contemporary market-oriented economy and ‘nation-state’. They even established an official price-list for shamanic services to make it easier to tax the shamans’ income. Still, in the Altai, the institutionalization of local religious practices still lies far behind this Tuvan experience. The expansion of Buddhism encouraged the establishment of several organizations concerned with the development and stabilization of what was considered local Altaian beliefs. Shamanism has become a concept that is used by these organizations to establish their place in the religious arena. The key question for their leaders now seems to be: where are we placed on the scale between Buddhism and shamanism? A detailed description of differences between these organizations goes beyond the scope of this book. The tension between diversity and the aspirations for unification is seen both in the town and in villages. Explicitly people tend to opt for unification, but more often then not, the practical attempts at unification are challenged. This book explores the possible reasons for this situation. For example, the Altaians tend to complain about the lack of written religious rules or the lack of a single place for worship. Yet, whenever attempts at writing down the rules or main religious ideas are made (cf. Me˘desh and Kanichin 1993; Me˘desh 1995; Muytueva and Chochkina 1996), they are immediately challenged.

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The same holds true for the place of worship – the idea has appeared plenty of times, both in the town and in the villages, but has never successfully been brought forward. Let me close this general chapter with a fragment of an article from Altaidy˘ Cholmony by N. Sadalova (1999). Primarily the article deals with the problems of contemporary Christian expansion in the Altai, but it also includes reflections on the religious situation of the Altaians: In the old times our wise ancestors chose Boodo-Burkhan ja˘.37 Apparently they chose it for a good reason. Still, until now we divide ourselves into Ak ja˘ believers, Altai ja˘ believers, and Kam ja˘ believers. In such circumstances, it is easy to confuse the people. Because of that, today the Altaians have to be extremely cautious. Why cannot we arrive at the unified opinion, why cannot we stop all these divisions between ourselves? This question was not addressed adequately during Kurultai38 of the Altaians. Buddhism is not welcomed either. There were even calls to live as in earlier times.39 Still, if we try to live as before, all these sects attacking us from all sides will drag us in different directions. How can we fail to understand it? Could we remain as one nation afterwards? What kind of people are we if we do not take into consideration that the Orthodox Christians tell us that 60% of Altaians are baptised?40 Let’s think about ways of protection, time will not wait for us. The following chapters in this book are an attempt to suggest possible answers to Sadalova’s basic questions: Why can the Altaians not arrive at one unified option with regard to religion, despite so many efforts? What must they sacrifice or change, if a unified religion is to become a reality?

2

Sacred land and the significance of places

The Telengits live in the district of Kosh-Agach, but they also live in Ere Chui, which is not an administrative but a notional area carrying a profound spiritual significance. This chapter therefore provides a meeting ground both for contemporary political concerns and for the spiritual significance of ‘place’. It serves as a point of entry to a vast area of the Telengit spiritual life, an interpretation of which I develop in the following chapters. In this chapter I introduce the area of the Republic where I did most of my fieldwork, focusing in particular on three villages in the district of Kosh-Agach. Towards the end of the book I bring the reader again to the world of contemporary politics, national identities and media, to show how the spiritual life of the people influences their political choices. The district of Kosh-Agach (named after its central settlement) lies in the southeastern part of the Republic of Altai, bordering the Republics of Tyva and Mongolia. It is often called ‘remote’ by the people from Gorno-Altaisk, but that is more a reflection of its dramatically different landscape, harsh living conditions, and the way of life of its people, than a reality of the difficulties in transport and communication. On the contrary, although far from the Republic’s centre (over 400 kilometre), Kosh-Agach is relatively accessible, as the international road called Chuiskii Trakt cuts through its plains. Nonetheless, reference to KoshAgach in other districts evokes an image of remoteness, a lunar landscape, harsh living conditions and poverty. People from other parts of the Republic talk about wide yellow steppes, the lack of trees and greenery, cold but snowless winters, strong winds and short summers. They believe that the people of Kosh-Agach live solely on bread and mutton, as no vegetables are grown in the district. It is remote, it is barren and it is harsh. It is the only steppe region in the Republic. The proximity of the international border and the border-crossing point in Tashanta saves the Telengits from being labelled as ‘marginalized’. They are considered to be ‘savage’ and ‘traditional’, ‘dangerous’ and ‘noble’ (cf. Lowenhaupt Tsing 1993), but the market reality of the 1990s means that they live in a district with a lively cross-border trade, which is seen as being of crucial importance to the economic future of the Republic. Hence, the district of Kosh-Agach, and the Telengits living there, cannot be seen as marginal, even if they appear not to participate in the local trade as much as their Kazakh neighbours.

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Roughly half of the population of the district is Kazakh (the other half being the Telengits) and this is another feature which is marked prominently in the stereotypes of Kosh-Agach in the Republic. The first wave of Kazakhs arrived in Kosh-Agach during the last 30 years of the nineteenth century. They reached an agreement with the Telengit elders and were allowed to live on the left bank of the Chui River. The second big wave of Kazakh migrants came to this area in the 1920s and 1930s, drawn there by the deteriorating socio-political situation in Kazakhstan. Until the beginning of the 1990s the population of Kazakhs in the Kosh-Agach district was growing steadily (Oktyabr’skya 1995). The total number of inhabitants of the district of Kosh-Agach in January 2000 was almost 17,000 (Bidinov et al. 2000). The period from 1991 to 1996 witnessed a huge movement of Kazakhs to and from Kazakhstan. Following encouragement from the President of Kazakhstan, Nursultan Nazarbaev, many Kazakh families decided to return to their ‘historical homeland’ in eastern Kazakhstan. They hoped for better living conditions, support from the government and a quiet life in a mono-ethnic environment. Yet I have talked to people who, after 2 or 3 years of fruitless attempts to settle down in Kazakhstan, have come back to Altai. They were mostly disappointed with interpersonal relations in Kazakhstan, which according to them, were much more market-based than rooted in solidarity and compassion. They said that they had expected to be helped and greeted as longlost sons of their homeland but they were met as outsiders, speaking a strange dialect and holding on to customs and values that had become obsolete in Kazakhstan many years ago. It seemed as if they had lost all ties with their imagined homeland, and were rejected by it. In 1991 and 1992, 3,276 people migrated to Kazakhstan. In 1994 the first disillusioned settlers began to filter back, and by the end of 1996, 1,258 Kazakhs had returned.1 This process is still continuing. Following their return from Kazakhstan, some Kazakhs chose not to settle back in the Kosh-Agach district but stayed in Gorno-Altaisk or in nearby villages. Those who came back to the district of Kosh-Agach settled down either in KoshAgach itself – the centre of the district – or in one of two Kazakh villages: Töböler and Zhanaul. This resulted in a spatial separation between the two main national groups of the district. Some villages, which used to be ethnically mixed during the Soviet period (Kökörü, Mukhor-Tarkhata, Ortolyk), are now mostly Telengit. While there are some Kazakhs still living in Telengit villages (mostly those who had stayed in Altai rather than migrating to Kazakhstan), there are virtually no Telengits in Töböler and Zhanaul, apart from one man who is married to a Kazakh woman. In general, the Telengits criticize the Kazakhs’ decision to leave the district. They speak about the issue with a lot of bitterness. The history of Telengit–Kazakh relations is brought into the discourse and the thread linking the deeds of the ancestors and contemporary events is seen as unbroken. Telengits say that more than a century ago they had accepted the Kazakhs, who were allowed to have a share of their land and the use of their pastures. They were treated with respect and their needs were taken into account. Their subsequent abandonment of the district is viewed as an act of treachery. The Kazakhs turned their backs on

Sacred land and the significance of places 41 their hosts and, as many Telengits say, were ‘spitting on our Altai, on the land which had accepted them’. In some Telengit villages Kazakh families returning from Kazakhstan were not accepted back. However, in the majority of cases, the Kazakhs themselves preferred to live either in the district centre or in mono-ethnic Kazakh villages. Given that own way of life is based on movement, why did the Telengits judge the recent Kazakh migration so negatively? One has to remember that although mobile pastoralists do move with their herds, not all movement is accepted and legitimate. Being a mobile pastoralist does not mean that a person does not have a place that is his/her homeland. In the case of settled communities, a village and its boundaries constitutes a domesticated universe, surrounded by the realm of the unknown or less known. In the case of nomadic communities, constant movement through the landscape results in the place itself taking on great importance. This is what Edward S. Casey (1996) called ‘moving within a place’, when a person moves about a given place while still remaining in it. Telengits are extremely conscious of the power, sacredness and uniqueness of their place – the Altai. People who choose to abandon it, after being accepted by it, show their disrespect and contempt for the sacredness of the Altai. The Altai is a powerful place and when one has been accepted by it, one cannot just leave it. This is why the Kazakhs, who had left Kosh-Agach as wealthy people with their belongings piled high on their vans, arrived back almost barefoot. One cannot leave (i.e. betray) Altai without being punished for it. Still, despite the resentment of the Telengits and the presumed displeasure of the Altai, my general impression is that nowadays the Kazakhs of Kosh-Agach are coping better with the new economic situation than the Telengits. Kazakhs dominate local trade. Many Kazakhs currently living in the Baian-Ölgiy district in Mongolia (the district bordering Kosh-Agach) have relatives and close links with the Kazakhs of Kosh-Agach. Most of the people who in the 1990s came from Mongolia to sell Chinese and Mongolian goods in Kosh-Agach are Kazakhs from Baian-Ölgiy. Many Telengits believe that Kazakhs, who used to have a very strong position in Kosh-Agach, found it extremely hard to accept that in Kazakhstan they were no longer dominant and this is why they returned to Kosh-Agach. There is a lot of gossip and discussion around Kazakh–Telengit relations in the district and in the Republic. The Kazakh migration is only one of the issues in question. Another preoccupation is with the ethnic composition of local government and Kazakh domination in local business. The head of the district, Ayelkhan Dzhatkambaev, is Kazakh and has been recently re-elected for a second term. Telengits perceive Kazakhs to be strongly united, helping each other in all situations – for example, in obtaining jobs or profitable trade contracts. Nevertheless, although Telengits are bitter about this, it is only recently that their statements have begun to become accusatory. Before Dzhatkambaev’s re-election, they rather admired the Kazakhs’ solidarity and unity and regret that they themselves did not support each other in a similar way. Now, although there are few violent conflicts between Kazakhs and Telengits, tensions are extremely high and the spatial and mental separation of these two groups continues to grow.

42

Landscape and movement

In the Republic, the Kosh-Agach district is perceived to be a Kazakh area. This is not only because half of the population is Kazakh but also because the Kazakhs are seen as exerting a very strong influence on the Telengits’ way of life. Two perspectives are interconnected here: one is that the Telengits have adopted many Kazakh customs; the other is that because of the dominant Kazakh presence, the Telengits are more conscious of their traditions as a form of resistance to their influential neighbours. Hence, the Telengits of Kosh-Agach are seen, on the one hand, as losing their customs to Kazakh ones, but on the other hand, as having especially strong attachment to the their own way of life that developed as a counter-reaction to the Kazakh presence.

Ere Chui Whereas the district of Kosh-Agach is an administrative unit, Ere Chui is a notional area. When talking about the ‘district’, people tend to focus on the economic situation and everyday matters. But when talking about Ere Chui, they speak about a spiritually powerful and significant place. Korbolop chykkan agashtu Korkurap akkan talailu Ere Chuiga bash bolzyn! Chyrbaiyp chykkan chyrbaadu Chyrap akkan talailu, Ere Chui! With trees branching out With murmuring waters, to Ere Chui bash bolzyn [reverence]! With prominent bushes With rippling waters Ere Chui! Borobash Ivanov, from Kurai village, told me that in the past this song was sung by Soio˘ people2 as they left Ere Chui to return to their homeland in Tuva. The song is a blessing to Ere Chui, expressing the gratitude of the Soio˘ people for the years they have spent there and praising the life-giving power, which is encompassed by this land. The basin of the Chui River is a long and beautiful valley with landscapes changing dramatically from its bazhy (head) to its oozy (mouth) that is, to the point where the Chui flows into the Kadyn (Katun’) River, the main river in the Republic. It includes part of O˘doi (Russian: Ongudai) District inhabited by Altai-kizhi. However, although Ere Chui is generally considered a Telengit territory, its exact location remains very contentious. For example, some people living in the neighbouring district of Ulagan, also Telengits, perceive themselves as living in Ere Chui.3 What is more, the Telengits of Kosh-Agach do not always agree on the boundaries of Ere Chui even among themselves. There are some who stretch the area of Ere Chui beyond the borders of the Kosh-Agach district, and others who claim that the administrative district of Kosh-Agach is much bigger than Ere Chui. Under the latter definition, Ere Chui would comprise only the

Sacred land and the significance of places 43 headwaters and upper reaches of the Chui River, and thus the first village I describe in detail later, Kurai, would not be an Ere Chui village. There are also some people who see Ere Chui as covering only the Chuiskaya Steppe, an even smaller area. This apparent lack of agreement on the limits of Ere Chui highlights a more general issue concerning borders in the Inner Asian context. As Morten Pedersen argues in the example of Tsaatang4 in northern Mongolia (Pedersen 2003), nomadic people emphasize ‘place’ at the expense of ‘space’, while the opposite is true for people who are sedentarized. It means that the mobile pastoralists, whose very existence is conditioned by their movement, see their landscape as a network of significant places without any clear boundaries separating the influence of one place from another. Pedersen argues that the space separating the significant places (such as sacred mountains, springs or trees) is empty and boundless – it does not have a quality in itself and can be seen as a space where movement from place to place happens. Pedersen relies largely on Bruno Latour’s actor-network theory in seeing the nomadic landscape as a network, a kind of fragmented totality crosscutting the domains of society and environment, which is heterogeneous and infinite. However, towards the end of his article, Pedersen states that he nevertheless agrees with Marilyn Strathern’s argument that human beings cannot tolerate being forever part of an infinite actor-network. Hence, a theory of the boundlessness of the Tsaatang landscape seems to reach its limits. Pedersen deals with this apparent difficulty by analysing rituals at ovoo,5 which are piles of stones located at mountain passes, cross roads, or places where something memorable has happened. The Tsaatang circumambulate ovoos and, according to Pedersen, in this way they create stable, bounded places in the realm of boundless space. Still, does this really have the effect of ‘cutting the network’, to put it in Strathernian terms? Although I agree that in this way ovoo is established as a place, it still has the same qualitative characteristics as other significant places, its influence radiating from a spot towards an infinite space. Maybe through circumambulation Tsaatang do not ‘cut through network’, but just add another actor to it. The general distinction made by Pedersen between nomadic and sedentary landscape is a useful analytical tool. It genuinely stems from ethnographic Inner Asian material and, as Pedersen himself shows, it can be used as a means of understanding aspects of human relations with the environment elsewhere. Still, the Telengit situation prompts me to ask the following question: Does boundary have to be imagined as a line? Ere Chui does not seem to be an infinite space. Pedersen talks about the power of places radiating from a point, like ripples from a stone dropped into water. Yet I feel that we should make a distinction between the boundaries of a place (or a space) and its influence. Surely in Pedersen’s terms the states of the modern world are spatially bounded in a similar way to his example of the crop fields of Danish farmers. However, their apparent ‘boundedness’ tells us nothing about their influence and power. Ere Chui’s influence seems to be potentially limitless, as I show later, but at the same time I would argue that Ere Chui has boundaries. However, it does not have

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boundaries as lines, and it cannot be marked clearly on the political map in different colours as modern states can. Nevertheless, the Telengits differentiate between someone who lives inside Ere Chui and someone who lives outside it. Ere Chui’s boundaries are not lines but points – in this particular case called üleler, which are the Telengit equivalent of the Tsaatang ovoo. Because they are points, it can be said that space can flow around the place. For me the most important characteristic of the nomadic landscape is not that it is infinite but that it is flexible, stretchable and changing. Or maybe, if we want to keep Pedersen’s terminology, Ere Chui is not primarily a space, but a powerful place, the boundaries of which are situationally recognized by an engagement of people with a network of discrete centres of power. Ere Chui can be seen as a non-human agent as a whole, but it encompasses a number of significant places with power radiating from them in a way which makes it impossible to say where their influence stops. It is also a space, within which the movement of pastoralists occurs. Do we thus have a powerful place encapsulating other places, or a powerful space dotted with places? Moreover, Ere Chui is not a place radiating power like concentric ripples in water. It has a clear beginning, and the point that marks the beginning of Ere Chui is also one of its border-points: the source of the river Chui (near the village of Kökörü, described later). The power flows from there, together with the river, until it reaches the huge üle, a pile of stones collected by passers-by, situated approximately 7 kilometres from Kurai village. Here, visitors to Ere Chui or its inhabitants stop and give their prayers and offerings. This is one of the dots on the boundary and an important one as it is situated on the international road of Chuiski Trakt along which much movement occurs (Plate 2.1). The landscape around Kurai, however, is quite unlike that around the upper part of the river Chui. Kurai lies between high-peaked, snow-covered mountains and among woods and meadows, which are covered with grass and flowers in summer and a thick layer of snow in winter. When travelling from Gorno-Altaisk, the landscape unfolds gradually until the traveller reaches the next village of ChaganUzun, after which Ere Chui acquires the full power of the wide steppe – the place where Earth meets Sky. The key to delimiting Ere Chui should therefore stem from a phenomenological understanding of the experience of the environment. As Tim Ingold (2000) argues, humans are part of the landscape and their very experience of living through it should inform the anthropological analysis. Ere Chui is special because moving around the spaces of the steppe is different from moving around the spaces among the mountains covered with forest. I am not arguing here for a sort of geographical determinism. Instead, I say that we have to take into account the sensual experiences of places in the same way as Caroline Humphrey (1997) argues that the mountains are powerfully present in the landscape and they act through their visual dominance. I argue that the limits of Ere Chui should be viewed in relation to the phenomenological aspects of human experience. Another reason for the varying ways in which Ere Chui is geographically defined may relate to the practice of pastoralism. Caroline Humphrey (1995)

Plate 2.1 Üle next to Kurai village, a popular stopping on the international road Chuiskii Trakt.

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claims that in the Mongolian pastoral economy there is an area known as homeland (Mongolian nutag), within which the movement of herders and their animals takes place. Outside the nutag, places are also considered powerful, but such places do not interact immediately with the herders moving through the land. In this sense, Ere Chui could be treated as a nutag area. Moreover, the fact that the district of Kosh-Agach is a contemporary administrative unit clearly influences the way in which its inhabitants experience space and may cause Ere Chui to be more clearly bound than it used to be in the past. Ere Chui is uchurlu (alt.) – that is, with a meaning. It has spiritual significance: people refer to Ere Chui as agaru, which in Telengit means sacred and pure. I cannot be sure about its linguistic provenance but it sounds like a connection of two words: ak and aru meaning respectively ‘white’ and ‘pure’, in other words ‘clean’. As Vasilii Oinoshev (1995), an Altaian ethnographer, has observed, ak in Altaian means ‘white’, ‘bright’ and it also carries such meanings as purity, wisdom and sacredness. The influence of Ere Chui flows with the river. The most spiritually charged places in Ere Chui lie next to its bazhy (alt. a head, a source). Ere Chui itself may not be boundless, but it is difficult for the Telengits to comprehend the limits of its influence – potentially it can encompass the world or the universe, for the waters of the Chui river flow ever onwards. The first time I heard a story about Ere Chui was in 1993 when I was travelling on an overcrowded bus from Gorno-Altaisk to Kosh-Agach in the company of some happily tipsy men. As we passed the huge üle near Kurai, they told me the story (which I have heard many times since) concerning the absence of snakes in Ere Chui. According to the story, on the day that a snake enters Ere Chui, a war will begin and not necessarily on a local scale. A snake entered Ere Chui in 1941 and soon afterwards Nazi Germany attacked the Soviet Union.6 The next time a snake enters Ere Chui, another war will begin. In 1999, there was talk in the district that the next huge war might be looming. Horrifying images of war and crime from Russian television news programmes, the stark realities of living under extremely difficult economic conditions and the news concerning a solar eclipse that year all became bound up with the local story about a snake entering Ere Chui. At the time there was a circus visiting Altai, which would then cross the Tashanta border-crossing to Mongolia, and it had a snake as part of its entourage – and hence a snake entered Ere Chui.The most common reaction to this news was laughter laced with varying degrees of fear. Is a circus snake brought to Ere Chui by people the same as a snake that enters a territory to bring misfortune? Many people actually know that in some valleys and on some mountains of Ere Chui there are snakes. Still, this story is about something else. A snake is a creation of Erlik-bii – the master of the Lower World. Erlik-bii is not evil. Rather, the realm of his influence includes human misfortunes, illnesses and weaknesses. He can be also helpful, as he can help to overcome difficulties. Still, most of his creations are symbols of evil, misfortune and illness. A snake coming to Agaru Ere Chui pollutes its purity and sacredness. Bodily metaphors are used to express the fact that Ere Chui is indeed alive. But it should not be concluded from this that Ere Chui is an organism, shaped like a human body, as described by Bastien (1978) in relation to the mountains of Quollhayasa in Bolivia. Later in the book I argue that the land is an aspect of the

Sacred land and the significance of places 47 Telengit notion of the person, hence living people and land should be looked at as aspects of the same entity. The bodily metaphors which are applied to Ere Chui focus our attention on the fact that land is alive and that it has certain characteristics, and not that it lives, grows, develops and dies like an organism. Ere Chui is called Jerdi˘ Kindigi (the Earth’s navel or umbilical cord). Kindik is a very powerful metaphor in Telengit, encompassing such meanings as centrality, connection and essence. Te˘erile kindiktü – with the umbilical cord connected to the Sky – is a metaphor used to describe heroes and powerful leaders of the past. Such a person is equipped with special qualities and is connected to the Sky, to the sacred realms. It clearly resonates with some aspects of Caroline Humphrey’s argument (1995) about chiefly landscape among the Mongols, which is a realm of vertical metaphors, linking the earth with the sky. Like the powerful leaders of the past, who had their navels attached to the sky, Ere Chui itself is a navel. It is perceived as a place where connection with cosmic energies is much stronger than in other places. It is the centre, but not so much in the meaning of a point on the surface of the Earth, but as an action of reaching towards the sky. This is what I have heard in Kökörü from many people: Our Altai, precisely our Kosh-Agach district and the border between Tuva and our Kökörü, is the Earth’s Navel and on the very top we are placed. We have an upland. If you come to the border of Tuva, one river flows to one side and the other one to the other. It is the Earth’s Navel; we are situated at the navel. Our Altai, no, not our Altai but precisely our Kosh-Agach district. This is not the only meaning of Jerdi˘ Kindigi. In saying these words the Telengits perform rather than proclaim the remarkable nature of this territory. It is interconnected with Telengit images of the world and veneration for Sky and Earth. In addition, there are some places in the district, especially close to Kökörü village, which exemplify the general sacredness of Ere Chui. Many are concentrated in the Kökörü area – the most sacred of all – because it is here that the river Chui has its source. The best-known place is a huge hollow in the steppe next to Kökörü. Saksarga Sakhilianova, an elderly woman from Kökörü, describes it as follows: In the place called Jer-oro˘koi there is Jerdi˘ Kindigi. If you look you see just a flat steppe, but if you come closer, this is like a hollow . . . There is Jerdi˘ Kindigi there, as a deep hole. There are felt tents there, cattle can be herded there. Pointed mountain peaks surround our land and it is why there is Jerdi˘ Kindigi here. If you think about it, all water goes there and only in our land – high mountains and there is Jerdi˘ Kindigi here. There is Jerdi˘ Kindigi in the Chui valley. Even 6 or 7 felt tents could be placed in there! All the herd can be kept there! Ere Chui also encompasses Jerdi˘ Oozy – Earth’s Mouth. It is talked about in every village and is clearly connected to a particular place. Tyndu in Alatian means ‘with a breath’ and the Telengits themselves translate it into Russian as zhivoi, that is, alive. The following description was given by the most widely acknowledged biler

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kizhi (a person who knows – see Chapter 7) of Ere Chui – Marusia eje,7 living in the steppe between Beltyr and Ortolyk villages. There are such places where in winter the ground is frozen, then it cracks, splits up and holes appear. From there the Earth’s breath (tynysh) appears. At that place it is forbidden to urinate. If one does, he or she will fall ill with sickness related to the urethra or uterus. No doctor will be able to heal it, as it is an illness of the earth. The bodily metaphors are not the only ones used in relation to the land. Household metaphors are also used, linking the body, the house and the land in the powerful connection of mutual dependency. Before collectivization Telengits used to live in kiiis aiyl (felt tents). Nowadays some people put them up next to their wooden houses in the summer and some of the herders, living in the mountains or in the steppe, use them in the summer and spring. The tent’s entrance always faces the direction where the sun rises, and the inside, with an iron fire-place in the middle, is divided into two parts – male to the left of the entrance and female to the right (Plate 2.2). The territory is also divided into two parts: Ada ja˘y and Ene ja˘y (the Side of a Father and the Side of a Mother). The axis is always a river, the most important one in the district being of course the Chui river. This division is important for the herders who travel with their herds, and for all people who have had to move because of a misfortune. The Ene–Ada ja˘y division is interconnected with the characteristics of places, which are important for herding. Most people who know this division see the parallel between Ada–Ene ja˘y and the spatial organization of a felt tent. Jondy˘ Samunov, one of the most knowledgeable and respected people of Kökörü, was the first to tell me about Ada ja˘y and Ene ja˘y. In his interpretation, the axis was the river Boroburgazy. It is ezhikte (at the door) because it flows from the east and the door of a Telengit felt tent should always face east. For him and for many other people, Ene and Ada ja˘y differ in terms of their living conditions and other features. Generally speaking, Ene ja˘y is always perceived as softer, more cosy, with more pastures and better living conditions. Still, it does not mean that living in Ene ja˘y is always better. The connection and relation between place and person is individual. The place (jer) where you live can either give you support or oppose your living force. Your family problems, problems with herding or with your own health can be attributed to the place where you live. Although, generally speaking, Ene ja˘y is softer and more friendly to humans than Ada ja˘y, some people are predisposed to live only in Ada ja˘y. Marusia eje, whom I mentioned earlier, explained that actually Ada ja˘y is not in any essential way more difficult to live in than Ene ja˘y. Those are two sides of Chui river with features that relate to the lives of individuals: This side of the Chui river is Ene ja˘y, and that mountain over there is Ada ja˘y. When a person was ill, ancient kamdar [shamans] found out the reason for their illness. Then they suggested on which side of Chui river it would be better to live. Either Ada ja˘y or Ene ja˘y. It depends on the person concerned.

Plate 2.2 Telengit family in front of kiiis aiyl – a felt tent.

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Villages Nowadays not all the Telengits move through the land with their herds. Under the Soviet regime they were collectivized and some of the population now live in permanent settlements, scattered throughout the steppe. All the villages of the district of Kosh-Agach – except Tashanta, which houses people working at the border-post, and Kosh-Agach itself (the centre of the region) – were organized in the same way. In the late 1990s in every village there was a kolkhoz (a collective farm). Whereas in other districts of the Republic many collective farms were dissolved and later re-established as shareholding enterprises, in the district of KoshAgach the change in the collective farm organization occurred only at the beginning of the twenty-first century. In the 1990s each collective farm organized its work differently, but the general pattern was the same. In every village 20–40 herders’ families travelled with herds in the territory ascribed to the kolkhoz, changing their place of living 2–4 times a year. Nowadays, there are also some herders who look after private herds. The remaining population stays in the village, being employed by the collective farm, a successor of the Soviet kolkhoz, in seasonal jobs, renting their private animals to shepherds and being occupied in other ways (as school teachers, pensioners, nurses, administration workers, House of Culture employees). During my fieldwork I visited almost all the settlements in the district of Kosh-Agach. Here I describe them briefly and then turn in more detail to the three where I spent most time: Kurai, Beltyr and Kökörü. Chagan-Uzun is a mixed Telengit–Kazakh village with a Telengit majority. Until the 1980s quite a few Russians also used to live there, working for a geological prospecting company. There are no Russians left in the village now but even the oldest generation of Telengits and Kazakhs in Chagan-Uzun speaks much better Russian than elders in other villages. Chagan-Uzun is smaller than other Ere Chui villages (525 inhabitants in 1999, including 90 Kazakhs), which makes it a closely knit and quite relaxed place, with a strong sense of community. Nevertheless, there is a tension between the Telengits and Kazakhs that is more apparent here than in other places. This tension is felt most strongly in the school, which is dominated by Kazakhs despite the majority of the village population being Telengit. Non-Kazakhs, who are employed there, are mostly not local Telengits but people coming from outside, especially Altaian (Altai-kizhi) women from other districts of the Republic who do not have a local network of acquaintances and relatives. Telengit-Sortogoi village is situated beside the most famous yiyk tuu – a sacred mountain of Ere Chui (see Chapter 3) – which powerfully influences people’s perception of their village. It is a mixed Kazakh–Telengit village, with 460 Telengits and 397 Kazakhs in 1999. Perhaps it is because of this ethnic division that one feels little sense of community in the village. As in the case of ChaganUzun, the school here is a centre of conflict and uncertainty. This school is Telengit-dominated; it is also one of the few schools in the Republic that runs an experimental programme of national education (narodnaya pedagogika). This

Sacred land and the significance of places 51 programme stresses the necessity of relating ethnic traditions to the school curricula. Klaudia Samtakova, the charismatic director of the secondary school in Telengit-Sortogoi, has brought together a group of teachers who are deeply involved in the process of ‘national revival’ (see Chapter 8). Mukhor-Tarkhata used to be a mixed Kazakh–Telengit village, with a Telengit majority close to 68 per cent in 1987. Many of the Kazakh minority left for Kazakhstan in 1991–3 and they were not accepted back in the village when they returned 2 or 3 years later. In 1999, there were 1,181 Telengits and only 182 Kazakhs in the village. In the district, Mukhor-Tarkhata village is renowned for maintaining many distinct customs, particularly those relating to funerals. Ortolyk is also a mixed Kazakh–Telengit village with a similar demographic pattern to that of Mukhor-Tarkhata – the population of Kazakhs decreased significantly in the 1990s. The most famous biler kizhi (knowledgeable person) of the district – Marusia eje – lives near this village. Kosh-Agach itself is a big settlement with over 5,000 inhabitants, most of whom are Kazakhs, and is the headquarters of the local district administration. There is a market every weekday, and over the past 3–4 years plenty of small shops have opened, some of them staying open late in the evening. It is common knowledge in Kosh-Agach that the most successful entrepreneurs are members of one Kazakh family – the Begenovs. They are involved in a range of businesses: shops, a café, the resale of wool and down, providing loans with interest, organizing holiday camps for children, etc. They are the success story of Kosh-Agach. A friend told me that once her acquaintance, living permanently in Moscow, came for a short visit to Kosh-Agach with her 5 year-old daughter. One of the little girl’s first questions was: ‘Do you have “McDonalds” here?’ My friend’s answer was: ‘No, but we have “Begenov’s”!’ In the Soviet times, all villages used to have some kind of organized transport to the district centre. Nowadays each village has to organize its own transport. Mukhor-Tarkhata and Telengit-Sortogoi are situated very close to Kosh-Agach (10 and 4 kilometres respectively), hence people either walk or travel by private cars, most of which operate nowadays as unregistered taxis. Ortolyk and ChaganUzun are situated beside the main road (Chuiski Trakt) and it is usually easy to hitchhike from there to Kosh-Agach. There is a bus organized from Kökörü to Kosh-Agach almost every weekday and one going at least twice a week from Kurai. The most difficult village to reach is Beltyr. It is situated more than 30 kilometres from the centre and during most of my stay there was no bus connection. People hire taxis to travel to Kosh-Agach but these are usually full both ways, so travelling to Beltyr from Kosh-Agach may be quite a difficult task. Eventually, the central House of Culture employed a bus-driver from Beltyr, and he began to take passengers on his daily journey to work in Kosh-Agach, thus providing both himself and the House of Culture with an additional source of income. Tashanta has a special status in the district as it is a small village situated close to the international border-crossing point with Mongolia, inhabited by people working at the border: Russians, Kazakhs and Telengits. Dzhazator (Belyashi) is

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a big and mainly Kazakh settlement situated at a considerable distance from all the other villages. People from the district consider it a place on its own and do not include it in discussions about district matters. The same can be said about a remote settlement of Argut. Töböler and Zhanaul are Kazakh villages. Kurai On arriving in the Kosh-Agach district from Gorno-Altask, the first village reached is Kurai. It is situated almost 100 kilometres from the administrative centre, close to the border with the Ulagan district. During my stay in Kurai, I became increasingly aware that this village is not generally considered an Ere Chui village, because of its history, remoteness and landscape. This is a place betwixt and between the districts of Ulagan and Kosh-Agach. In terms of landscape, Kurai is definitely not an Ere Chui village. Surrounded by forest, where in the autumn people pick mushrooms and flowers, its most striking feature for any traveller arriving from the district centre is the wide palette of colours in the landscape (Plate 2.3). In the winter, it is covered with snow, which again differs from places in the upper reaches of the Chui River. Ak Turu Mountain, which towers over the village, gives a snow-white contrast to the surrounding green meadows. People from the upper reaches of the Chui River have an ambivalent attitude towards the landscape of Kurai. On one hand, they admit that it is beautiful and that it is enjoyable to look at its trees and flowers. On the other hand, they say that this landscape is suffocating, as there is no feeling of open space there. What is most important is the fact that Kurai does not ‘look’ like an Ere Chui place. In 1999, there was a discussion in the district about selecting the best place for holding the El-oiyn festival. El-oiyn is an all-Republic Altaian national celebration organized every three years in each district of the Republic in turn. In 2000, the celebration was due to be held in Kosh-Agach. Kurai was suggested as a possible celebration site. It is close to the main road, has easy access to water and is undeniably beautiful. But the main argument against Kurai was that it does not look like Ere Chui and people who come here from all over the Republic should see the typical Ere Chui landscape. Hence, Kurai was not accepted and the El-oiyn was organized in Kökörü instead. Many Telengit inhabitants of Kurai remember that their ancestors came here from Ulagan district. Although it is a generally recognized historical fact that the ancestors of many sööktör (clans) currently inhabiting the territory of the KoshAgach district came from Ulagan (Köbök, Sagal, Jabak, Jytas, Almat, Tonzhan, Tölös), the arrival of the ancestors of contemporary inhabitants of Kurai seems to be a more recent event. Outside the village, Kurai is known only by this one name. Its inhabitants, however, know it to be not one but two villages, situated approximately 1 kilometre apart, and known respectively as Kurai and kolkhoz or Kyzyl Tash. Nowadays Kurai, situated on the international road of Chuiskiy Trakt, is much smaller than Kyzyl Tash. Until the end of the 1980s, it housed workers employed by a geological prospecting company. People remember that at that time Kurai was a very

Plate 2.3 Kurai village.

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lively place with a bar, shops and even a good bookshop. In this sense, Kurai can be perceived, and is perceived by local people, as a typical example of complete razval (Russian: disintegration, collapse) after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The workers of the geological prospecting company were Russians, Ukrainians, Germans and Lithuanians, the majority of whom left after the dissolution of the enterprise. After this, Kurai shrank in size and in the late 1990s could boast of no bars or shops at all. There has never been a kolkhoz in Kurai. Before the collapse of the Soviet Union, all the people were employed in prospecting, administration, education or services (shops, bar, the House of Culture). There are still some Russian families and one German family in Kurai, as well as some Kazakhs. There are also some Altai-kizhi people there who are mainly teachers. However, Telengits are the overwhelming majority nowadays. Razval (in Russian) means literally ‘collapse’. It is used in conjunction with other Russian words such as bardak (mess), besporyadok (disorder), or nerazberikha (confusion) when talking about the contemporary, post-Soviet situation. Razval is applied not only, or not even primarily, to a difficult economic situation. It implies that after the downfall of the Soviet Union there was a collapse of certain well-organized, fixed and obvious structures of values, morality, responsibility and interpersonal relations. The absence of a bar or a bookshop in Kurai is an immediate sign of razval; however, what people mean by razval is much deeper and broader than this. It is a general change in perspective on what life is about, what the goals are, and who is responsible for decision-making and providing the answers to all sorts of questions and uncertainties people encounter. It is about seeing life and the future as messy, disordered and confused. Kyzyl Tash used to house members of the kolkhoz. There is no separate administration in Kyzyl Tash and it belongs officially to Kurai.8 Nevertheless, in many ways it is a separate village. Although there are some people who settled in Kyzyl Tash earlier, especially in the 1920s, most people arrived there in the 1950s to work in the local kolkhoz. They came either s verkhu (Russian: from above, that is from the upper reaches of the Chui River) or s nizu (Russian: from below, that is, from the lower reaches of Chui River or from Ulagan district). The division between people s verkhu and s nizu is still visible today. People remember which families come from where. There are also still perceived differences in customs, values and attitudes towards certain issues, which differentiate the s verkhu people from the s nizu. For example, families that perform the Chaga ritual come mostly from the upper reaches of the Chui River (see Chapter 5). Another important feature of Kurai and Kyzyl Tash is that prisoners were brought here to do geological prospecting work, which began in the 1940s and 1950s, and to work on improving the Chuiski Trakt. I was told that these prisoners comprised not only criminals but also political prisoners. Some German families were also exiled to this remote area during and after the Second World War. I suspect that the general reservation and suspicion shown towards foreigners and strangers, which is so obvious in Kurai and Kyzyl Tash, may have something to do with the forced presence of these alien peoples. The Soviet political

Sacred land and the significance of places 55 authorities perhaps had prepared the local population ideologically prior to sending these ‘dangerous’ people as political prisoners and Germans. The reserved and suspicious atmosphere in the village may also be explained by the existence of a tourist resting-place under the Ak Turu mountain. Ak Turu is considered by some people (but not by all, as I show later) to be yiyk tuu that is, a sacred mountain. To varying degrees, people in both Kurai and Kyzyl Tash feel exploited by tourists, the travel companies that organize expeditions, and the owners of the tourist camp. They complain that they do not receive any profit from these enterprises. During my fieldwork, such forms of tourism were not visible enough near Beltyr or Kökörü to become major causes for unrest. Nevertheless, I did hear people expressing their concerns about this issue even there. People say that Altai and its beauty are their most sacred treasure, but presently, Altai seems to have acquired a market value as well. People argue that if a tourist wants to look at the Altai mountains, take a picture or a video of them, they should ask permission from the local people and also pay them. This attitude, which is only beginning to emerge in other parts of the Kosh-Agach district, is already quite strong in Kurai. In order to learn more about the local place names, I asked people to draw me a map of their place, telling them vaguely that I was interested in the ‘surroundings’. The map of Kurai, drawn by Vasilii Dyurekov, shows a village cut off on all sides, a place in itself, with clear borders and known, clearly marked places. It is separated, lives its own life without connection to other places and does not stretch out to the faraway valleys or mountains. I have not collected many such drawings and it would be inappropriate to build any significant argument upon them. Nevertheless, I was surprised that the drawings, which for me initially were merely tools to learn about local places, lent themselves so easily to the interpretations matching my experience of living in particular villages. I have found them too illuminating to leave them beyond the reach of the reader. Generally, within the district, the people of Kurai and Kyzyl Tash have the reputation of being less friendly and more reserved than other Telengits. They are thought to live somehow outside the district and are often not considered when enumerating Kosh-Agach villages. They are also considered not to keep Telengit baiy (bans and rules of behaviour) very strictly, but to be very serious about tarma (witchcraft), which is attributed to the Russian influence. Tarma is considered to be a comparatively new phenomenon in Altai and is definitely evil and harmful. Telengits from other villages also believe in tarma. However, it is said that whereas in other villages accusations of performing tarma can be ignored (i.e. if someone is accused people will not believe it at once), in Kurai such an accusation can lead very strict social isolation of the person accused. During my stay there the village was not very consolidated: a sense of community is weak, and people usually keep in touch only with relatives and a small number of other families. I would say that there was a general lack of trust in the village towards strangers, fellow villagers and the authorities. It was very difficult to gather people in the village together in order to organize the all-village assembly. Whereas in Kökörü, which is described later, the room in the House of Culture

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where the gatherings are organized was always full, in Kurai very few people turned up. The people of Kurai explained this themselves by pointing out that most of the middle-aged people in the village belong to the first generation actually born here. Hence, the village was perceived as being full of priezzhie (Russian: newcomers), who do not really feel any link with the place. This is not the place of their ancestors; thus their attachment to place, a crucial factor in the Telengit way of life, is limited. The Telengits used to be mobile pastoralists and some of them still travel with their herds, using certain routes and places that have been used for generations. The second generation of people removed from their landscape has not yet been able to create a feeling of community. The situation both in Beltyr and Kökörü was different. Although people were brought into the kolkhoz and the village from different valleys, there was a clear continuation in terms of the place there. It was not bringing random people from distant places to one point as in the case of Kurai. Rather, there were streams of herders from nearby valleys flowing to one point – the village. Hence, in Beltyr and in Kökörü it was still well remembered which family comes from which valley. The place stayed the same and a meaningful landscape still surrounds those villages. In Kurai there was an atmosphere of helplessness. People are disappointed with the local authorities and with the way in which the local kolkhoz is managed. They do not see any way of changing this situation from the inside. Moreover, they themselves view their apparent passiveness as a kind of protest (cf. Scott 1985). If we return to Pedersen’s (2003) distinction between the sendentarized and nomadic landscape, it becomes clear that Kurai shifts towards a sedentarized one. There is still a lot of talk about powerful places and eeler (master spirits) densely inhabiting the village surroundings. Nevertheless, Kurai is coming to be perceived as a bounded place, with linear boundaries, separated from the outside and living on its own. People brought to a new, unknown place by the Soviet authorities experience the environment as surrounding them and not as being embedded in them. This may explain why the status of Ak Turu mountain as yiyk tuu is often being questioned in the village. It is a venerated place, but it is also a place that, through its commercial use, has become separated from its environment and singled out as an object of trade. Beltyr 9 In the Kosh-Agach district, Beltyr is seen as being the only ‘truly’ Telengit village, with little Russian, Kazakh, Tuvan or other influences.10 It is situated away from the main roads, thereby making access difficult. The people of Beltyr are deemed very friendly but not talkative, quite reserved yet very hospitable. They are considered to preserve many religious traditions, but also to be reluctant to talk about them. Generally, for many people this is a quite mysterious and unknown place. Few people living in other villages and in the district centre have ever visited Beltyr. Beltyr lies literally among the mountains (while all other Telengit villages in Kosh-Agach district are situated on the steppe), which made people assign the use

Sacred land and the significance of places 57 of pastures very carefully. For example, whereas in Kökörü herdsmen can put their kiiis aiyl (felt tent) in a different place every year and even travel with it every month during the summer, herdsmen in Beltyr have their routes and stands strictly ascribed, and in most cases have permanent small houses built there. During my fieldwork there was still a kolkhoz in Beltyr with approximately 200 members, but it has been recently reorganized as SPK (sel’sko-proizvodstvennyi kooperativ), a kind of cooperative farm. ‘Zimoi i letom – odnim tsvetom’ is a Russian expression used by the people of Beltyr to describe their village: ‘Winter and summer – the colour stays the same’. In Altaian the saying about Beltyr is ‘Tastarakaidy˘ jeri, tas taigany˘ koltugy’: ‘Tastarakai’s place, under the armpit of a bald mountain’.11 In both cases the sayings mention Kara tuu, which is a mountain overhanging the village. Generally, people from other villages do not admire the landscape of Beltyr. It is neither a green place like Kurai nor an open space like Kökörü and it is very windy in winter. People of Beltyr say that some of their ancestors, especially from söök Kypchak, used to live in Kara kem, which is a beautiful and green valley approximately 100 kilometres into the mountains from present-day Beltyr. They were forced to move from there to the settlement of Beltyr during the period of collectivization. There are very few people in Beltyr who are called priezzhie (newcomers). People have known each other’s families for generations, and some elders, for example Bödöt Enchinova, can recite from memory the ancestors of almost everyone in the village for several generations. Nevertheless, the community of Beltyr is structured in a different way to that of Kökörü. In both villages people have known each other for generations; however, in Beltyr social contacts are maintained along certain paths of friendship and family bonds, and these paths are strictly adhered to. Family members support each other and perpetuate social contacts, and groups with similar interests are structured mainly along lines of kinship. What is interesting is that the people of Beltyr talk about power relations in the village in terms of sööktör (clans). This reinforces the interpretation of a relationship between place and people, which I have shown in the case of Kurai, although the details of the situation are different. In Kurai, newcomers are persons and individual families, who arrived in the place separately. In Beltyr, the stories about arrivals concern whole sööktör (clans). Their arrival might be narrated in relation to a particular historical time, as in the case of the Tölös and Köbök, or in an undetermined time as in the case of the Mool or Almat. Although they are ‘newcomers’, these sööktör, as groups, occupy fixed positions in a local discourse. Individuals are local, although sööktör are newcomers. The village administration of Beltyr supplied me with statistical data on clan membership for the year 1998. The total number of people on 1 January 1998 was 1,343 (including 4 Kazakhs and 1 Russian woman, who was no longer there during my fieldwork). The biggest söök in the village is Kypchak (315 people) and I was told that until recently it had been the most powerful and influential söök in the village. Nowadays the Tölös (63) has taken over, especially the family of Sablakovy. This change is interpreted in terms of attachment to territory. Kypchak is the only söök in Beltyr that is considered undoubtedly local. According to local

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people, the ancestors of Kypchaks had always lived in the surrounding valleys and in the Kara kem valley, which is where people hid from the Soviet organizers of collective farms. Their connection with the place is clear and undeniable. All other sööktör are considered new to the place. There are detailed descriptions concerning the arrival of Köbök (287) and Todosh (109) in the Beltyr area, which probably took place in the twentieth century,12 and even the names of the first arrivals are remembered. Other clans such as Mool (242) or Almat (54) are also seen as newcomers but their arrival is not situated in terms of historical time. With regard to the Mool clan there are several variations of a story about two boys of Mongolian origin, who were brought up by the local Telengits. In Beltyr the Kypchaks are seen as a fierce and determined clan but, because of their undeniable link with the territory, their position of power would be seen as legitimate. However, few important posts either in the collective farm or in the village administration are currently held by Kypchaks. They are said to have lost their position to the Tölös, who are clearly the most recent newcomers in the village, but with very close kinship ties among themselves. Although older Tölös men are respected and some younger men hold important positions in the village (e.g. the head of the collective farm), their powerful position is seen as not fully appropriate because they are seen as relative newcomers. I know the outskirts of Beltyr much better than those of other villages. Herders from Beltyr maintain very close connections with the village and constitute a very important part of the network of relatives. What is more, because the routes travelled by herds are quite strictly assigned in Beltyr, shepherds are closely linked to their places and know them very well. In Kökörü, where the location of herders’ camps can change more often, the shepherds are not nearly so familiar with their grazing areas. In Beltyr camps are often passed on from one generation to another. I found the atmosphere in the village to be so friendly and safe that I could go to the main road of the village in the morning, stop any car or van going into the mountains, and travel with the people wherever they went. My senses became attuned to the landscape and back in the village I could discuss its various features, what evoked particular emotions and their interpretation. The importance of the valleys surrounding Beltyr and the closeness of village connections to surrounding places was apparent once again when I asked some people to draw a map of ‘their place’. I carefully formulated my question, as I wanted to see what they would draw: a village, a valley or a herder’s camp? In most cases I received a map of the surroundings of one of the shepherds’ camps, the one with which the person in question felt closely connected. Even in the cases of people who had spent their whole life in the village or had been educated outside it and only recently returned, the drawings stretched out towards the mountains, and left a blank space in the direction of Kosh-Agach. Kökörü Kökörü is situated in Chuidy˘ bazhy, that is, it is the nearest village to the source of the Chui River. Exactly at the spot where the village is located, the river

Sacred land and the significance of places 59 changes its name from Shy˘ to Chui. The location of Kökörü underpins its overall position in Ere Chui. Living at the source (Russian: istok; Teleng: bazhy (lit. a head)) of Chui places a special responsibility upon the people of Kökörü. It is not simply the place where the river begins – it is the place where everything begins. Kökörü lies on a rolling steppe on the banks of the Chui river. People who were asked to draw ‘their place’ stretched their drawings in various directions. Kökörü is a point from which you can travel outwards to many places. It is neither as selfcontained as Kurai nor does it stretch in one direction only, as does Beltyr. It is self-confident and aware of its own importance. It stretches towards Tuva, towards Mongolia, towards Kosh-Agach, and people can go on naming the places. If they do not know the names, they would probably be happy to learn them and to include them in a map of ‘their place’. Kökörü is a village where many families continued to conduct Chaga bairam, although it was forbidden in the Soviet period. More importantly, according to many people it is the place where such customs had to be preserved. Let me quote one person from the district centre of Kosh-Agach: During Chaga you ask for a blessing for your children, for your cattle and for yourself. We now owe much to the people of Kökörü because they preserved Chaga. They are in Chuidy˘ bazhy. If they had not asked for the blessing, we all would have been lost by now. Kökörü is definitely a village that is well known in the Republic, although the reasons for its reputation seem awkward and somehow contradictory at first glance. Known as Chuidy˘ bazhy, it is a place with enormous spiritual significance; its role as ‘the source’ carries many different meanings. The people of Kökörü are seen as those who preserved Chaga bairam (see Chapter 5) and who initiated its revival in other places. They are the ones who organized the first all-village common celebration of Chaga in the early 1990s. Kökörü is seen as a place where traditional customs and beliefs are well preserved. Nevertheless, the people of Kökörü are also believed to have adopted many Kazakh customs on account of the influence of quite a large Kazakh minority which used to live there until the 1990s. Moreover, although the people of Kökörü are thought to preserve Telengit customs, they are often called ‘Soio˘’ by people from other villages, that is, they are not considered Telengits but Tuvans. Actually, some Kökörü sööktör (e.g. the Irkit) came there from Tuva within living memory. Hence, although being to some extent strangers, they form at the same time a model of Telengit customs and spiritual life. Kökörü’s spiritual significance can also be discerned in its general atmosphere. I often heard that in Kökörü everyone ‘knows’ (biler – see Chapters 6 and 7) and almost everyone is a potential shaman. Spirits that can only be seen by people with special abilities densely inhabit the village. Many houses have a turguzu (a vessel for spirits arranged in a house by a shaman), which is rare in Beltyr and exceptional in Kurai. There has always been at least one practising kam (shaman) in Kökörü, even in Soviet times. It might be that the presence of a powerful

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spiritual specialist made people more sensitive or aware of the existence of a world of spirits. Although Beltyr is also full of wandering souls and various kinds of spiritual beings, their presence is not so evident in day-to-day conversations and activities as it is in Kökörü. There are people in Beltyr who just do not think about souls and spirits wandering around. In Kökörü, the presence of spiritual beings is evident. People know that in this particular house a Sagal kam is standing at the left side of the main entrance. Every night before going to sleep one of my friends would place a knife at both the main threshold and at the entrance to the main part of the flat, a fork on the couch in the living room, if no one was sleeping there, and a kamchy (a whip) under her family’s pillows. These were supposed to act as protection against evil spirits – kara neme or körmös. I have never seen people of Beltyr or Kurai so highly concerned. While the village is famous for its strong attachment to shamanism, the people of Kököru are also considered (especially by the urban intellectuals) to be Burkhanists, which means, in this case, an Altaian version of Buddhists (see Chapter 1). In the past there were people in Kökörü who travelled to Mongolia (or maybe even further, to Tibet) to be educated among lamas. Their knowledge was partly passed on to the next generation. Despite this, Kökörians almost never talk about themselves as Buddhists. People also say that the inhabitants of Kökörü consume more alcohol than those in other villages. They are perceived to be harsh or even dangerous. According to popular opinion in the district, one can be robbed in Kökörü (which would be unthinkable in other places). Kökörians are thought to be more antagonistic than other Telengits in terms of inter-ethnic relations, and Kazakhs from other villages are not welcomed there. Such an extraordinary collection of features ascribed to one village brings up again the question of the relationship between place and people. It appears that what makes Kökörü so spiritually meaningful is not the people of Kökörü but the place itself – Chuidy˘ bazhy, a beginning of the river. As Toni Huber and Poul Pedersen (1997) observed in Tibet, the relations with the land are framed in moral terms. People in Kökörü, according to popular opinion, drink too much or are harsh and unpleasant, but they live in the place that empowers their deeds with uncommon significance. Whatever Kökörians do, it influences not only them, but has importance to the rest of the Republic. Their deeds can somehow flow downstream with the Chui River, reach the Katun (Kadyn) river and be spread over the rest of Altai. I have heard people expressing their concern about the drinking habits of the Kökörü people. They live in Chuidy˘ bazhy, that is, at the source. They have preserved the Chaga bairam and their activities started a national revival. Hence, their heavy drinking can also spread to other districts. Whatever Kökörians do becomes greater than their private business as they live in such a special and sacred place. Kökörü people often act as a community and they form a unified front when facing external powers. They have a very strong sense of common identity, which is expressed more in terms of the exceptionality of the place than in terms of clan

Sacred land and the significance of places 61 affiliation. Nevertheless, clan membership is an extremely important part of village life. In Kökörü there are two indubitably dominant clans: the Köbök and the Sagal. Their special position in the village was obvious during the election of clan leaders in 1999. A series of clan meetings was organized, and whereas the Sagal and Köbök clans held their separate gatherings and elected leaders, all the smaller clans met together and elected one common leader with helpers for each clan. The elected leaders then formed a permanent council to which some prerogatives were transferred from the House of Culture and local administration. Such bodies were also organized in other villages of the district, but only in Kökörü are they given so much credit, both by local people as well as by the administration.13 Although neither Kurai nor Beltyr is credited with the powerful influence that Kökörü exerts over other areas, the connection between people and place is strong in all villages of Ere Chui. People say that men from Beltyr cannot live in other villages. Their lives are connected to the place, Beltyr, and if they move out of the village and surrounding valleys they will fall sick, have bad luck and eventually die. The bodies of local men who lived and died in other villages are usually brought back by their relatives and buried in the burial grounds of Beltyr. People say that a man has to come back to Beltyr, even if it is after his death. In the case of Kurai the gender division ceases to exist in this respect. Both men and women cannot live happily outside the village. Married women from Kurai try to convince their husbands, if they are not local, to settle down in Kurai, although Telengit families usually tend to settle patrilocally. However, the beautiful landscape of Kurai and particularly the abundance of wood and wild berries are a very convincing factor. Many men from other villages follow their wives to Kurai. Although both the men and women of Kökörü do not like moving away from their village, women who marry non-local men have to live outside the village. They cannot bring their husbands to Kökörü, as people say that men from other villages cannot live happily there. They start drinking, fall sick and cannot cope with providing for their families. The place seems to reject their presence. In each of the three villages described here, the relationship between the people and the village is different. Kökörü seems to be the place that influences people most dramatically. However, in all cases people are embedded in the place. Ere Chui is their common space and within it, each particular village and each particular herder’s camp encompasses complex relations between people and places. It is for this reason that I argue that living people and the land cannot be regarded as separate beings: they rather present two aspects of the same entity. Moreover, both the land and the people can be understood only through a practice of movement, which is the main theme of Chapter 3.

3

Moving through a powerful landscape

Although not all Telengits move through the land with their herds, this movement is still important to the Telengit way of life because it encompasses much more than just a transfer from one place to another. Movement is important both in its literal meaning and in its metaphorical extension, for mobility underlines the way in which knowledge is generated. But before focusing on ideas of movement, it is important that we look in more detail at the character of Altai, of which Ere Chui, described in Chapter 2, is a part. This will help us to focus on Telengit attitudes towards Altai and the concepts that relate to it as a place, a landscape and a spiritual entity. The Telengits insist that in order to know, one has to travel. Hence, I was strongly encouraged to get out from the villages to the mountains or to the steppe whenever the opportunity arose. Such movement is a necessary prerequisite for knowledge, and the tension between various modes of being, of experiencing the land is the main subject of this chapter. I undertook a number of travels through the Altai, of which two are given in some detail later. One was in the company of some intellectual leaders of the Altaians, the other was with some Telengits who were travelling from the village of Beltyr. In all these travels a tension was apparent between different modes of being embedded in the landscape. In Chapter 2 I employed Pedersen’s notions of nomadic and sedentary landscapes as useful analytical tools that can facilitate our understanding of people’s experience of the environment. The contemporary political existence of the Republic of Altai and the District of Kosh-Agach as administrative units might suggest that the tension between these two different ways of limiting space would be present among the Telengits. Before we consider this, however, we need to look more closely at the notion of a nomadic landscape. Caroline Humphrey (1995) has considered different aspects of the nomadic landscape in Mongolia. She makes a distinction between chiefly and shamanic landscapes – two modalities of experiencing the land within a nomadic framework. A chiefly landscape is centre oriented, where the centre is an ego moving through space dotted with places, all being qualitatively the same. Each place is powerful and mastered by a spirit (Mongolian ezen), whose ontology is not clear: it can be understood as a spirit governing the place, or the place itself, which is powerful. Because the chiefly landscape is a nomadic one, movement plays a crucial part in the human experience embedded in it. However, through the act of halting and

Moving through a powerful landscape 63 powerful metaphors and actions (such as building mountain-shaped ovoos) ‘ego’ establishes himself as a centre, reaching towards the ultimate source of all the power – the eternal sky (Mongolia tengri). Hence, we can imagine a chiefly landscape as a space dotted with places where power is established vertically. In the chiefly landscape the given energies in the places are experienced as epiphanies of the abstract power, and the goal of the ego (and his rituals) is to reach towards this power and establish his position in relation to it. By contrast, the shamanic landscape is based on a different theory of empowerment. Here each place is qualitatively different because particular places do not necessarily derive their energy from one abstract source. Each energy is different, just like ‘the ability of fish to live under water, of an evergreen tree to flourish through the winter, or of a falcon to swoop on a virtually invisible prey’ (Humphrey 1995: 136). The shamanic landscape relishes difference and the potential for change, while the chiefly one praises sameness and eternity. According to Humphrey, these are two modes of experience which coexist in the nomadic contexts, and the prevalence of one over the other changes with political circumstances. Later in this book I show how the Buddhism–Shamanism interaction in the contemporary Altai can be understood through changing relations between these two modes of experiencing the land. Just as among the Telengits there is a visible tension between nomadic and sedentarized landscapes – with, nowadays, the nomadic one being still predominant – within the nomadic mode there is also a tension between the two modes of experience which Humphrey called the chiefly and the shamanic, with precedence being given to the shamanic one. In both these modes, however, travelling is a crucial way of knowing the land. The way in which the Telengits travel and the way in which they use the notions directly related to places (as analysed later: Altaidy˘ eezi and Altai Kudai) encompasses many ideas. The travel itself, taking note of various points along the way, and the leisurely manner of movement, for example, are as important, or more important, than the ultimate destination. The landscape emerges and changes when people travel through it. In the case of the Telengits, the significance of place is often created individually, which is compatible with the way in which they deal more generally with customs. The main idea is that everyone creates his or her own way of moving through customs ( ja˘) as well as through the landscape. In a sense, the idea of movement can be employed as a tool for the ethnography of landscape and travelling. But movement is also a metaphor for knowledge, where the emphasis can shift from knowledge as something that can be reached and held, to the process of acquiring it. In certain situations (as in the cases, when the knowledge of shamans is involved) the content of knowledge is less important than the process of gaining it.

Altaidyl eezi and Altai Kudai A saying often repeated by the Telengits, ‘eelü jok neme jok’, means: ‘there is nothing without ee’.1 The concept of ee – ‘masterhood’ – is found widely throughout Inner Asia, among both Turkic and Mongolian-speaking peoples.2

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In the literature ee is most often explained as a ‘master’ or a ‘host’ of a particular place. The Telengit idea is very similar to the Daur concept of ejin as described by Caroline Humphrey (1996). In both cases, the notion is applied at several levels. It can relate to spiritual entities like the masters of mountains, lakes or rivers. The term is also used to describe people: for example, the host of the house and the Emperor. Generally, the idea of ee allows people to talk about the inner or concealed power of entities and to create relationships with them. The Telengit concept of ee can be understood through such notions as ‘power’ and ‘spiritual energy’. Telengits use this concept commonly while talking about the ee of particular places or the Altai as a whole. Nevertheless, they also use this term in different contexts and in relation to many phenomena. For example, eelü means ‘with ee’. Eelü jer is a place with ee. Eelü ooru means an illness, which has to be treated by the shaman, and not in a hospital as some action on the part of spiritual beings was involved in its appearance. Ee can be used while describing the power of particular places (each of them can be also referred to as altaidy˘ eezi), but it also means any ‘masters’, ‘hosts’ or ‘spiritual beings’. When asked about kizhini˘ eezi – ee of a person – Telengits answered on two levels. On one level, they say that they are eezi themselves, they are an ee of their house, their herds, and other belongings. On another level, they answer that a human being has an ee. However, this ee is not a separate entity or a further aspect of a person in addition to süne, tyn or jula (see Chapter 6). To acknowledge that a human being is eelü is to say that he or she has a kind of spiritual energy or power. For some people süne (a form of soul) is an expression of kizhini˘ eezi. Others point to jaiachy (a spiritual being that is a kind of personal guardian) as a representation of ee. As jaiachy can be imagined in anthropomorphic, zoomorphic or in other forms (e.g. as a light or a sparkle), it brings us closer to the concept of jerdi˘ eezi – eezi of a place that can also take on an anthropomorphic or zoomorphic image. Jerdi˘ eezi and Altaidy˘ eezi are both metonyms, as they stand for a whole and a part at the same time. Jer in Altaian means the earth, a country or a place. Altai may mean the Altai mountains in general, or it can mean a particular place. As Svetlana Tyukhteneva (1995) writes, in the contemporary Altaian language one can use the word altai as a substitute for such terms as yurt, house, village, district, country or the world of the dead. In this sense, it means ‘the place’ and hence one can equate the image of Altaidy˘ eezi with that of Jerdi˘ eezi. Jerdi˘ eezi may be seen as the master of a particular place, or of all the motherland (Altai). In this sense, the expressions Altaidy˘ eezi and Jerdi˘ eezi can be used interchangeably and are often applied in this way by the Telengits. For the sake of clarity, I will only use the term Altaidy˘ eezi later, but in order to do so I must not only discuss its internal structure but also its relation to another crucial notion – Altai Kudai. Altaidy˘ eezi, as a master spirit of all Altai, may manifest itself in an anthropomorphic or zoomorphic form. People often discuss the characteristics of Altaidy˘ eezi in terms of gender or even nationality. Maimash Dyurekova, an elderly woman from Kurai, told me that because all the people in Altai were so ‘Russified’, Altaidy˘ eezi must also be Russian. Most often, however, Altaidy˘

Moving through a powerful landscape 65 eezi is imagined in the same way as the White Old Man, a personage well known in Inner Asia as the lord of mountains and rivers (Heissig 1980) who can kubulyp – transform himself into the form of a fox, a deer or other animal. However, although there are stories about the characteristics of Altaidy˘ eezi, people seem to understand and perceive it rather as a kind of spiritual energy, which is important for its very essence regardless of the form it takes. Altaidy˘ eezi, as the master of a particular place, is imagined most often by Telengits as a young and unmarried girl, although there are male and female eeler of all ages. Each significant place is eelü, but only some of the eeler are known to people in a particular form. There are more stories concerning eeler of particular places than about Altaidy˘ eezi as the host of all Altai. The eezi of a particular place can be katu or jymzhak – hard or soft. It is difficult to live in a katu eelü place: cattle do not flourish there and the weather is unpredictable and capricious. A jymzhak eelü place is welcoming to people. There is a gender division here as most of the female eeler are soft and most of the male eeler are hard. As Altaidy˘ eezi may be seen either as singular/general or as plural/particular, it does not play a straightforward, unifying role in the context of the contemporary Altaian nation. A cult of mountains in general and a cult of Altai in particular are indeed recognizable phenomena, which link all the Altaians together as a group. Nevertheless, the image of Altaidy˘ eezi can easily be interpreted in particular contexts without reference to the Altai as a whole. Altaidy˘ eezi is at the same time one and many. The everyday interpretations of this notion change constantly from a unifying image of Altaidy˘ eezi as the Master of Altai to images of every single Altaidy˘ eezi – the master of a particular place. If Altaidy˘ eezi is an ambivalent notion, referring simultaneously to the unifying and particularizing understandings of homeland, there is also another notion, which is a step towards a different experience of the people–land relationship. I argue that the older image of Altaidy˘ eezi has been supplemented in recent years by an image of Altai Kudai. Kudai in the Altaian language means ‘a deity’. In the past, the plural usage of this word (kudailar) was common and it can be sporadically encountered nowadays. Sometimes it is also used in relation to natural objects and phenomena, such as Sun Kudai, Moon Kudai, and Mountain Kudai. Nonetheless, at present a monotheistic understanding of this word prevails, which can be interpreted as a result of the influence of Christianity (Potapov 1991; Humphrey 1996). In the nineteenth century the Orthodox missionaries adopted this word as an Altaian equivalent of ‘God’ in their Altaian translations of the Bible and prayers. Nowadays, when people say ‘Kudai’ they mean one God. Sentences such as ‘Religions are varied but there is one Kudai’, or ‘There is one Kudai in the Sky’, have become commonplace. Although kudai is an old term, the concept of Altai Kudai is new both in terms of timing and of meaning. Altai Kudai is unique and refers to the Altai as a whole. It does not have a plural form. I believe that the employment of this concept reflects a trend towards straightforward unification, which is a feature of the contemporary processes of creating a common national identity and bounding the

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Altai and its nation. The emergence of this concept also shows that all the cults of particular mountains connected with particular clans or territories, which are confirmed for Altai in the older literature (Anokhin [1924] 1994; Tokarev 1936; Potapov 1946), have been gradually superseded by a more general cult of Altai. The notion of Altai Kudai implies a unity that cannot be localized. It unifies explicitly and without any reference to possible differentiation. While both ee and eeler are actively used in contemporary discourse, the notion of kudailar fails to be an active part of it. Kudai in its singular form is left on its own. Hence, although both notions (Altaidy˘ eezi and Altai Kudai) imply certain (although different) kinds of unity, only the first has a dimension of diversity as a significant component. The books about Inner Asian and Siberian cosmology commonly state that the people in this part of the world see the universe as divided into three main parts, usually called the Upper, Middle and Lower Worlds (L’vova et al. 1988; Sagalaev and Oktyabr’skaya 1990; Potapov 1991). Each of them is inhabited and the Middle World is the home of living people. The Upper World is most commonly equated with the Sky, the Lower World with the nether world. The emergence of a notion of Altai Kudai gives an opportunity to re-interpret this classical division. I have stated earlier that people say: ‘There is one Kudai in the Sky.’ However, for the same people this Kudai is specifically Altai Kudai. According to the grammar of Turkic languages, Altai Kudai can be translated both as Altai the God and the God of Altai. It means that the division between the Upper and the Middle Worlds is blurred. For the Telengits, Altai is Kudai. They do not separate a transcendent God from their object of worship in the Middle World – Altai. One has to remember that Altai is a mountainous region and mountains were perceived as providing a possible link between the three worlds of classical Siberian and Inner Asian cosmology. The new notion of Altai Kudai suggests nevertheless that the Upper and the Lower Worlds are no longer separated, with the object of worship (Altai Kudai) being here and there simultaneously. The notion of Altai Kudai implies that transcendence and immanence may be aspects of the same phenomenon. There is another dimension to the interesting relationship between Altaidy˘ eezi and Altai Kudai. Both expressions are present in contemporary discourse, and yet they occupy different positions. Altai Kudai is understood both as Altai (the place), which is worshipped, as well as the transcendent and unreachable God of Altai. Although Altai Kudai is responsible for the welfare of the people and can be addressed with prayers, he is not actually supposed to come and take offerings. His gender is never questioned and he is not imagined in anthropomorphic or zoomorphic form. Altai Kudai is Altai, although it is at the same time in the Sky. Altai and Kudai are inseparable. I would translate Altai Kudai as Altai the God, welcoming the implications inherent in linking a transcendent entity with an immanent one. Altaidy˘ eezi is also responsible for the welfare of people and can be addressed with prayers. However, the relation with him3 is much more concrete and practical. There are people who can talk to him and listen to his replies. He is thought

Moving through a powerful landscape 67 literally to come and take offerings if they are properly prepared. He represents the power of Altai as a whole and as a particular place. This power can take a particular form, which enables people to have human-like relations with places. Altai Kudai should be understood through the image of Altai itself as a God, with magnificence, power, impressiveness and influence on people’s lives, which is intrinsic to its features as a place, landscape and territory. Altaidy˘ eezi is still the Master of Altai, but is nowadays perceived rather in the form of unshaped energy that fills everything and makes everything alive, than in the form of an anthropomorphic image. The juxtaposition between Altai Kudai and Altaidy˘ eezi can be interpreted in terms of Humphrey’s differentiation between chiefly and shamanic landscapes . These two Telengit notions can be referred to two modes of experiencing the landscape, one being focused around ideas of stability, replicability and centre; the other one bringing together the ideas of particularity, changeability and movement. The relations between these two notions, the way they are employed through practices, and the different images they evoke, are crucial for understanding the complexities of contemporary experience of land among the Telengits, who are the partially sedentarized mobile pastoralists, claimed as a part of a nation by a political agenda produced by the modern ambitions of national statehood.

Sacred mountains Mountains dominate the Altaian landscape. Although Altai is venerated as a whole, there are some places that are called bailu jerler, that is, places with rules or injunctions. In such places (such as arzhan suu, üle or kam tyt, which are mentioned later) rules of behaviour are strictly prescribed. Among bailu jerler (pl.) there are mountains that are referred to as yiyk. Although all Altai and all mountains in Altai can be treated, and are sometimes referred to by Telengits, as sacred, the yiyk tuular (tuu – a mountain) stand out as places of special status. The authors of a work on a word-view of the Turkic peoples of Siberia (L’vova et al. 1988: 38) link etymologically such Turkic words as yshyk, yzhyk and yzyk with such words as yiyk, iiik, yzyk, yzykh, ydyk, yduk, yzuk and ytyk. The first group of words denotes a shelter, a wind-proof place, quiet, safe, secret and hidden. The second group carries meanings of sacredness, bringing luck and height, as well as being the names for various kinds of spirits. As these words are clearly etymologically linked, the authors claim that these two groups can be actually treated as one, carrying both sets of meanings at the same time. In the case of Ere Chui, this linkage of shelter with sacredness is an important part of identifying sacred mountains. The majority of mountains described by Telengits as yiyk are referred to both as sacred and as shelters. The shelter dimension of sacred mountains is visible in the following account. This one, with alkysh (blessing), was given by kam (shaman) Aiyldasz Tebekov from Beltyr. Similar stories were repeated many times by many people in a similar way in all the villages of Ere Chui.4

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Landscape and movement On the very top of Tepse˘ bash5 there is a huge pot with seven ears. I do not know this pot, but people say that there was a flood on earth and a few people were sailing in this pot and they finally reached this mountain and because of that they stayed alive. There is an alkysh (invocation, blessing) for this mountain, which goes: Jeti kulaktu kazandu With a pot with seven ears Jer Eneni tartyrgan Luring Mother Earth Jeti kulaktu kazandu With a pot with seven ears Kaan jerin altaigan (It) stepped over the place of the ruler Agym suuga jol bergen Give a way to rapid waters Altaiga azhu bergen Give a mountain pass on Altai Tepse˘ bash, chök kairakan Tepse˘ bash, chök kairakan Ak yiygym! My white yiyk!

The name ‘Tepse˘ bash’ means literally ‘a round head’ (Plate 3.1). Most of the mountains that are recognized as yiyk by people are massive and high but at the same time round and friendly looking. Telengits say that these mountains are difficult to climb, and in most cases climbing them is forbidden. Caroline Humphrey (1997) says that although the significance of mountains can be analysed in several ways, the immediate, intuitive perception of mountains as immovable, solid objects is an important insight to the understanding of the way they are present in people’s lives. The power, magnificence and glamour of mountains constitute part of their sacredness. In the Telengit case, the physical friendliness of the mountains, giving shelter to the people, is also an important part of their sacredness. As we saw above (following L’vova et al. 1988: 38), the term yiyk encompasses meanings related both to sacredness and safety. This relation is corroborated by the way in which most Telengit yiyk mountains are present in the landscape – as huge, round objects, which although powerful and glamorous, are approachable by the people. Although it is generally forbidden to climb a yiyk mountain, people in Kökörü say that sometimes, when a person’s life is in turmoil, they are advised by a biler kizhi (knowledgeable person) to climb it. This is done extremely rarely and rituals must be performed and offerings made before the climb is undertaken. Still, the significance of the mountain as a protector is clear from this. Although a yiyk mountain is thought to be difficult to climb, at least there is the possibility of seeking shelter and protection there. On the other hand, close to Kurai village there is one of the most visually impressive mountains of the Kosh-Agach district. Although huge and glamorous, Ak Turu is not always seen as a yiyk mountain. There are many reasons for this (as we saw in Chapter 2). Significantly, Ak Turu stands to the west of the village and this is the direction of evil, darkness and death. Offerings should not be made to the west and indeed some people even omit this direction when making milksprinkling offerings (chachylga). In recent years it has also become a popular tourist place, with a camp for climbers built at the bottom of the glacier. Telengits from Kurai village say that this is precisely the reason why Ak Turu cannot be

Plate 3.1 Tepse˘ bash – a sacred yiyk mountain next to Beltyr village.

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treated as sacred. It is a polluted mountain, offended many times by tourists climbing up without asking for permission from the spirits. Even if it is not yiyk, it is still eelü – with a master-spirit. All deaths of climbers are attributed to the resentment of offended spirits. Moreover, Ak Turu is not a mountain with an inviting look. Her pointed peaks do not promise a shelter. The yiyk mountains are eelü – with a master spirit. Still, it is not always possible to say what eezi is like. There is a tension here between fixed images of the chiefly landscape and flexible images of the shamanic one. For example, some people have heard that eezi of Kök yiyk, a sacred mountain close to Telengit Sortogoi village, appears as a man on a bluish (kök) horse. Still, who can really know? Very few people can see the spirit masters and what is more, they can kubulyp – transmute, change their appearance. I would say that they are like mountains themselves. The mountains change with the movement of the person approaching them, they appear and disappear from sight and present different faces (Humphrey 1997). In the same way, the mountains and their master spirits (eeler) appear in stories as unstable, flexible, changing. The mountains are powerful and huge but at the same time they do not have to be fixed and immutable.

Taming the land The observation that mountains can change or move is neither new nor exclusive to Altai. On the contrary, a vast part of the Buddhist expansion in Inner Asia has been related to the notion of the subjugation of land. Tibetan chronicles employ the notion of taming the land while describing activities of Buddhist protagonists in the region (see Sorensen 1994; Gyalbo et al. 2000; Wangdu and Diemberger 2000). In the most general terms, Tibetan chronicles describe the situation as follows: local deities occupied the land before the Buddhist expansion; the land was encountered by the Buddhists not as fixed or given, but as an agent with great potential for change and movement. These deities were sometimes equated with features of the landscape, so it was impossible to say if a particular mountain was worshipped as a place or as an abode of a certain spirit. The mountains/spirits were often inseparable and were seen as sources of movement, flexibility and change. One of the most striking phenomena recorded in the Tibetan chronicles was the Buddhists’ encounter with ‘flying mountains’. The idea is that some of the sacred mountains were not always there; indeed, that they move from place to place, following the prayers of people, their own whim or the orders of powerful kings. Katia Buffetrille (1996) describes a case of rTsib ri mountain in southern Tibet, which arrived there from India to cover a lake whose waters emitted harmful vapours that were killing local people and animals. Similarly, Kailash mountain came to Tibet from a ‘far away place’ but would abandon Tibet if it fell into a state of demoralisation and degeneration. The Buddhists prevented it from doing so by placing four prayer banners at the foot of the mountain and connecting them by an iron chain (Buffetrille 1996). The most famous story though is of the Srin-mo, a powerful demoness, who was subjugated by the Buddhist Chinese princess Kong jo. The princess had so much difficulty transporting a statue of Sakyamuni

Moving through a powerful landscape 71 to the Tibetan court that she decided to make a divination, which helped her to understand the following: Kong jo understood that this Snow Land country (Tibet) as a whole is like a Srin-mo demoness lying on her back. She understood that this Plain of Milk of Lha-sa is a palace of the king of Klu. She understood that the lake in the Plain of Milk is the heart-blood of the demoness. The three mountains surrounding the Plain of Milk are the demoness’s two breasts and her life-line. (Gyatso 1987: 37) After divination, Kong jo decided to order the construction of 12 temples that would pinch down on the body of the demoness, so that the land would be subjugated and ready to receive the doctrine of Buddhism. These Tibetan materials concern the Buddhist narratives on land and not the actual practices of the people. Still, they show that at least in some parts of Inner Asia there are various perspectives relating to the landscape. The parallel between the above quoted materials from the ancient Tibetan chronicles and the contemporary situation in Altai will be presented in the second part of this book. The contemporary processes are related to the shifts in political situation in the region, of which the Buddhist expansion forms an important part. The following two accounts of travels through Altai form a prelude to the broader topic of interaction between different perspectives on land, knowledge and spiritual life. First, they point to the importance of travel and movement as a mode of knowing. The journey I undertook with the intellectuals from GornoAltaisk differs significantly from the one I made in company with the Telengits in Kosh-Agach. The first was more like a pilgrimage to a sequence of significant places, which were expected to be there, waiting for people, as points of special power. The second, with the Telengits, was more about movement itself, about mobility as a mode of knowing. Still, it is significant that the Altaian national leaders, who are concerned with stability of the Altaian nation, chose to acquaint their guests with Altai through extensive travel. Second, these travelogues give me an opportunity to introduce the reader to some other notions related to landscape, which are necessary to understand arguments made in the following chapters.

Travelling with town-dwellers In September 1998, I took part in the conference on ‘Altai and Central Asia: cultural and historical influences’, which was organized in Gorno-Altaisk. When the conference ended some of the Altaian academics and guests were invited for a one-day trip through Altai. As we had limited time, we could not travel very far from Gorno-Altaisk. This is why neither Üch Sümer (Russian name: Belukha), the most eminent mountain in Altai, nor Altyn köl (Russian name: Teletskoe ozero) were included in the trip. Our bus set off from the centre of Gorno-Altaisk and our ultimate destination was the ancient tombs close to Kulada village.

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Our first stop was on the bank of the Kadyn river (Russian name: Katun’), which is the main river in the Republic. Although we stopped beside a monument to a famous writer Vasilii Shukshin, the reason for this break in the trip was to admire the beautiful view at Kadyn. Altaian linguist Nina Mikhailovna Kindikova told me that although she had lived in the town for many years, the Kadyn river occupies a special place in her heart. She often dreams about Kadyn and sometimes feels compelled to go to the bank of the river. Something that is beyond her understanding lures her. One day she went to the bank of Kadyn river and her heart began to beat so hard and so fast that it did not slow down for at least a half an hour! Afterwards she went to Moscow and there she had a dream, which repeated the same situation exactly – she was standing at the bank of Kadyn and her heart was beating very violently. Nina Mikhailovna also showed me the Babyrgan mountain, which is the sacred place of people belonging to the Todosh clan.6 An Altaian legend relates to this mountain: Once upon a time, there was a hero called Sartakpai. He had a daughter, called Kadyn. A young hero, Bii, was attracted to Kadyn and wanted to marry her. Still, Sartakpai was against their marriage. His daughter, being in love with Bii herself, escaped from her father’s house and, as a river, she flowed north to join her beloved Bii. Angry Sartakpai threw a mountain, Babyrgan, in his daughter’s way. Still, the stubborn daughter managed to go around the mountain and finally joined her beloved Bii, who also had turned into a river. Such tales are well known in the central and northern parts of Altai. There is a whole category of stories about the creation of mountains and rivers through the actions of heroes or spirits (Surazakov 1985). These are relatively unknown in the region where I did most of my fieldwork (the district of Kosh-Agach). This difference may be understood in relation to different kinds of impressions evoked through different landscapes. Inhabited parts of central and northern Altai are covered with forests and small hills, while winding valleys separate higher peaks. The rich landscape does not reveal itself all at once, and a traveller cannot see what awaits beyond the next turn of the track. By contrast, the steppe of KoshAgach district gives a very different impression. The elements of the landscape appear clearly and orderly before the traveller’s eyes. The traveller can be at ease and the perspective extends to where Earth meets Sky. Perhaps both the anthropomorphic images of eeler and the legends about places and landscape become more elaborate, concrete and highly detailed where the landscape itself is more complicated, blurred and difficult to grasp – as in the forest. One goes from one place to the next, grasping each place through clear-cut images and stories. In the steppe, the immediate experience of space becomes more important. Places are there, easily accessible, but are perceived more as indications of power and energy enclosed in space than as separate entities with a life and history of their own. What is most impressive is the vast space of the steppe, with chains of mountain peaks ringing the horizon. Back on our bus excursion, we passed a big arzhan suu – a sacred spring with healing properties (see Chapter 4) – but we did not stop there. This sacred spring is situated on the main road of the Republic and it used to be very powerful. But

Moving through a powerful landscape 73 its healing properties are now waning. It is absolutely forbidden to leave any rubbish at any arzhan suu. It is also forbidden to wash your hands with soap or to wash your legs in there, unless for healing purposes. Everyone should tie jalama (also called kyira) – strips of white, yellow or blue cloth – beside the spring as an offering to the arzhany˘ eezi (the master spirit). These should be clean and prepared with the intention of giving them to arzhany˘ eezi. It is absolutely forbidden to tear your handkerchief or a part of your own clothes for this purpose. However, this is exactly what Russian people and tourists do. The place is full of strips of fabric in dark colours, handkerchiefs, scarves, and threads disentangled from clothing. My interlocutors understood that tourists wanted to respect the custom but they were just ignorant. Still, their improper behaviour makes the arzhany˘ eezi angry and the arzhan suu is losing its healing properties. A person who knows how to deal with eezi should clean up a place that is polluted in such a manner. It does not have to be a shaman, but he or she must biler – know (see Chapters 6 and 7). Only such a person can undertake the task of cleaning and purifying the place. I was told by my fellow travellers about a man who was greatly annoyed by the dirtiness of the place, especially by the improperly prepared, dirty or dark-coloured strips of fabric. He therefore decided to clean the place, pulled dirty pieces of cloth off the trees and collected the rubbish. However, even though he could clean the place, he could not purify it with the appropriate rituals. Soon afterwards, he drowned in a river. It was a punishment, as he was not entitled to undertake such a task. Interestingly, in 1998, a new youth organization was established in Gorno-Altaisk. Its founding members were young journalists of Altaidy˘ Cholmony – the Altaian national newspaper. The aims of the organization are to collect information on all arzhan suu of the Republic and, with the help of knowledgeable elders, to have them cleaned and purified if necessary. Our next stop was at Seminski Pereval,7 known in Altaian as Jal Mönkü, that is, Mane Glacier, one of the most venerated places in the Altai. Those people who had not been to Jal Mönkü during the year tied two jalamalar to larch trees and put stones on a üle – a pile of stones (see a detailed description later). Afterwards they took out food and drink and sprinkled some milk and vodka as an offering. Everybody had to try some of the offered food. At the same time, three members of our group hid themselves behind a tree and conducted a separate ritual, whereby they burned some artysh ( juniper), food and also sprinkled milk and vodka. This separate ritual was a manifestation of the complex position of religion within the political fabric of the Republic. The leader of this ritual was Anton Viktorovich Yudanov, head of the Tuba people in the Republic – and an avid opponent of the spread of Buddhism. The performing of this ritual was an extension of the controversy that had arisen during the conference between the supporters and the opponents of Buddhism. The conference had begun with a Buddhist prayer, chanted by two Altaian students of Buddhism from the Ivolginski monastery in Buriatya. Some people

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were very pleased with it, especially Altaichy Sanashkin – the leader of the Ak Burkan organization, the most devoted propagator of Buddhism in the Republic. He was particularly pleased with the following point of a resolution adopted by the conference: Acknowledging that Buddhism in Altai has been one of the basic beliefs of the Altaian people from Oirot times (from the 17th to the first half of the 18th century), influencing their worldview and culture, we recommend continuing research in this direction. (Surazakov 1999) Altaichy Sanashkin interpreted this statement as a sign of official scientific recognition of the leading role, which, in his opinion, Buddhism is playing in Altaian spiritual life. The fact that Buddhists were allowed to open the conference with a prayer as well as the inclusion in our journey of a visit to a Buddhist stupa, convinced him that increasing numbers of intellectuals see Buddhism as the future religion of the Altaians. Nevertheless, during the conference, there were also voices that disapproved of giving a leading spiritual role in the Republic to the Buddhists. Nikolai Shodoev, a geography teacher from one of the Altaian villages, and also a philosopher who has tried to create a well-structured whole out of various Altaian notions and traditions, made the objection most explicitly. Before beginning his speech at the conference, he stated in Russian: ‘I’m sorry, but I am a pagan (yazichnik).’ He burned some juniper (artysh) and said a short blessing. In this way, he dismissed the Buddhist opening of the conference. Shodoev’s demonstrative conduct was commented on afterwards in the lobby. Another person to express disagreement with the Buddhist atmosphere at the conference was Anton Yudanov, who later conducted the small ‘pagan’ ritual behind the tree at Jal Mönkü. Yudanov claimed that the conference had been taken over by the Buddhists. As an elderly man, greatly respected for his lifetime’s work as a writer and theatre director, he was not reproached by anyone. Now there is a tourist skiing camp at Jal Mönkü. My fellow travellers were saying that it should not have been built, as this mountain-pass is a sacred place. Nevertheless, it did not prevent us from stopping there for lunch and dinner. In 1998 a new addition to the mountain-pass was a signboard, explaining in Altaian and in Russian the meaning of the place. It said: The worship of a mountain-pass is the worship of Altai. The worship of a spirit of the mountains is linked to tying a white strip (kyira)8 on a mountainpass. When one ties kyira, one expresses love towards nature and respect for the traditions and customs of the people. Kyira should be made of a new cloth, white, yellow or blue, and be 2–5 cm wide and 40–70 cm long. Kyira should be lightly tied to a bench, with one knot only. It is forbidden to tie colourful ribbons or ribbons with stripes. It is forbidden to cut a tree with kyira (larch, birch), to break branches or cut knots. Respectful countrymen and guests! (illegible) Protect the nature of Altai!

Moving through a powerful landscape 75 The very presence of this signboard is indicative of the ‘national revival’ that was taking place in many parts of the former Soviet Union at the beginning of the 1990s, and, which, in a changed form, continues today. The first sentence – ‘the worship of a mountain-pass is the worship of Altai’ – suggests that the cult of local sacred sites was confirming the cult of Altai as a whole. The last sentence contains an ecological message about the richness of Altaian nature. Still, the message was in an old Soviet style, suggesting that the wealth of nature served man and that this was why nature should be protected. This single board contained several messages about contemporary spiritual life in Altai: it symbolizes the so-called national-cultural revival; it gave a description of ‘properly prepared’ kyira, which indicates processes of unification; it stressed the cult of Altai as a whole, through making explicit the presence of the Altai in every particular sacred site; and it was about ecology becoming a part of a contemporary discourse. I have visited that place many times since, and in 2003 I noticed that the board had been changed to read: Dear guests and travellers! You are at the energetically active place of Altai. In order not to endanger the energy aura of our common Home-Planet you are requested: 1. To refrain from leaving food leftovers, empty bottles, paper and other rubbish. You do not have much of it anyway, so please take it to the nearest settlement where you will find a rubbish bin. 2. If you do not ascribe to the religious views of the local inhabitants and the related rite of tying the stripes of material – kyira – to trees’ branches, do not do anything here. In this way you will contribute to the safekeeping of our earth and you will not pollute your immortal soul. The altering of the board exemplifies a significant change in strategies employed towards visitors to the Republic. As I have said earlier, the Altai is a central notion in the formation of the Altaian identity. The place and the people are so tightly bound up that at times they cannot be conceived as ontologically separate entities. The Altaian organizations, which put up the previous boards, assumed that all people stepping on the land of Altai should tap into the already existing framework of exchange between land and the people. By the end of the 1990s, however, it became clear that this ‘tapping into’ could not be done by providing a set of rules of behaviour that everyone could easily follow. The system of land–people interactions is a complex one. The Altaian relationship with the Altai is intimate and cannot be easily explained and replicated in a list of rules. It was the highly consequential character of the people–land intertwining that effectively prevented the use of elements of ritual action (such as tying kyira-jalama) becoming simple signs of respect paid by incomers. I argue throughout this book that the Altai should be treated rather as an aspect of Altaian personhood than as a separate entity with which relationships can be established, broken, sustained or abandoned. Personhood includes Altai in a similar way as it includes parts of the body, emotions, plans, feelings and sensual abilities. The Altai is a spiritual being, a

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subject with consciousness and intentionality. But it is also more than this: the people and land are one. The outsiders are not Altaians, as they are not a part of this land. Hence, the board has been changed in a way which acknowledges the embeddedness of the Altaians in Altai. It is also important to notice that in the second board there is no mention of any ethnic or national belonging. This resonates with the inclusiveness of the concept of the Altaians as explained in Chapter 1. People who are welcome to conduct ritual actions at the mountain pass are not ‘the Altaians’ as understood as a national group. Rather, they are ‘the Altaians’ – understood as all people who feel that they have this special bond with Altai, the bond, which ceases to be a relationship and begins to be an aspect of a person. After lunch, we travelled further south and then west, where we stopped at the Buddhist stupa, erected in 1996 close to the village of Boochy. Aleksandr Kyndyshevich Bardin, aka-jaisa˘ (the head of clan leaders of Altai) told me that there was a basic misunderstanding concerning the meaning of this stupa. While people from neighbouring villages perceived it as a monument to Boor, the supporters of Buddhism from Gorno-Altaisk wanted to see it as a place for prayer and meditation. Boor was an Altaian who received education in Buddhist monasteries and lived in the late eighteenth century. There are many legends about him and his brothers, the sons of Solton – the ancestors of people of Maiman söök (Bedyurov 1990). The stupa was erected at the place where Boor’s body was burnt after his death according to his last will. Erecting monuments to distinguished people was an important part of social life in the Soviet Union. Hence, for the local people, erecting a monument to Boor was perfectly understandable. By contrast, the idea of having a site especially constructed for individual prayer and meditation was new to them. The tension between these two perspectives was visible during our visit. At the beginning, there was a Buddhist prayer, followed by a walk around the stupa. Afterwards, Aleksandr Bardin said that everybody could now have a closer look at the stupa, ask questions about its construction and take pictures. We took a group photograph next to it. Afterwards we had a heated discussion about our behaviour. The people were generally not pleased. They said that what was meant to be a spiritual trip to a place for prayer and meditation had turned into a sight-seeing excursion with the obligatory snapping of photos. They accused themselves of slipping out of the spiritual mood and looking at things as objects of intellectual interest. When reconsidered and analysed, this change of mental attitude was disturbing for them and was something to be ashamed of. During the trip in 1998 it was already clear that the stupa, as a solid, permanent, clearly manmade and visually sophisticated object in the middle of a beautiful valley confuses the Altaians, especially as they were encouraged (by the Buddhist missionaries) to see it not as a monument but as a site of meditation and prayer. The important places, such as mountain passes or sacred springs, are usually marked either by piles of stones collected nearby (üle) or by stripes of cloth tied ( jalama or kyira) to the nearby trees. The common feature of these two ways of distinguishing important places is their impermanence. As I describe later, üleler

Moving through a powerful landscape 77 (pl.) move: they can be abandoned or moved to another spot, they can grow or they can disappear. The stripes of cloth are often tied to a branch with a special knot that can be untied with one pull, as Altaidy˘ eezi may wish to come and take them easily when he needs them. The knowledgeable elders can also remove the stripes if they decide that there are too many of them. The Buddhist stupa is a different kind of object. It stands out as a complex, permanent structure, marking the place for ever. Interestingly, this stupa does not exist anymore. It was destroyed three years later, allegedly by the people from nearby villages (see Chapter 1). This destruction has been reported in the local media either as an act of hooliganism or a protest against the spread of Buddhism in the Republic. Another explanation might lie in the offence the stupa gave to the Altaian sensibility of the landscape. It cut through the flexibility and changeability of the land, establishing a clear, abiding point in the impermanence of the landscape. It became another focus in the ongoing battle between institutionalized and non-institutionalized religious ways of life, which in this particular instance took the form of the struggle between Buddhism and local religious sensitivities. Near the place where the stupa was situated there is a wide valley covered with ancient tombs dating from various times. This place is known as one of the richest archaeological sites in the Republic. Archaeologists from other parts of the Russian Federation, as well as from abroad, want to excavate here. Nevertheless, in 1997 a law banning most of archaeological work in the territory of the Republic was introduced by the parliament of Altai – El Kurultai. The Agency for Cultural Heritage (Agenstvo po Kul’turnomu Naslediyu), which had been established a few years earlier, would only give permission to archaeologists when a site was endangered (avariinye razkopki). A trigger for this concern about archaeological excavation was the discovery of a Scythian mummy in the Ükok plateau, which was then transported to Novosibirsk and Moscow. The battle for its return to Altai has continued ever since. There have been several occasions when local people have threatened archaeologists at work or even shot at them. Brontoi Yangovich Bedyurov, a writer, politician and one of the best-known people in the Republic, told me in 1996 that all archaeological work should be stopped until new technologies have been developed that would enable the examination of the contents of tombs without excavating them. The valley covered with ancient tombs was the last place we visited during our one-day trip. We returned to Gorno-Altaisk late at night. There had been several instances during the day which indicated the complexity of the contemporary place of religion and its relationship to the land in Altai. We passed by an arzhan suu, which was degenerating from a sacred place to a polluted one. At Seminski Pereval different visions of the Altaian religious future were exercised in performing two separate rituals. At the Buddhist stupa, the willingness of the national and religious leaders to create a material sign, through which the nation could remember the past and look towards the future, was counteracted first by their own uneasiness about the appropriateness of such a place, and later by the demolishing of the stupa by local inhabitants. At the tombs close to the Kulada

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valley, pride for the ancient past of the Altaians was juxtaposed with respect for the dead and for the land, indicating that kurghans should be left in peace. The narratives told during the trip, and the people’s reaction to places and conflicts that arose from them, indicate two intertwined perspectives. One is an index of the contemporary national ideology, where the Altai is a territory linked to the nation’s past and its features are beloved, sacred and protected; the other sees the Altai as an aspect of personhood, as an integral part of being an Altaian, always changing but always powerful and sacred. While from the second perspective the nature of particular places cannot be taken for granted since their character can change, the first one tries to fix places in stable positions, to establish them as stable points of reference through which the whole nation can become sacrosanct. These kinds of narrative were linking significant places in a way that would cover the whole territory of the republic. When talking about one place, references were made to a place with significance in a remote part of the Republic. A few sacred mountains were linked in this way, for example, in Anton Viktorovich Yudanov’s, interpretation of three mountains called Üch Sümer (lit. three peaks) in the Republic. The first one is called Belukha in Russian. It is situated in Koksu-oozy (Ust-Koksa) district and should be regarded as the head of Altai. The second one stands next to Kulada village and it is the navel of Altai. The third one is in a district of Choya – this is the sexual organ of Altai. Hence, in his interpretation, the whole territory of the Republic is linked together as one organism. The mountains, which were worshipped locally, have been incorporated into the larger scheme, leading towards national unification of Altai and the Altaians. I believe that this linking together of Altaian sacred places, and similar perceptions, is quite recent. The sites that we visited during our trip represent places that have always been significant for various ethnic groups of Altaians. In the current situation, their significance is supplemented by another dimension. They are seen as a whole, as a system in which all the parts are related, as all the Turkic-speaking and non-Muslim groups in Altai are seen as one national organism.

Travelling in Ere Chui In Ere Chui I travelled with people for a variety of reasons: to get to a sacred healing spring, to visit the district centre, to stay at a herder’s camp or to explore Gorno-Altaisk. But there were also many trips for which a particular place (goal) was not the ultimate reason for travel. In 1998–9 the economic situation was very difficult and people travelled less extensively. As there was no money for petrol and the old cars and motorbikes were falling into disrepair, people had to hitchhike, walk or travel by horse or camels (which are not easily available any more). During my later visits to Altai, when people started to earn money again, there were many more opportunities to travel. Basically the question was not ‘is there an aim to our travel?’ Rather, the question was ‘do we have a horse, a car, a motorbike and petrol?’ If these things were indeed available, then travels would be undertaken.

Moving through a powerful landscape 79 An integral part of any journey are the stops at üle, that is, tash oboo – literally a pile of stones. I have mentioned üleler (pl.) in Chapter 2, when I described the concept of a border. Here, I come back to a notion of üleler, which mark all the routes used by humans in the Altai. They have been assembled by people at cross roads, mountain passes and, generally speaking, at, as people say, ‘convenient and beautiful places’, that is, places where one can stop, have a rest and give an offering. One therefore chooses a place that one likes. There is nothing intrinsically special or sacred to the place where a stack of stones is piled. The place becomes bailu – that is, it takes on rules of respectful behaviour, which, once someone decides to erect a üle there, must be obeyed. Based on her research in Mongolia, Caroline Humphrey (1996, 1997, 1998a) describes several kinds of oboo (the Mongolian term for üle), which can be grouped into two distinct types. The first is an oboo erected for collective rituals; the second is erected for wayside offerings. It seems that in both cases the place where the worship takes place is clearly marked and cannot be easily changed. Later in this book I analyse the first kind of oboo cult in the Altai, which, as in Mongolia, is concerned with ideas of stability and group identity. If people move away from the sacred site of their group and it is no longer physically possible to conduct ceremonies there, this place is still named in blessings and shamans at least remember it as a source of protection and power. The place where oboo is created is thought to have had a sacred value prior to human intervention. The Telengit üle is similar to the second type of Mongolian oboo, being understood not as a site of collective ritual, but as a wayside offering place. Although it often marks the beginning of a road, a cross-roads or a mountain pass, these are not places of unique intrinsic sacred value. When I asked how a new üle is created or where is the best place to site a üle, the first answer was that it has to be a ‘good place’, that is, a clean one, a little bit higher than its surroundings and with a nice view. In essence, a place you would like to stop at and have a rest. In this respect, üle contrast with arzhan suu, a sacred-healing spring (see Chapter 4), which is thought to have been sacred prior to any human intervention. It has healing properties that were waiting there to be discovered by people. For example, there is a story about a hunter who wounds his prey and follows it. The animal stops at the spring, drinks some water, soaks its wound and, being healed instantly, escapes the hunter. The hunter realises the importance of his discovery and brings the good news to his people. They conduct a special ceremony and begin using the water for their own benefit. There is nothing to be discovered at üle. When people decide that this is a good place to stop and give blessings to Altai, they collect stones and make the first blessings in a ceremony in which an elderly respected person should be involved. The moment of the first blessings transforms a üle into a bailu jer, that is, a place where certain rules of respectful behaviour must be obeyed. Through this first blessing Altaidy˘ eezi realises the emergence of a new place where people give offerings, and comes there. Hence, it is through people’s actions that a place acquires a sacred value.

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There are many üleler that were created solely for special occasions but then forgotten soon afterwards. If the relatives of a bride go to a wedding ceremony, they have to stop at a üle and make their offerings. They can use an old üle for this purpose but they can also (and in most cases they do) create a new one by collecting a pile of stones. Most of the ‘wedding üleler’ are abandoned after the ceremony; those that do survive tend to be used as stopping points. Altaidy˘ eezi is not the only spirit that wants to try people’s offerings. There are also wandering souls and körmöstör (see Chapter 6) which may come and try people’s offerings. It happens sometimes that too many evil spirits and souls gather next to a particular üle and people are forced to abandon the place and look for another ‘good place’ for offerings to Altaidy˘ eezi. The old üle is no longer called bailu. It becomes körmöstü jer – a place of evil spirits, and thus people begin to avoid it. People say that all Altai is bailu. Essentially it means that you have to act with respect and veneration wherever you are. When you say that a specific place is a bailu jer, it means that there are special prohibitions and rules of respectful behaviour that must be followed there. While the source of a river, arzhan suu and the top of any mountain is bailu independently of people’s actions, üle acquires this status only through them. In the district of Kosh-Agach, on the way from the village of Ortolyk to the village of Beltyr, there are several üleler that have been erected on various occasions by many people over the years. However, only three of them are generally recognised as stopping points. The first is just after Ortolyk. It is actually marked by two üleler, one situated on the top of what looks like a small hill, the other lower down on the other side of the road. The lower üle was erected only a few years ago. Before that, people used to climb to the top of the hills to give an offering and have a rest in a place with a beautiful view. I cannot be sure, but it seems likely that the elders from Beltyr decided to erect the lower üle on account of the archaeological work carried out in the area at the beginning of the 1990s. The archaeologists classed the small hill as an ancient tomb, and it was believed that people stopping there were disturbing the dead, or even feeding dangerous spirits. The proximity of a burial place deters many people, who as a result do not stop there at all, and so the lower üle was erected down by the road. In July 2000, I was travelling with some friends from Kosh-Agach to Beltyr. It was after El-oiyn – the Altaian festival held close to Kökörü, which finished with a long party in Kökörü village. Everyone was tired, especially the driver. We were stopping at almost every small üle so that the men could heal their hangovers with beer and water. The journey lasted almost seven hours, even though the distance between Kökörü and Beltyr is around 70 kilometres on a fairly good road. When we approached the üle described earlier, the driver stopped the engine again. His wife tried to convince him to go to the next one. She said that this was not a good place to stop, as it was a dangerous one. However, he was stubborn. We stopped, and he and the other man climbed on the ancient tomb and after putting some stones on the old üle they sipped their beer there for another hour. The women stayed at the foot of the hill and put some stones on the new üle, expressing their

Moving through a powerful landscape 81 displeasure at the carelessness of the men, going to a dangerous place. I learned from them that the driver should not have stopped here at all, as during his last visit to one of the shamans he was told that this üle is one of the three places in Ere Chui that are especially dangerous for him. He should avoid them altogether. Still, he could not resist making a stop and although his wife was concerned that this could have undesired consequences, there was nothing she could do to force him to move on. The next üle between Ortolyk and Beltyr is situated beside a huge, dark stone. Some people stop there to make an offering but others claim that there are too many körmöstör (evil spirits) there and try to pass this point as quickly as possible. The third üle is the closest one to Beltyr. It is a new one, erected a few years ago by one of the most respected elderly people of Beltyr, Isaak Sablakov. It is even called the üle of Sablakovy and I was told that it is mainly people from his family who stop there. Still, anyone who pleases can stop there as well. It has been made into a proper resting-place, with a little bench next to it. In mid-May 1999, on one of my many trips through Ere Chui, I left Beltyr on horseback together with two local teenage girls, Arunai and Altynai. We were travelling from one shepherd’s camp to the next along Tal Tura valley. Both girls had been brought up in the mountains, as their fathers work as shepherds in Tal Tura, and it is only during term-time that they live in a boarding school in the village. Arunai’s father is kösmekchi, that is, he can see some spiritual beings that cannot be seen by ordinary people. Altynai’s mother is a granddaughter of a famous shaman (kam), Sergei Tutushev, who died in the 1960s, and the place where she lives in winter is his former camp. Although very young, these two girls were very entertaining companions. The first üle after Beltyr, going in the direction of Tal Tura, is not a very popular stopping point. Sometimes men stop there if they want to have a rest and a drink. This üle marks a beginning of Közhö˘ Chöl (lit. a ‘steppe behind a curtain’), a flat valley scattered with ancient tombs. It is a well-known turgaktu jer. Turgaktu jer is a place where a person can be stopped and held completely immobile for many hours. This usually happens between big stones or where the road turns suddenly behind a mountain, or in a canyon. The most frequent victims are horse riders or car drivers. The horse is stopped as if its legs were tied or the car suddenly stops and cannot be started again. Sometimes an evil spirit, appearing in the form of a human being, approaches a person trapped in this way. This usually happens during kyzyl e˘ir (lit. red evening, that is, sunset) and the spirit fights with a human until sunrise. I was myself caught by turgak on one occasion, with my friends close to the village of Mukhor-Tarkhata. We were going back home to Beltyr after a visit to biler kizhi, a knowledgeable person. She tried to convince us to stay overnight, but we insisted on rushing back home. It was quite dark, as a lunar month had just begun. We had to cross a river and then drive through the steppe. Approximately 3 kilometres out from the village our car suddenly stopped, fortunately before we had crossed the river. As there were little children with us and the night was very cold, we could not stay in the car and we had to walk back to the village.

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My friend’s husband stayed in the car alone, trying to fix it. When we got back to Mukhor-Tarkhata, the biler kizhi sent her husband to help with the repair of the car. Both men were back soon, saying that nothing could have been done. In the morning the men went back to the car and they started the engine without any difficulty. After a brief discussion in which the technical attributes of the car were analysed, everybody decided that it must have been turgak. As turgak is körmös (evil spirit), every meeting with him is very dangerous. After the event, the person should go to a biler kizhi in order to be purified. We were purified in Mukhor-Tarkhata, although in our case the intentions of the spirit were not necessarily evil. We were ‘caught’ when we were just about to cross a river. If we had crossed it, we might have been easily lost in the steppe. The night was extremely cold and the baby could have fallen seriously ill. Hence, turgak might actually have saved us. The next üle in Tal Tura is körmöstü, that is, with evil spirits. Although in the past people used to stop there, no-one stops there any more and in the evening (kyzyl e˘ir) or at noon (tal tush) people try to avoid this point. Three körmöstör – three old ladies – are sitting there drinking vodka. They are waiting for passers-by so that they can try to kidnap their souls. A little further on there is a place called kamny˘ söögi, where three shamans are buried. The place is hidden behind a small hill. People from Beltyr say that they do not go there and always say what a horrible and dangerous place it is. However, everyone I talked to seemed quite familiar with the appearance of the tombs. The newest tomb dates from 1967 and is of a famous kam (shaman), Sergei Tutushev, who was Altynai’s great-grandfather. Later we arrived at one more turgaktu jer, this time called biidi˘ söögi (lit. bones or grave of a rich person). The tomb of a famous and wealthy person used to stand here, but now nothing is left. Sha˘balachy (a lasso-thrower) is another turgaktu jer nearby. This is a place with a single tree, under which another shaman is buried. The place is dangerous, as the shaman catches passers-by with a lasso (sha˘ba) and does not allow them to move. At the next place we saw a kam tyt – a shaman larch tree. This is a mutated larch, often with a bunch of pine branches growing from the top of it. It is forbidden to cut such a tree and not advisable to approach it closely. Indeed, it is forbidden in Altai to cut any tree that stands alone and I have heard many stories about people punished for doing this by illness or death.9 We stayed overnight at Teke Turu, the camp where Altynai’s parents live and where Sergei Tutushev, the shaman, used to live. The shamans marked the local landscape in many ways. There are a few tagylgalu places around Teke Turu, that is, places where special offerings were made to local eeler. The nearest tagylgalu place to the camp has the same name as the camp itself – Teke Turu (lit. a standing chamois). Kam Sergei Tutushev used to make his offerings there. However, I was told that a long time ago a little girl was brought there as an offering by an ancient kam and this is why people feel afraid of the place. There are other places where Tutushev made offerings – Jalamalu bolchok (lit. a mound with jalama) and Jaan turu (lit. a big standing one). Both of them are situated on the western

Moving through a powerful landscape 83 side of the valley. As the western side is associated by Telengits with darkness, misfortune and the realm of dead people, a tagylga, an offering to a pure and helpful spirit, should not have been conducted there. I was told that Tutushev had made a mistake by conducting the ritual there and this is why the Tal Tura valley became katu jer (lit. a hard place, i.e. difficult to live in). Altaidy˘ eezi of Tal Tura katulagan (hardened) because of the improperly conducted ritual. On account of this, it is difficult to live in Tal Tura now: the weather is not good and there is often not enough food for the cattle. The Altaidy˘ eezi of Tal Tura is kys kizhi – a girl. Places with female eeler are usually thought to be jymzhak (soft), but in this case, the influence of an improperly conducted ritual overwhelmed the initial ‘softness’ of the place. Near the Teke Turu camp there is a place where shamans and other people used to bring their turguzu (vessels for spirits), when they could not be kept at home any more. Turguzu are prepared by a shaman in the case of misfortune and should be kept at home in a place specified by a shaman. When a person for whom turguzu was prepared dies, a shaman tells the family where turguzu should be placed. Usually it is taken to the mountains or hung on a larch or willow tree. Nobody is allowed to touch it afterwards (Plate 3.2). There is also a tree next to Teke Turu where Sergei Tutushev hung the skin, legs and head of yiyk koi, that is, a specially blessed sheep. The blessed animal must not be killed but die of old age. There is nothing left on this tree nowadays, but still no one dares to cut it down or even approach it. The next day we travelled further west, past another turgaktu jer, another arzhan suu, one more camp, and finally we arrived in the camp where a sister of my good friend from Beltyr was living with her husband. This place is thought to be quite dangerous and unpleasant. Many körmöstör (evil spirits) live there. Some dogs and horses can see them. Körmöstör come close to the place during the night and fire shots towards the dogs. When a körmös’s bullet hits a dog, a black lump appears and after a while the dog dies in torment. Later we arrived at kara suu (a spring). In the future this spring might be considered to be arzhan suu (a sacred-healing spring). Recently, Ivan Demchinov, a respected hunter from Beltyr, had some kind of skin disease. At first he tried to cure it with ointment but without success. Then he washed his face several times with water from this kara suu and the disease disappeared. Subsequently, he tied jalamalar next to the spring and people say that it might actually be a newly discovered arzhan suu. The final camp in Tal Tura has a Russian name – Lager (lit. a camp). In Soviet times there was a tourist tent-base there. Nowadays, from time to time tourists come there to climb nearby mountains. All three peaks are yiyk tuular – sacred mountains. They are named in shamans’ blessing and it is forbidden to climb them. Still, local people know that the tourists actually climb the peaks and there are many stories about the misfortunes that happen to tourist because of their attempts to climb sacred mountains. One peak, called Shibe, stands apart, while the other two, linked by a high saddle, are called Ejelü-syiyndu (lit. older and younger sister). These are powerful eelü mountains.

Plate 3.2 Turguzu – a vessel for spirits, a marker of spirit presence in the house.

Moving through a powerful landscape 85 The sacred mountains stand at the head of the valley. The last camp overlooks them and glaciers reach almost to the dwellings of the herders. At present, no communal offerings are made to any of the mountains. However, people remember the mountains as their protectors. The peaks are respected especially by people who live there themselves or by those whose ancestors lived in Tal Tura. People who now live in the village of Beltyr, but whose ancestors used to live in other valleys, name other sacred mountains and other places as being most powerful for them.

The land and the personhood The Telengits stress the importance of travelling through the landscape in order to understand their lives. I was constantly advised to go and travel through nearby mountains, to smell the air, to touch the water and to contemplate and absorb the beauty of the surroundings. They said that Altai would become a part of me and I would be drawn back to the place – not so much because of a fondness for the people but because the place will become a part of me. The Altai would lure me back, I would dream about it and if I left Altai I would feel as if a part of me has been lost. As I have already said the Altaians and the Altai are so tightly bound up that at times they cannot be considered as ontologically separate. Even the notion of ‘being bound up’ can be misleading. The more accurate phrasing would probably be that personhood includes Altai. Caroline Humphrey (1995) writes that landscape is not pre-reflective and spontaneous. It recognises human choices and agencies and reacts to them. I claim that in order to understand what is Altai for people living there, one has to go beyond an object–subject division. I do not want to exoticize Altaians as having some sort of completely different ‘world view’ to that which understands the self, or the body, as the depository of individual features, subsequently reaching outwards in relations with other people, objects and places. On the contrary, my argument is that one cannot infer from the Altaian behaviour one coherent world view. Rather, there are different strategies, identities and practices that people employ. At times the Altaians treat the Altai as an object. During the earthquakes, which happened in Altai in 2003, I was receiving letters from people there that said things like: People here say that the earthquakes have happened because the Altai got offended with our disrespect, cutting trees on the slopes of sacred mountains, polluting its rivers or over-hunting. There may be some truth to this. But really, we are educated people and we know that it was because of some shifts in the geological structure of the earth. In this quotation Altai is both object and subject, treated either as an unintentional structure of sand and stones or as a conscious agent, who retaliates if mistreated. However, these are not the only possible ways of treating Altai. In both of those, humans and land are seen as separate entities, with multiple possibilities of

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creating interrelations. In addition, the Altai is also at times seen as an integral part of a person. What happens to humans happens to Altai and the other way round. The most striking example of such an approach are to be found in the narratives concerning the impossibility of abandoning Altai, of which I was slowly becoming a part, as indicated earlier. Many times I have heard that if a person leaves Altai, he or she dies. This is not because of the longing and emotional distress, but because of physical separation. It is as if part of one’s body is severed or dismembered. Although the land provides a basis for the common Telengit identity, the experiences of places are at the same time highly particular. People have their own places to which they like to return. Places that are commonly recognized as being significant as üle or turgaktu jer are also experienced individually. It is for you to know at which üle to stop and which turgaktu jer to be scared of. This knowledge is not a matter of conscious decision, but is created in encounters with a broadly understood environment, that is, people and phenomena (cf. Toren 1999). Family history, birth places, dreams, and experiences in the past – all influence humans and the way in which they perceive ‘place’. It is not new in anthropology to say that people living in the same place, sharing their lives, educated in the same schools, speaking the same language and seeing the same mountains, would share views on many subjects. In contemporary anthropology it is also nothing new to say that there is always a multiplicity of voices and that people make their paths through life in particular ways. However, what is special among the Telengits is a recognition and acceptance of diversity. No matter how we might try to classify their actions and opinions, for example either as ‘variations’ of one custom or as completely different ways of doing things, a discourse of diversity is a prominent feature of their way of being. By this, I understand an explicit recognition of the existence of a variety of customs, perceptions of landscape, and attitudes towards religious beliefs. This is not to say that people easily accept another point of view on the subject. Quite the contrary, they quarrel, gossip and argue. Nevertheless, I see these apparent conflicts as a part of their day-to-day existence. Although quarrels can be fierce and accusations very serious (e.g. witchcraft or bringing bad luck to your entire family by conducting a ritual improperly), for Telengits it seems to be the crème of life. One of the interpretations of this differentiation given by Altaian intellectuals is based on the forgetting of customs. Some of them suggest that these differences, discussions and arguments are an effect of the Soviet influence. They say that under Soviet rule everything was forgotten and no one really knows how to do things properly any more. It might be true in some cases, and I am certainly not going to dismiss this perspective completely. However, I think that the national ideologists’ conviction of existence of the common core of beliefs and practices is itself an outcome of the Soviet modern education system and political framework. Like the protagonists of Buddhism in Tibet, who were making an effort to pinch down the flying mountains, so the contemporary national intellectuals want to stabilize Altaian customs and Altaian land in order to create a permanent point of reference, on which the national identity can be unfolded.

Moving through a powerful landscape 87 Because of this, many of them supported the establishment of the Buddhist stupa, very different object to the always moving, appearing and disappearing üleler. Among the Telengits, although there are places that are important for many people, they can be related to in many different ways. Avoidance, repeated visiting, pleasure, fear, reverence, jesting – these are all actions and feelings expressed through behaviour and words. Although all Altai is a place of worship, only particular places require special attention. I think that the Altaians, including the Telengits, would agree with a statement given in the book Altai ja˘ (Muytueva and Chochkina 1996: 20), which was conceived as a guide-book for Altaian believers: Altai Kudai have wished that every human would worship first of all his/her Altai. Altai Kudai created a human in such a way that s/he would worship and value his/her Altai, respect it as a father, love it as a mother, adore it, esteem it, ask for blessing and help. That every human would protect birds, animals and plants when s/he has to kill them for food or pick them for feeding. (. . .) It is forbidden to kill animals without need and only in moderate numbers. Without necessity, it is forbidden to break, to saw and to devastate. It is forbidden to soil rivers. If you need anything, you have to ask for that from Altai and take with a blessing. Altai eelü. While all Altai is eelü, some places mentioned in this chapter are not only significant in themselves, but today have also become points of worship for all Altai. The Telengits interact with a landscape full of energies, which are realised as eeler. These energies influence the lives of people, their decisions about settling down, their choice of pastures or even their choice of a spouse. In the previous chapter, I described how living on opposite banks of a river (Ada-Ene ja˘y division) influences the well-being of a person. I also mentioned how a particular village as a place affects the quality of life. One has to be very careful while moving and living in the landscape. Any unnecessary intervention is likely to cause a response from the place. Travelling through the landscape, although necessary as a mode of understanding, must be undertaken with thought and care.

4

Rites of springs

Arzhan suular (pl.), sacred-healing springs, are often mentioned as bailu and eelü among the Altaians. This chapter provides a detailed analysis of the experience of being in such a place, where power can be felt, regardless of whether it is represented in the form of spirits or not. Arzhan suu is also where appropriate rituals are conducted. As visits to arzhan suular have not yet been adopted to any large degree by the national ideologists, the decision to travel there and conduct rituals is one that still rests with family and neighbours and is motivated by a sense of personal need. Therefore it is interesting to see how a communal ritual is prepared and executed in such a situation, especially when compared with my analysis later in the book of two rituals that have become a matter of interest to national leaders. Arzhan suu (suu – water; sing.) is a sacred spring with healing properties. The two largest and best known of these in the district of Kosh-Agach are called Ju˘malu and Buguzun. The best time to visit them to receive healing and blessings is in the autumn, a time of year called sary bür (yellow leaves) in Altaian. This is when arzhan suu ‘ripens’ (byzhyrar) that is, gathers most of its potential healing properties; hence most people go to the largest arzhan suular in late August and September. Haymaking, one of the busiest periods of the year, is finished and the weather is usually still warm enough to ensure an enjoyable stay. Staying at arzhan suu is not only about healing and receiving a blessing. It is also a break from everyday life, a holiday, a time to spend with family and friends. Telengits often refer to Ju˘malu and Buguzun as their health resorts, where they can be with friends and contemplate nature. Still, they also emphasize that they visit arzhan suu as guests – Arzhany˘ eezi, the chief spirit of a spring, most often female, is their host and they ask for her hospitality and care. Telengits living in villages often go to the mountains, to the bank of a river or to shepherds’ camps to find peace and tranquillity. They constantly express their wish to spend time outside the village and in the mountains where the air is pure and quiet. For the Telengits, any place where people are clustered together, as in a village, is polluted. Nevertheless, staying at arzhan suu provides a different experience, as there are certain rules (bai) that must be observed. Whereas the consumption of alcohol is acceptable on most communal trips to the countryside, there is a strict ban on drinking or even the bringing of alcohol to arzhan suu. Although, like most rules, this is challenged by some people, this particular ban

Rites of springs 89 is widely accepted and respected. Some people claim that alcohol can be brought to Buguzun1 if it is only for offerings and not for personal consumption, but it is absolutely forbidden to bring alcohol to Ju˘malu and everyone agrees on that. People are relaxed at arzhan suu, more chatty and generally seem happier. Between healing baths, during the day and in the evenings, they talk and are inclined to ponder existential questions, to contemplate the beauty of nature, to take a step back and look at their lives as if from a distance. Making loud noises is forbidden and people usually behave there in a quiet and calm way. Getting to arzhan suu is often complicated, especially nowadays when organizing transport has become so problematic. What makes this venture even more difficult, however, is the fact that by planning to go to arzhan suu you are effectively promising arzhany˘ eezi that you will come. She will be waiting for you there and you must not disappoint her, as her subsequent discontent may endanger your well-being. But life here is not easily planned – transport problems, sudden illness, or even delays in haymaking can send plans into disarray. If a close relative dies, for example, after you have made plans to visit a healing spring, it is strictly forbidden to make your trip before the first anniversary commemoration rite has been completed. This can land you in an impossible situation. What is more, if you merely ‘think wishfully’ about going to arzhan suu, your soul (see Chapter 6) will go ahead of you and wait for you there. If you do not follow it soon afterwards, you risk becoming separated from it and falling seriously ill. Then you must find a kam (shaman) to help restore your soul. Long-term planning is simply not an option given the vagaries of everyday life. Because of this, people tend to be very hesitant about declaring their plans – they often say that they would like to go to arzhan suu at some time during year, but make the final decision to go perhaps only two or three days before the event. This means that preparations for the trip must be completed in a very short time. It is strictly forbidden to kill anything close to arzhan suu, or indeed to hunt there. Before setting off then, a sheep must be brought from a shepherd’s camp, killed and cooked at home. In addition, wood for making a fire has to be collected at home and transported to the arzhan suu as it is forbidden to cut down any plants in its vicinity. It is also important to prepare jalama – strips of material, preferably white. In the case of arzhan suu these can also be in bright colours, as the arzhany˘ eeler of Buguzun and Ju˘malu are young girls and they use colourful strips of fabric to decorate their clothes. There is a wide range of opinion as to what one is allowed to bring and to give as an offering. For example, it is generally acknowledged that both Jumaluny˘ and Buguzny˘ eezi like to receive earrings. This is why some women leave their favourite earrings at home when they go there. If arzhany˘ eezi took a liking to their earrings, she could ask for them and should not be refused. She would express her wish either through a dream or through some sign such as ear itching or an earring falling into the water. Hence, it is much safer to leave your favourite jewellery at home, just in case arzhany˘ eezi may become interested in it. However, some people say that it is forbidden to offer gold jewellery to arzhany˘ eezi as the eezi girls are old-fashioned Telengits and they prefer silver to gold.

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A person who knows alkysh2 and knows how to conduct rituals is either asked to join the group of people going to arzhan suu or, if that is impossible, asked for detailed instructions. Everyone takes with them small silver-coloured coins, colourful threads and beads which they will offer to arzhany˘ eezi. One person from each party prepares a jip – a length of yarn spun by hand from the wool of a white sheep. It must comprise one unbroken strand, an arm-span in length. The tangle of the jip should be turned clockwise, that is, with the movement of the Sun. People also take artysh (mountain juniper), preferably collected some distance from the arzhan suu that is being visited. One must not offer things that actually belong to the arzhan suu. The food for a ceremony called sa˘ has to be prepared at home as well. This includes butter (sarju), roasted flour (talkan), hard cheese (kurut), soft cheese (byshtak), clotted cream (kaimak), and bread (in Kosh-Agach usually boursak – deep fried pastries). Special cuts of mutton, such as jodo (leg), töshti˘ bazhy (top part of chest fat), jörgöm (intestines), karyny˘ juzy (cannon-bone fat), pogono (little ribbon), and arkany˘ juzy (stomach fat), also have to be prepared. Some people also offer candies and other sweets which people will be eating during their stay in arzhan. One gives to arzhan suu the food’s bazhy (head) – the first piece of every product. After the ceremony, the food can be eaten, but some should be saved for a final sa˘. People go to arzhan suu for 3, 5, 7 or 9 days. It is possible to stay as long as 11 days, but this is not advisable as staying for long periods in a powerful place can be dangerous. People have to go to arzhan suu during the first three-quarters of a lunar month, preferably during ja˘y ai (new moon) after the moon is three days old. It is forbidden to go to arzhan suu, to drink water, or even to come close to it in the fourth quarter of a lunar month.

A trip to Buguzun arzhan suu Below I describe in detail a visit to Buguzun – one of the two largest sacred springs in the Republic of Altai. My story is set as a single, unbroken narrative, as I want to convey the atmosphere of the place and the character of its interaction with the people. For Edward S. Casey, to be in places is to know them and the knowledge of place is an ingredient of perception itself. He writes: ‘Given that we are never without perception, the existence of this dialectic means that we are never without emplaced experiences. It signifies as well that we are not only in places but of them’ (1996: 19, his italics). The Telengits’ insistence that I should get to know them through moving through places and being in places with them, directly reinforces Casey’s point. Steven Feld and Keith H. Basso (1996) write that people fashion places, and by doing so they fashion themselves. From the Telengits’ perspective though, the interaction with places is eclipsed by the ontological unity of the land and the people. Hence, Casey’s ‘being of places’ is taken in my work literally and sensually. Casey sees human existence as being embedded in perception. Still, the question of how perception is actualized remains an open one. This issue is addressed by

Rites of springs 91 David Howes (1991: 3–11) who tries to define what might be called ‘an anthropology of the senses’ and examines the preoccupation in anthropological works with sight and language as a medium of communication. Subsequently he shows how various senses among different peoples are ‘media of intelligence’, and form the basis for human cognition. With the Telengits, all the senses are involved in perception and it is difficult to decide which one is dominant, although sight is indeed very important. However, during a visit to the sacred spring the five senses (hearing, touch, smell, taste and sight) are all involved in the interaction with the place. The one sense not explicitly mentioned in Howes’s book – and which has no acknowledged name in the English language – is the ‘sixth’ sense. It eludes definition because it cannot be expressed in words, sounds, images, touches or smells. The Telengits often use the word neme that is, ‘something’. Something is in the place, something lures them there and something makes them feel the power in the place. Being at arzhan suu is about sensing the place with all one’s senses and yet feeling that there is still something else, something empowering and enchanting. The sacred spring is an enchanted place. However, the following description has to be in words and I can only try to do my best to evoke the sense of being in this place. Moreover, the preparation for the trip, the travel itself and the conversations during the stay are all important and again point to the higher importance of the practical way the Telengits apply themselves in comparison to the ultimate goals of their endeavours. Buguzun is well known for its beneficial effects for sufferers of stomach illnesses. I went there in late July with a group of schoolchildren from Kökörü village, the mother of my close friend Dinara, Tamara eje (Dinara’s late father’s sister) and Dinara’s 5-year-old son Aidy˘. The mother was responsible for conducting the ceremonies. After they left arzhan suu I stayed behind with another group of people from Kököru, many of whom were elderly and considered in the village to be knowledgeable about Telengit customs. The collective farm in Kökörü provided a truck and petrol to take the schoolchildren for their yearly trip to Buguzun. The visit to a big arzhan suu should be repeated at last three times. Some people claim that you should go there in three consecutive years, while others claim that you have all your life to complete your three trips. Any other odd number of trips is also acceptable. Moreover, Telengits always opt for moderation; hence going annually to arzhan suu would not gain general approval. Thus, although the trip was organized by the school, the children had to consider individually their need and eligibility to go to arzhan suu. The teachers organizing the trip emphasized several times that it was not an ‘excursion’ but a visit to a sacred place. It is widely held in the region that schoolchildren today know more about Telengit customs than their parents. The issue is quite complicated and relates to the processes of national revival in the late 1980s and 1990s, when children began to be taught at school about ‘Altaian traditions’. In the late 1990s the lack of funds forced schools to cut down on programmes and to reallocate money to those subjects regarded as crucial in overall education. Hence, most school directors

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and teachers decided to pay more attention to subjects from the main Russian Federation curriculum and to cut down on lessons on Altaian history and traditions. Another important point to make here is that teachers who carried on the lessons on Altaian traditions usually used the materials published in Altaidy˘ Cholmony (the Altaian daily newspaper) and books and booklets published in the town (see, for example, Bedyurov 1990; Ogneva 1992; Tolbina 1993; Muytueva and Chochkina 1996; Ukachin 1998). These publications are based mainly on materials from central Altai, which is inhabited by Altai-kizhi (see Chapter 1). The Telengit teachers therefore try to incorporate some local material into their lessons or invite elders to talk to children about particular ceremonies. The outcome adds new impetus to the usual local arguments and discussions about what is right and what is wrong according to Altai ja˘ – the Altaian way of doing things. The school in Kökörü is, in this respect, quite exceptional. It is one of a few experimental schools in the Republic where some teachers have developed and have been implementing a special programme based on materials collected locally. The school museum in Kökörü, organized and led by Krai Adarovich Bidinov, is well known in the Republic. While lessons on Altaian traditions have been abandoned in many other schools, Bidinov continues to conduct them. Both Kökörü’s well-known local pride (see Chapter 2) and the school programme have influenced the children. During my stay in Buguzun I was impressed by their reverence and respect towards the place and the rituals. By contrast, their parents, educated in the Soviet times, although respectful towards arzhan suu, seemed a little embarrassed when conducting the appropriate rituals. The most powerful and long-lasting anti-religious weapon of Soviet authority was not straightforward punishment but propaganda that ridiculed Altai ja˘. On the evening preceding our trip to Buguzun we went to a bania (a Russianstyle bathing house), which is nowadays an integral part of almost every Telengit farm. People going to arzhan suu should be clean and wear clean clothes. In the evening we baked bread and scones, cooked meat and packed everything that we would need during the trip. We also took a tent, just in case the two small houses built several years ago by the kolkhoz (communal farm) of Kökörü were occupied. We took an iron stove, three huge pots big enough to cook for all the children, and bags of wood, kezek and otok (sun-dried animal dung) to make a fire. The next morning, while we were waiting for the truck to appear, people discussed the time and the way in which an opening ritual at arzhan suu should be conducted. As the truck was supposed to take us to Buguzun, return to the village and then pick us up a few days later, the dates had to be decided in advance. The question was: how many days did we want to stay and how should we count the number of days? It was decided that we should not count the day of departure from the village as it was getting late and we would not be able to conduct the sa˘ ceremony, which should take place early in the morning. Hence, we should start counting from the next day, 27 July. At first the truck back was booked for 30 July, so that we would make a final sa˘ ceremony on the 29th and then leave on the 30th, giving us three days of healing at arzhan suu. But, as the

Rites of springs 93 final sa˘ should be conducted only early in the morning, our time in the healing baths on the third day would be very limited. Finally, it was decided that the truck would be booked for 31 July, when we would also make a final sa˘ ceremony. In this way, we would stay five days, excluding the day of arrival but including the day of departure, with the final sa˘ ceremony taking place early in the morning. At noon the truck, packed with more than 20 schoolchildren, appeared and we clambered aboard, finding with difficulty some space to sit down and stow our things. We stopped at the big üle behind Kökörü (see Chapter 3), where we made an offering – sprinkled some milk and placed some food, some stones and two jalamlar at the üle on behalf of the whole group. Arzhan suu is some two hours’ drive from the village. There are two big rivers to cross and after heavy rains it is often impossible to reach Buguzun at all. The springs, which are known as Buguzun arzhan suu, are spread in a beautiful open valley at the foot of a hill topped with a few white rocks. On our arrival, children were sent to bring water from a nearby spring. Although all waters in the valley are considered as having healing properties, there is a special spring from where people take water for cooking. They also tie jalamalar there when they take water for the first time, and leave coins or gold threads each time. It is forbidden to touch water from other springs before a sa˘ ceremony has been completed. However, even on this subject there was a brief discussion between two relatives. The overall conclusion was that those who drink water before a sa˘ ceremony drink, those who do not, do not. The elderly woman lit a fire in the stove in the house where we were going to stay. She prepared tea with milk and fed the fire with the very first drops of fresh tea. Then she went outside the house and sprinkled some tea around, quietly saying her alkysh. She returned to the house and put some food into the fire – bread, roasted flour, soft and hard cheese, butter and meat. These were the same products that would appear at the sa˘ ceremony the next morning. Then we started unpacking our belongings and made ourselves comfortable in one of the houses belonging to Kökörü. On one of them there was a signboard asking everyone to respect and venerate arzhan suu. After a while, people who had arrived at the arzhan suu before us, paid us a visit. They came to the house quietly, in the usual Telengit manner, saying just jakshlar (alt. good morning) and stood quietly next to the wall or sat on a bench inside the house. Our group, the hosts of the house at the moment, continued with what they were doing, pouring tea for guests and encouraging them to try some food. After a few sips of hot tea, the questions began to flow. Where are you from? How many people have come with you? How many days have you come for? What is the weather like? When are you going to make a sa˘ ceremony? Some of these questions evolved into longer discussions. I discovered that the other group staying at Buguzun included several acquaintances of mine from Saratan village of the second Telengit district – Ulagan. This was their last full day at Buguzun and they were leaving the next day. They were surprised that, having arrived at arzhan suu we were not conducting a sa˘ ceremony the same day. We had arrived at 2.30 pm, when the sun was still high in the sky and, as the people

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from Ulagan claimed, the ceremony could have been conducted. Still, the elderly woman who came with us claimed that the ceremony could be conducted only early in the morning. What is more, the people from Ulagan claimed that it was forbidden to stay overnight next to an arzhan suu and to take water from it even for cooking, before the sa˘ ceremony had been performed. When they were travelling from Ulagan, they arrived very close to Buguzun in the late afternoon. As it was too late for the sa˘ ceremony, they therefore stopped at the nearby shepherd’s camp and arrived at Buguzun the next day, conducted the ceremony, and only after that started to unpack their belongings and make themselves comfortable at the arzhan suu. The discussions were quiet, the sentences and questions were uttered in a calm, seemingly disinterested way. No explicit comments on the behaviour of the other party were made. Still, one could sense tensions and judgements. When the guests from Ulagan left our house, a more open discussion broke out and it was again stated that we actually had a right to do things the way we were doing. Later, I went to visit my Ulagan acquaintances. They also returned to our discussion and disapproved of certain things we had or had not done. Still, the most questionable behaviour for them was that of a group of Kazakhs who had left arzhan suu the same day we arrived. It had been raining heavily for the last three days because, so I was told, Kazakh children had been playing constantly at the very top of the hill with the white rocks. The white rocks overlooking the valley are the home of arzhany˘ eezi. It is forbidden to climb there just for fun, to play there, or to shout and behave without respect. If someone breaks these rules arzhany˘ eezi usually shows her discontent by causing bad weather at Buguzun. The Kazakh children were tearing out artysh (juniper) by its roots, they were running around, splashing water and shouting. The children from Kökörü found a pile of artysh torn out by the roots, lying next to a house built at arzhan suu by the administration of one of the Kazakh villages. They were terrified and asked the adults what they should do with it. They were ordered to burn it all and clear the place of all the rubbish the Kazakhs had left behind. The two big arzhan suular, Buguzun and Ju˘malu, are often sites of clashes between Kazakhs and Telengits. Inter-ethnic tension is a powerful force in the district (see Chapter 1), but it is generally suppressed in everyday life and only reveals itself on such occasions. After a late lunch, we started to prepare jalamalar (pl.) for the next day’s ceremony. The general rule states that for jaan jer (the place on the top of the main spring), we needed two jalamalar for each member of our families. However, there are no strict rules regarding who can be included as a family member. Some people restrict this to just a spouse and children, while others include distant relatives who are in need of spiritual protection, as well as friends or neighbours. In addition, we prepared jalamalar for the minor springs, plenty of offerings consisting of short gold and colourful threads, silver-colour coins, and earrings and necklaces. There are several minor springs that are considered to have a common source. Some people say that arzhan suu is beneficial for all illnesses, whereas others

Rites of springs 95 carefully distinguish the beneficial qualities of particular wells. The main spring is beneficial for stomach illnesses. Other well-known springs help heart pains, heartburn, headaches and eye illnesses. Approximately half a mile away there is another spring, which is beneficial for liver pains, and half a mile further on there is another which helps with kidney problems. It is a matter of some debate whether the last arzhan suu can be treated as a part of the main one or if it is a separate spring with a separate arzhany˘ eezi. This is an important question. If one treats these arzhan suular (pl.) as two separate springs, one has to conduct a sa˘ ceremony at each of them in order to receive legitimate healing. If the spring that heals kidney ailments is treated as one more efflux of the main spring, the sa˘ ceremony does not have to be conducted there and the water can be taken legitimately just by tying jalamalar next to it. We decided that all minor springs in the valley belong to the same arzhan suu. The people from Ulagan decided otherwise and they conducted a separate sa˘ ceremony at the arzhan suu with healing properties for kidney problems. The next day we arose early when the sun was rising. The people from Ulagan were watching us while preparing to leave the arzhan. They did not conduct a final sa˘ ceremony – another contrast to the ways of the Kökörü people. They just sprinkled some milk and tea and thanked the arzhan suu for the healing and blessing. Dinara’s mother, Tamara eje, Aidy˘ and I prepared a separate sa˘ offering. We were to conduct the ceremony with the schoolchildren, but the food for an offering was prepared separately. A big flat plate had been filled with roasted flour, cheese, butter, bread and cream. We also prepared a pot of freshly brewed tea with milk and a bottle of milk brought from the village. We put some smoking wood from the fireplace in a bucket. The fire for sa˘ should always be started from the home fire and in this case our temporary house represented the home. Two boys carried two young willow trees, which we had cut just behind the village on the day of our trip to Buguzun. We arrived at the jaan jer (lit. the big, important place), situated below the white rocks but above the main spring. Several years ago people from Kökörü prepared an iron base for the offerings to make things more organized. On the top of a flat iron table, which is also called sa˘, there was a pile of stones, apparently imitating an older form of offering place, which was completely constructed of stones, as it is now at Ju˘malu arzhan suu. The fact that the base was made of iron caused some debate, as many people claimed that iron is not a proper material for an offering place. Iron is related to the Lower World, the world of the dead, and to shamanic rituals. Arzhan suu and a sa˘ ceremony are in the realm of the white and pure, and the offering place should be made of white, beautiful stones. Nevertheless, the iron offering-place was already there and we used it for the ceremony (Plate 4.1). On its eastern side, two boys, under the guidance of the elderly woman, placed the two willow trees approximately 1.5 metres apart. Beforehand, we strung the jalamalar onto a jip (woollen yarn). While stringing them together, we were supposed to think about the people for whose benefit the jalamalar were intended. The jip was then tied to the two willow trees and all the children and teachers tied their jalamalar to either the jip or to the branches

Plate 4.1 Sa˘ ceremony at Buguzun sacred-healing spring (arzhan suu).

Rites of springs 97 3

of the trees. Then the boys made a small fire at the offering place. The elderly woman, Dinara’s mother, was the one to begin the ceremony. She took a plate with our offering and each of us took three handfuls of food and put them into the fire. Dinara’s mother was saying alkysh (a hymn of praise) quietly. Then she sprinkled milk and tea with milk four times onto the fire and then to the four cardinal directions, turning clockwise around herself. Tamara eje and I repeated her actions. Then we drank the milk and tea, which was left over after the sprinkling ceremony, and ate the rest of the offering from the plate. When the teachers and children conducted their sa˘ ceremony, alkysh was said by one of the teachers. She was prompted by a text written on a piece of paper, which she had prepared by combining alkyshtar, published in Altaidy˘ Cholmony, with the words that reminded her of blessings said by elders in Kökörü. People generally believe that the words should either be learned or, preferably, come straight from the heart and flow as if by themselves. Still, the teacher had to keep referring to her piece of paper, as she was scared that nothing would come into her head.4 Her alkysh included the following words, which begin many Telengit (and Altaian) alkyshtar. They emphasize the basics of Telengit spiritual tradition – Altai, Sky, Sun, Moon and Fire. Ailü-Kündü Te˘erim Agash-tashtu Altaiym Odus köstü Ot-Ene Törtön bashtu Tör-Ene

With the Moon and the Sun my Sky With trees and stones my Altai With thirty eyes Mother-Fire5 With forty heads (beginnings) Mother-Tör.6

After this we were allowed to drink water from arzhan suu for the first time. We made a big circle following the Sun proceeding from one spring to the next, tying jalamalar at each one. At the main spring other offerings were also left: earrings, necklaces and stripes of beautiful fabric. Over the next few days, we did not tie any more jalamalar but left silver coins and gold or silver threads each time we drank the water. As well as drinking the water, it is permissible to take ice-cold healing showers in specially built bathing houses. At the spring renowned for healing ailments of the head, sufferers put their head and arms under the strong stream of cold water. This same spring is reported to help joints; people either put their aching joints under the stream of water or apply mud to them. Algae floating on the surface of this spring help to heal sore toes and corns. The eye-healing spring is shaped like a huge eye, and is the subject of many commentaries that point out that the healing potential of the spring reveals itself in its very shape. Here people wash their eyes. There are also healing stones at arzhan suu. One of them helps backache, so people rub their backs against it. There is also a black liver-healing stone, which has to be held close to the body. Marina, a nurse who came to Buguzun with the children, told me that last year this stone had been red and that it really looked like a liver. After completing a full circle we went back to our house for breakfast. Afterwards, everybody commenced their programme of healing procedures. Healing showers should be taken either once

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or three times a day, the same as drinking and visiting either one or several of the minor springs. Dinara’s mother was pleased with the way in which the smoke was coming from our sa˘ offerings. All the food was burnt which meant that the offerings had been accepted. Many years ago she had gone to the other big arzhan suu – Ju˘malu. Her mother had died in April of that year and in August she visited arzhan suu. At that time she was not aware of the strict bans and rules (baiy) of arzhan suu, one of which, as noted earlier, is a prohibition against people visiting arzhan suu after the death of a close relative. At the arzhan suu she could not sleep and finally she had a dream about a fair-haired girl whom she recognized as arzhany˘ eezi. This girl said: ‘Do not tie jalama, do not give me an offering, do not drink the water, you must leave! I do not want you here!’ She left the next day. If one has such a dream one must obey and leave at once, otherwise one can expect a serious misfortune. Another story she told us was about Buguzun. Some time ago a group of people arrived there, including some biler ulus (knowledgeable people). When one elderly man from the group was putting handfuls of food into the sa˘, they saw black stuff coming out from the fire. It was a very bad sign and indeed the man died the following year. There are people who can see and even talk to arzhany˘ eezi. One such person is a son of one of the most well-known Telengits of the district who works in the district administration. When they visited Buguzun the son always saw arzhany˘ eezi – sha˘kylu kys bala7 – a beautiful and very young girl with Telengit hair decorations – sha˘ky. She used to come to their felt tent when they were eating and sit and eat with them. The rest of the day continued quietly. I was healing my migraine under an ice-cold stream of head-healing water. The children were drinking water, playing volleyball and other games. Although relaxed and happy, they preserved a reverence for the place. They did not rip out flowers, did not play with water and did not step over the source of the arzhan suu. They collected all the rubbish and they were reasonably quiet while playing. The adults read books and played cards all day long. As they talked, I picked up various new snippets of information; for example, I learned that I should take either one or three healing sessions a day, and that I could either choose several minor springs or just one of them and I should repeat the healing for an odd number of days. The following day the next group of people from Kökörü came, including a few elderly and well-respected people. They had brought a felt tent to stay in. The next day, early in the morning, they conducted a sa˘ ceremony. The rest of the day went on quietly following the same routine. Everyone used his or her favourite springs, played cards, read books, talked and took cold showers. After a shower, one should not dry oneself with a towel – the healing properties of the water should not be wiped away with it. The discussions on various issues were repeated all day long. For example, the subject of the proper time for a sa˘ ceremony was brought up again. The last day of our stay in arzhan suu was to be 31 July. We had conducted the first sa˘ on 27 July, which was also our first day of healing baths, and we had to spend an odd number of days at arzhan suu. Still, if we were to

Rites of springs 99 conduct a final sa˘ early on the morning of 31 July we would not be able to take a bath that day, as after sa˘ it is forbidden to touch the water again. Our discussions on the matter were interrupted from time to time with exclamations such as ‘Kudai! People do it in so many different ways!’ Someone brought up the example of an elderly woman, who used to conduct sa˘ as late as two o’clock in the afternoon. This met with protests from other people who claimed that the sa˘ could only be conducted early in the morning. Finally, Dinara’s mother decided that we would conduct the sa˘ ceremony in the morning and after that we would partake of a final healing round to all the minor springs and bathing houses, which would then count as a fifth bathing day. People also discussed sprinkling milk and tea during sa˘. Dinara’s mother sprinkles 4 times to the fire and then 9 times to each of the East, South, West and North. Marina sprinkles 4 times to the fire and 4 times towards each of the directions and repeats the sprinkling 3 times. Svetlana sprinkles 3 times to the fire, then 3 times to each of the 4 directions and repeats the sprinkling 3 times. During this discussion, a respected guest, the wife of the old shaman from Kökörü, appeared at the entrance to our house. She was instantly invited inside, asked to sit down, and handed a bowl of tea. When asked for her opinion on sprinkling tea and milk during the sa˘ ceremony, she declared that she sprinkles 4 times to the fire and then 4 times up around herself, repeating it 3 times, but she does not sprinkle directly to the West, which is considered a dangerous direction. She explained that it is kizhini˘ boiyny˘ ja˘y – a person’s own way of doing things. One can sprinkle 3 times to the fire, which is justified because a traditional Telengit stone fireplace was built of three main stones. One can also sprinkle 4 times to the fire because an even number is always considered a lucky one, connected to this life, the future and blessing. As Victor Turner ([1967] 1991) writes, one ritual symbol can stand for several things, that is one signifier may be read in many different ways. As the Telengit material suggests, the appearance of particular symbols, which compose parts of ritual actions, can be created individually if at least some people concerned can accept the meaning of such a symbol. In the case described earlier, both the numbers of tea and milk sprinkling were symbolic. At the superficial level, they symbolize different things – a sacred fireplace, and a general blessing for this world, respectively. At a deeper level, both symbolic actions fitted into the scope of ritual as they stand for desirable or venerated things. Hence, they can be used interchangeably. I will return to this point later, when discussing differentiation and the unification processes. The strict code-like unification, which has been attempted nowadays in Altai, does not allow for such a flexibility of rules. The shaman’s wife also gave her opinion on the frequently discussed issue of walking around a burning sa˘ offering. Men have always had a right to walk around a sa˘, whereas the women’s right to do so is often questioned. During the Chaga ceremony (discussed in the next chapter), women and men go round a sa˘, which is burning close to a doorstep. If the offering is conducted outside a village, women are not always allowed to go round a sa˘. As I observed, when the right moment comes the younger women begin whispering among themselves: ‘Shall

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we? Shan’t we?’ It rests on the older people to give their opinion on the matter. If a consensus is reached, either they go round the sa˘ or they do not; if elderly people give contradictory opinions a party can split up and some women go, while the others stay. The shaman’s wife confirmed that women should not go round a sa˘ offering when it is made outside a village. There is eezi here and we have to respect her. Only elderly men go round a sa˘. The rest should stay in one place and can only turn around themselves. The following day we went with the children to the minor springs situated further from the main spring. We had also been asked to collect mountain juniper – artysh – which is used in many rituals and must be collected according to certain rules, all which of course have many variants and interpretations. The rules, however, are not strict prescriptions: the most important function of the baiy is to engender a general atmosphere of sacredness, which here implies recognizing the special significance and qualities of the plant. Some people collect only a certain number of branches, usually an even one and no more than 12. Some people say that the exact number is not important, provided that you do not collect too much. Most people say that only boys and men can collect artysh – and it was to this rule that the children in our party subscribed. Only the branches that have grown towards the east should be collected, and only after everyone has tied two white jalamalar. After visiting the spring, tying jalamalar, and collecting artysh, we proceeded towards a group of white rocks situated at the top of the ridge above the valley, which are considered the house of arzhany˘ eezi. Some people declare that you should not visit this place if it is your first visit to Buguzun. During your first visit you should move about as little as possible, just going to the springs and taking healing baths. During the second visit, you can wander around a little more, climb some nearby hills and walk in the valley. Only during the third visit are you allowed to go to the white rocks (the house of eezi), tie jalamalar there and ask for a blessing. Still, it was decided that everyone could visit the place this time. Nevertheless, the visit remained an ambivalent issue and it was postponed until the day before our departure. Everyone was sure that it would be raining heavily afterwards, as arzhany˘ eezi is never particularly pleased with visitors. The place where we had collected mountain juniper was approximately a kilometre from the arzhany˘ eezi house. We walked among the white rocks situated at the top of the long hill. The rocks represent corrals, fences and minor buildings belonging to the eezi household. On the very top of the hill there is a cave – the entrance to the arzhany˘ eezi house. There is a small üle next to it and jalamalar are tied on the bush of artysh growing in front of it. One can enter the cave, which is shaped inside like a small felt tent. Here there are some jalamalar, necklaces and earrings, brought by people as offerings. We left our offerings and hurried down the hill as the rain was expected at any minute. After we had reached our house it began to hail. Marina, a nurse, said it was jada, that is, the hail was caused by factors beyond the general state of the weather. In this case, jada was our trip to the top of the hill. Two days later, when a touring car with several Kazakh people came and drove very near jaan jer – this event was jada.

Rites of springs 101 There are also people who are jadalu (with jada), which means that they bring bad weather with them. There is also jada tash – a stone (rock crystal), which can be used to influence the weather (cf. Molnár 1994). The following day, 31 July, was the last day that Dinara’s relatives and the schoolchildren spent at arzhan suu. I was going to stay behind with the second group of people from Kökörü. Early in the morning the first group went to the jaan jer to conduct a final sa˘ ceremony. Everybody tied two jalamalar to the bush of artysh growing near the place and all sa˘ rituals of the burning of food were repeated, as well as chachylga – the sprinkling of tea and milk. This time I was just an observer, as I was to stay for three more days at arzhan suu and conduct a final sa˘ with the second group of people. When everyone tried (amzagar) the food and drink, everybody except Dinara’s mother started to walk around the sa˘ (ailanar) and bow. The bowing is called mürgüül, which is usually translated by Telengits themselves into Russian as molitva, that is, a prayer. Originally, it was a Mongolian word, which means ‘to bow’. Ailanar was the part of the ritual that was discussed with the shaman’s wife the day before. Only Dinara’s mother decided not to go round the sa˘. Afterwards everybody went round the valley, visiting all the minor springs one more time and tying jalamalar. They also poured water from springs into the bottles and cans that were provided by people from the village who could not come to Buguzun that year. While the first group was packing their belongings, I moved to the felt tent where I was supposed to stay with the second group of people. As I arrived, a discussion similar to the one I had heard several days ago was at its height. The second group had arrived on 28 July. They stayed overnight and conducted the first sa˘ ceremony on the 29th, hence it was the first day of healing. If a final sa˘ was to be conducted on 2 August, there would be 5 days of healing, but only 4 overnight stays after sa˘. Some people claimed that one should count not days of healing but overnight stays after sa˘. This would mean that we should leave on 3 August, on the sixth day of healing. After some more discussions (which were repeated several times during the following days), we decided to leave arzhan suu (and indeed did eventually leave it) on 3 August. In the late afternoon that day a Kazakh family arrived. They pitched their tents and their children went towards arzhan suu, picking 1 or 2 flowers on their way. At once Telengit children shouted at them: ‘Do not pick anything! Do not cross the source of arzhan suu!’ The Kazakh children looked surprised and a little bit scared but soon the two parties came together and talked. The adults followed the children’s example and after a short while everyone was helping the Kazakhs to make themselves comfortable. The next two days we spent in the same way – drinking water, playing cards, reading books and talking. I noticed some combs and clasps next to the headhealing arzhan suu, left there apparently by people who wanted healing. This is a highly contentious custom, regarded by some people as polluting arzhan suu. Others said that it was rather silly to believe that an illness would stay away with the placing of a comb or a clasp. The healing comes from the water and arzhany˘ eezi, and has nothing to do with the things you wear.

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On 2 August tea bricks, carefully wrapped in white cloth, were placed in the water. They would gradually soak up the water, thereby acquiring some of the water’s healing properties. Men and boys went to the mountains to collect artysh, some of which was also put into the water and used afterwards to brew herbal tea, which helps with fighting colds. Little stones from arzhan suu were collected, as they preserve the healing powers of the spring. They were taken home and added to the boiling water while preparing tea. However, they have to be preserved and cannot get lost. Next year they have to be brought back to the place from which they were taken, for they are only borrowed from arzhany˘ eezi. On 3 August in the early afternoon we conducted the final sa˘ ceremony – not early in the morning as the first group had done. There were several other differences as well. Jalamalar were tied not to the artysh growing nearby but to the two willow trees which had been put up again. Everyone tied four jalamalar at the jaan jer. Jondy˘ Samunov, one of the older people and the organizer of this trip, explained to me that every time you come to arzhan suu you should tie two more jalamalar than you had done the previous time. If you come for the first time, you should tie 2 jalamalar; 4 during your second visit and 6 during your third one. Still, they did not subscribe strictly to this rule, as some people from the group came here for the first, some for the second and some for the third time or even more. They just decided to make one rule for everyone – four jalamalar. Nobody said alkysh aloud. After sa˘, chachylga, amzagar and mürgüül, they poured water into bottles and cans to be taken back to the village. The atmosphere during the sa˘ ceremony was very relaxed. People were talking even while sprinkling milk and tea, walking around, laughing and joking. There were certain rules, which were never broken, but one had to make an effort to notice them in the seemingly careless and relaxed atmosphere. For example, nobody was allowed to stand on the eastern side of sa˘. This is the direction from which eezi appears. It was forbidden to go around the sa˘, unless during mürgüül or chachylga. All movements in the direction opposite to the movement of the Sun were forbidden. It was forbidden to sprinkle milk and tea with the left hand. It was forbidden to take anything from jaan jer, to collect stones, flowers or artysh there. The direction to the left side, to the West and opposing the movement of the Sun, is towards the realm of death and may be potentially harmful. The direction to the right side, to the East and with the movement of the Sun, is towards this life and is potentially helpful. After the ritual we started to gather up our belongings. Everyone was very concerned about cleaning the place properly. All the rubbish was collected, and every table and chair taken from the houses was returned to its proper place. Even sticks and firewood, which had not been used, were piled carefully beside the house. The ash from the fireplace was removed, and stones, used as a support for pots, were replaced in their previous locations. Caroline Humphrey (1995) writes about the injunctions ( yos) that exist in Mongolia. It is forbidden to move stones for no reason, to leave scratches on the ground or make marks on it. Any unnecessary disturbance must be avoided, as places are not passive recipients of people’s actions, but are instead active agents

Rites of springs 103 that interact with humans. The Telengit village, although it still has an influence on people’s lives as a place, is viewed as a polluted place and so ceases to be treated with such detailed veneration. A üle (pile of stones) is not cared for in the same way as the arzhan suu. It shows that although all Altai is bailu and people are aware of the rules, which should be obeyed everywhere, there are certain places that become focus points of worship. These are the places that impress people with their intrinsic power.

The senses and the experience of place All the sacred places in Altai are called bailu jerler (pl.), regardless of whether their sacred value is intrinsic to the place or given to it by people’s actions. Bai is an injunction, a rule of behaviour or a ban. Bailagan and bailap jat are verbs that can be translated as ‘to keep to the rules’ and ‘to behave with respect and veneration’. Telengits say that their lives are driven by bai. Some people attempt to observe lots of rules and are pointed out by fellow villagers in terms such as ‘Oh, this person bailap jat!’ (i.e. this is a person who tries to observe lots of injunctions). I often heard it said that if one tried to live according to all the rules of Altai ja˘, one could not actually do anything and could not live at all. There are just too many rules. Hence, each person has to decide on the rules, customs and rites that they find meaningful and would like to observe or perform. In this way, each person makes their own individual path through the forest of Altaian customs and rules. Altai ja˘ is not something one can possess; it is a process to live through. Baiy concern many different aspects of life. There are, for example, kizhini˘ baiy – rules and bans concerning a person, such as balany˘ baiy (baiy concerning a child), jaan ulustar baiy (rules of behaviour towards elders), and kaiyny˘ baiy (rules of behaviour towards one’s husband’s relatives). There are also otty˘ baiy (rules concerning a fireplace), taigany˘ baiy (rules of behaviour in the mountains) and arzhany˘ baiy (rules of behaviour at arzhan suu). Bailu jer is a place where such rules have to be carefully applied. Places with intrinsic sacred value have a special influence on people’s feelings and memories. In the previous chapter I discussed the üle, which acquires sacred value because of human intervention. Although both üle and arzhan suu are bailu and people keep certain rules and bans concerning them, arzhan suu evokes much stronger emotions and attachments than üle does. People talk about the beauty of arzhan suu and contemplate it. They do not bother much about cleaning üle of various leftovers – such as empty bottles, which can be treated as offerings, but also sweet wrappers, broken glass and other rubbish. As is clear from the earlier description, arzhan suu is treated with great respect and the area around it is cleaned with extreme care. If something pollutes a üle, people simply create a new one in another place. If something pollutes an arzhan suu, however, people make every effort to purify the place. For example, an improperly conducted ritual can be polluting to the place, and arzhan suu can katulagan (harden) and withhold beneficial properties

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from the people. This can happen if someone visiting arzhan suu dies there. People then become afraid of this arzhan and a biler kizhi has to purify the place, talk to arzhany˘ eezi and ask for the return of her blessings to the people. Breaking baiy can also pollute arzhan. In this case, a person who is guilty of polluting the place is usually punished by arzhany˘ eezi with illness or death and the arzhan suu itself disappears, hiding itself from people. After some time, it can reappear in a different place. The shapes of the stones that are used for healing, the elements of the landscape, and the forms of the springs contribute to the atmosphere of the place. One can say that they consolidate the healing properties of the place. They bring to a level of immediate sensual experience arzhan’s implicit powers. The places mimic their own internal features and through their appearance give an easier access to their internal significance. They give signs and hints to people, which can be held on to, interpreted and easily talked about. Post factum, people talk about healing at arzhan suu as a pleasurable experience. My experience, based on ‘participant observation’, was somewhat different. People were shivering under cold showers, and at Ju˘malu they had to sit for up to 20 minutes in the ice-cold water. It is forbidden to move, to make any rapid motions or to scare fish that are swimming next to you and touching your body. It is also forbidden to complain. People were gritting their teeth and maintaining forced smiles. Nevertheless, healing was remembered as a pleasure. Learning through one’s body is one of the main themes of the work by Robert Desjarlais carried out at Yolmo in north-central Nepal. He focused on the idea that whereas anthropology is about words, symbols and narratives, the Yolmo way of being is about experience, the aesthetics of everyday life and sensitivity (Desjarlais 1994). He points out that in some situations ‘the anthropologist’s “self-system” can know more than his conscious self, and his imaginary gardens, like the shaman’s revelations (waking dreams, nightly visions) can tap into and cultivate tacit knowledge’ (p. 26). Living in a community, sitting with people, drinking tea, and engaging in small-talk, can all lead to the embodiment of cultural practices. He admits that the anthropologist’s access to local sensitivity is limited, but one can still try to grasp it. ‘We [anthropologists] can gain a fair sense of what he and his neighbours commonly experience through a lengthy dialogue, gleaning what they sense of the gods by comparing, and sensing, the differences between sensibilities’ (p. 250). Telengits talk very little. If you enter a house, after the initial greeting you can sit there for hours without talking. Although it seems odd and uncomfortable for a stranger, in many cases it actually reflects acceptance. You do not have to be entertained because you are a veritable part of the scene. They sense your attitude and expect you to have the same capability. In places such as arzhan suu, people’s sensitivity is reinforced. Staying there is, for them, an aesthetically pleasing experience, which fits into a kind of sensitivity they value. Arzhan suular are very important and powerful places with a range of emotions evoked by a presence in them. Images of such places stay in people’s minds and they elicit emotional, loving responses when being thought and talked about afterwards.

Rites of springs 105 A vast part of the Telengit way of being is not about words but about other kinds of expressions and impressions among which intuition and perceptiveness of other people’s moods and feelings are crucial. You are expected to sense, to apprehend ‘an atmosphere’, people’s attitudes, and to act accordingly. Comments such as ‘I am in low spirits’ and ‘I don’t feel like . . . ’ are extremely powerful and accepted explanations for restraining from action. Perhaps you were planning to go to the town, but when the day comes you do not feel like it. Hence, you do not go and no one is surprised. Perhaps you made an appointment and did not turn up because you were in a bad mood. No one is offended, because this is a sufficient explanation. Telengits rarely force themselves to act if they do not feel like it. If they anticipate danger, they do not force events either. ‘My way must be closed’ is what they say.

Ritual, difference and consensus A trip to an arzhan suu begins long before you board the truck that takes you there. When writing about pilgrimages in Rajasthani villages, Ann Grodzins Gold (1987) stated that most studies of pilgrimage and journeys focus on the period of the trip, looking at people exclusively as pilgrims and leaving their lives in villages outside the scope of study. She decided, on the contrary, that one must look at pilgrimage as a part of life, seeing the village from where the pilgrimage starts and to where people come back, as the focal point. A trip and visit to arzhan suu is a part of life, which is smoothly incorporated into the general way of life. Although it is undertaken at a special time and involves a special place, there is no radical break between life in the villages and the trip to arzhan suu. The trip also remains in people’s lives and memories, not as a separate event of special sacred value but as a pleasurable experience. The idea of a pleasurable experience gives the main framework to the stories about trips to arzhan suu. The sacredness of the place comes after talking about its beauty and peacefulness. The experience of the sacredness of the place can be better understood if one underlines its beauty and power as coming from a sensual encounter than if one considers it in such terms as the mysterium tremendum of Rudolf Otto’s interpretation (1928). In order for the visit to be legitimate and beneficial, ritual has to be performed. As I have mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, rituals at arzhan suu are still left in the domain of the people who travel there and have not been appropriated by the national ideologists. However, the rite has to be conducted by a group, which constitutes itself for this purpose, and hence a consensus has to be attained. The question of establishing certainty of knowledge, which provides the basis for ritual practices, is the main theme of the second part of this book. Here we have a situation in which there is no source of unequivocal authority, no single person who can say that this is the right way to do things. Instead people, who in everyday life make their own ways through the forest of Altaian customs, gather in one place and are faced with the challenge of conducting ritual actions together. The narrative of my visit to the healing springs is dominated by the

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discussions and arguments that were necessary to create the consensus required for a successful communal stay at a sacred place. What is more, the rules that are applied at any given ceremony do not form the pattern for the conduct of such rites in the future. The consensus is reached and lost immediately after the ceremony, when its actions are analysed over and over again and their validity is judged on the basis of their outcomes. According to the theory of ritual developed by Caroline Humphrey and James Laidlaw (1994), one of the main characteristics of a ritualized act is its ontological stipulation. They write that the ritual practitioner finds his or her acts already separated out, constituted, and named, for they are stipulated in the rules for performing the ritual. Thus the ontology of ritualised action (the range of essential entities of which it is composed) is ready-made and precedes the conduct of those who come to perform the ritual. (Humphrey and Laidlaw 1994: 96) This is not quite the case when we come to Telengit ritual. Although the segments of ritual action can be seen as ontologically stipulated – everyone knows that he or she should perform chachylga (sprinkling), amzagar (tasting), alkanar (blessing), sa˘ (burning offered food), mürgüül (bow) and ailanar (circumambulation) – how and by whom these actions are to be performed remains a matter of discussion. The first question, which Humphrey and Laidlaw ask in their book is ‘what happens in religious traditions when the nature of ritual is questioned, but the practice of performing rituals is not itself abandoned?’ (Humphrey and Laidalw 1994: 1). Subsequently they focus on the relation between intention, action and its meaning, devoting relatively little space to the form of ritual action. This approach was indicated by the character of the Jain puja ritual, which is performed in the context of hierarchical religion. It means, that in the case of doubt about the form of a ritual, people can ask an authoritative person, whose advice should be followed. In the Telengit case, however, there is no single person who can give an authoritative opinion on the rules of the performance of the ritual. Moreover, what the Telengits discuss is not the meaning of the ritual but the form of it. Hence, the appropriate question for the Telengit case might be ‘what happens in religious traditions when the form of ritual is questioned, but the nature and goal of ritual is undisputed?’ In the Telengit case, stipulations concerning the segments of ritual actions are restricted to the level of their separation. The content of the segments is not strictly prescribed. There are many ways in which mürgüül or chachylga can be executed. Moreover, people actually disagree about the presence of particular segments of ritual actions (as was described earlier for ailanar). Nevertheless, everyone agrees why the ritual has to be conducted – this is to bring offerings and to show respect to eezi, who is the host of the place in question. Sherry B. Ortner (1989) describes how the internal structure of a culture can be visible in practice. According to her, there is ‘a fundamental contradiction in

Rites of springs 107 the social and cultural order of Sherpas, between an assumption of the naturalness and desirability of (male) equality, and an assumption of the naturalness and desirability of hierarchy’. This contradiction is expressed in crucial moments diachronically (i.e. dramatic changes in time) and synchronically (e.g. at rituals). I claim that the way in which the Telengits arrive at the communal execution of the sa˘ ritual points towards a general process by which the knowledge is generated. Every single element considered by the actors to be an important part of the trip to arzhan suu is discussed, contested and performed in different ways. These differences are not just ‘variations’ that can be classified and legitimately fitted into segments called chachylga, mürgüül or alkanar. They are integral parts of the process itself, which should not be explained away. Although agreement is finally achieved, for without it the performance of ritual would not be possible at all, it is there only for a short time, the time necessary for that particular ritual. Afterwards, the quarrels, discussions, disagreements and accusations that were present before the ritual return to extinguish the momentary agreement that was attained for time that the ritual was taking place. This is because the ritual at arzhan suu is not primarily about the stability of the group and the binding-in a place (cf. the Altai tagyry ritual – see Chapter 8), but about acknowledging the power of the place. This power is recognized through sensual experience of the place’s features. In Chapter 3 I argued that mobility underlines not only the activities of the people, but also the way in which landscape is perceived. Discussions and quarrels are indices of the way in which places are present, not as stable objects with which people can form relationships, but as ever changing agents, or maybe even as aspects of personhood. Land and people should be seen as ontologically united and personhood as including the land. This chapter has attempted to offer some insights into the practical character of people’s way of being in places. For each person visiting a sacred spring, this place occupies a different position. In order to be there as a group, the individual experience has to be submerged within a consensus leading towards communal performance of ritual. The complicated processes of discussion and argument point towards the tension between the sensuality, movement and individuality of experience, and the constitution of groups. This theme is a leading thread of Part II of this book.

Part II

Ritual and knowledge

5

Chaga bairam

Transformations in Telengit and Altaian religious life have been locally discussed at least since the early 1990s. In this chapter we look in detail at Chaga bairam, a celebration marking the beginning of a new lunar year, which has recently acquired the status of a national celebration. In Soviet times Chaga bairam was conducted only by some families, in the villages and in the herders’ camps. It was never widely celebrated across the Republic but was to be found mainly in the Telengit districts close to Mongolia and Tuva, where similar celebrations are known. Among the Telengits, there were no communal rituals associated with Chaga bairam; instead, each family conducted a sa˘ ceremony close to their house or on nearby hills. Today, a change in the character of Chaga bairam has become apparent, initiated by the national ideologists. This chapter is concerned with the character of this change.

Chaga bairam among the Telengits and in Inner Asia Chaga bairam is the Telengit name of the celebration that marks the beginning of a new lunar year, commencing sometime in January or February of the Gregorian calendar. Chaga is a word of Mongolian origin – tsagaan in Mongolian means ‘white’, and also ‘pure’ and ‘sacred’. Bairam is a Turkic word meaning ‘festival’, ‘celebration’, ‘feast’. Celebrations similar to Chaga bairam are described in literature from various parts of Inner Asia (Adrianov (1917) 1993; Galdanova 1983; Zhukovskaya 1988; Pakhutov 1989; Tsybikov 1991; Mongush 1992). They all include similar elements, such as cleaning the house and washing before the celebration; using food held over from autumn for this purpose; using white things (clothes, gifts, fabric, dishes); conducting rituals that involve the burning of food and sprinkling of milk and tea; building a small platform for offerings beside the house or at an offering place nearby; visiting each other; holding common meals and making ritual greetings. These elements are also present in the Telengit version of Chaga bairam. The Chaga bairam celebration is linked to the 12-year animal calendar, which is well-remembered in Altai. As Vera D’yakonova writes, the Telengit version of the calendar matches its Mongolian and Chinese counterparts (D’yakonova 2001: 159).

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The first year in the 12-year cycle is the Mouse year. The following years are Cow, Tiger, Hare, Dragon, Viper, Horse, Sheep, Monkey, Hen, Dog and Pig years. Both the name of the passing year and of the coming one can be mentioned in blessings (alkysh) during Chaga bairam. Every year has its features. For example, the Year of the Hare is considered a good and gentle one. The winter in that year is expected to be warm and the spring to come early (Ukachin 1998; D’yakonova 2001). Such features are discussed during the meals after the ritual conducted early in the morning. Moreover, as I show later, the characteristics of the passing and coming years influence the decision whether or not to celebrate Chaga bairam in a particular household. People start thinking about Chaga bairam in the autumn. They save some of the products made over summer (kurut – sun-dried cheese, byshtak – soft cheese, sarju – butter) in separate closed dishes, opening them on the day of Chaga bairam. The older members of the family designate the date of the celebration, taking into account the movement of the stars and other celestial bodies. The most important constellation in this respect is Üker (Pleiades), which is clearly visible in the evening sky from September to May. As Khangalov (1960; quoted in Galdanova 1983) writes, the movement of this constellation was very important also among other people of Inner Asia. Some groups of Buriats used to celebrate the beginning of the new year in September, precisely when the Pleiades, which are not clearly visible during the summer, appear again. Elderly Telengit people say that the new year begins in the month when Üker passes the Moon on the ninth day of a new lunar month. It is still winter time, but spring is already anticipated – sheep and goats will soon give birth, to be followed not long afterwards by the cows and other animals. The days become longer and the most difficult time of the year is almost over. Chaga bairam can be celebrated after the third day of a new lunar month and no later than on the fifteenth day, but the best period is between the third and the tenth day. The day before a celebration, a sheep is killed and the meat is cooked. Everyone gets ready for the celebration: people go to bania (a Russian-style bathing house), scones and breads are baked and milk vodka (araky) is prepared. Close relatives and neighbours are invited to participate in the celebrations on the following day. On the day of the celebration, just after the sun has risen, some stones are piled on the eastern side of the front yard and a flat stone is put on the top. They can be prepared the day before. Such piles, left after the celebration for several days, clearly mark the households that have celebrated Chaga bairam. The pile is usually called sa˘, as is the ceremony itself. However, older people sometimes call it tagyl.1 When a pile is ready, a few pieces of ödök or tezek (sun-dried sheep or cattle dung) are taken out from the house fireplace and put on the sa˘. Some dried juniper is put into the fire and people, many dressed in traditional coats and head gear, bring out big flat plates with food which will be burnt, milk, freshly brewed tea with milk and araky. The sa˘ offering is made to Altai as a whole, with all its dimensions and aspects united in the people’s praise. A space to the East of the sa˘-tagyl has to be kept clear, as this is the direction where the Sun and Altaidy˘ eezi will appear to collect people’s offerings.

Chaga bairam 113 The eldest and most respected person in the family, preferably a man, begins the ceremony. He sprinkles (chachyp) tea and milk and says a blessing (alkysh). Afterwards other people can chachyp and say their alkysh – either aloud or by themselves. There are certain verses, which appear in alkysktar (pl.) of many people.2 Erten chykkan Kün Jaiaachy E˘ir chykkan Ai Jaiaachy Ai Künim Altaiym Chök Kairakan!

Sun-Creator rising in the morning Moon-Creator rising in the evening Moon, my Sun, my Altai Chök Kairakan3!

Jyl bazhy chykty dep Jylan bazhy soiyldy dep Eski Jylys chykty dep Jany Jylys kirdi dep Alkap turus Altaiys Chök Kairakan!

Head (beginning) of the year is gone Head of a viper has lost its skin Our old year went away Our new year has come We bless our Altai! Chök Kairakan!

Ary körgön a˘kyldarym Beri körgön mö˘külerim Ada baalu yiyktarym Alanchyk aiyldu Altaiym! Chök Kairakan!

Looking there my landslides Looking here my icebergs My sacred mountains as precious as father As a wedding-house my Altai Chök Kairakan!

Ene baalu taigalarym, Edek tashtu sümerlerim Üzülbeiten ülesh bergen Tozulbaitan konok bergen

My hills as precious as mother My peaks with a stone hem Have given us never-ending Have given us every day of life

Agash-tazhy kuiak bolgon Chokyrap akkan kaan suuzy Kursak bolgon kutuk suuzy Archyn jyttu arzhan suuzy Bu oturgan albaty-jongo byian jetken Chök Kairakan!

Trees-stones4 were a shield Flowing khan water Well-water was a food Spring water with a smell of juniper Give byian5 to the people gathered here

Ary körgön a˘kyldarym Beri körgön sümerlerim Tash jakalu yiyktarym Tal jakalu sümerlerim Chök Kairakan!

Looking there my landslides Looking here my peaks My yiyk mountains with a stone collar My peaks with a willow collar Chök Kairakan!

Ak chachylga chachyp Aru sa˘y salyp Alkap turus Ere Chuiym Eki yiygysty Chök Kairakan!

Sprinkling white chachylga Laying down a pure sa˘ We are praising my Ere Chui With two yiyk mountains Chök Kairakan!

Chök Kairakan!

114

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Pale place let be yours Side of joy let be ours Chök Kairakan!

Balkashyla toidyrgan Baltyrganyla toigyskan Bai Altaiym chök Kairakan Sary aiu bastyrbaitan Jylan jyly kirbeiten Chök Kairakan!

Full of sand Full of angelica Rich my Altai chök Kairakan A yellow bear did not walk here A year of a viper did not come here Chök Kairakan!

Ailandyra turgan taigazy Emil sailu kuzuktu Ebire turgan taigazy Emil sailu kuzukty Chök Kairakan!

Mountains standing around With a healing nut Mountains surrounding With a healing nut Chök Kairakan!

Ak buludyn jabyngan Kök buludyn tözhöngön Kökörüni˘ kök yiygy! Sary chechegin jaiyltkan Sailukemni˘ sary yiygy Ene bailu taigalarym Edesh tashtu sümerlerim Chök Kairakan! Albaty-jonym bala barkanym Mal-azhym amyr jatkan kachanda Ebirein Ere Chuiym Ailanaiyn eki yiygym Koltygyna korodatkan Koiyna suktyrgan Ere Chuiym Chök Kairakan! Jaman körzö jailadar Kyia körzö kyiladar Chök Kairakan!

Muffled up in white clouds Laying on blue clouds Blue yiyk of Kökörü! Spread with yellow flowers Yellow yiyk of Sailukem Sacred as mother my mountains With a stone hem my peaks Chök Kairakan! My people, my children My cattle let (them) live in peace forever Around my Ere Chui Surrounded by two yiyk mountains Grieving under an arm-pit Hiding on a chest my Ere Chui Chök Kairakan! Takes away an evil look Dismisses a scowling look Chök Kairkan!

Afterwards everyone takes food from the plates, puts some into the fire, and bows in front of it (sa˘). Next, they go round the sa˘-tagyl (ailanar). At the end of the ceremony everyone stands behind the burning sa˘-tagyl, facing east, and bows deeply, which is accompanied by repetitive movements of open palms from one’s face down (mürgüül). In some cases, they kneel on the ground while doing it. Everyone tries food left from the offering (amzagar), people drink the rest of the tea, milk and araky. The sa˘ is still burning but everyone returns home and people greet each other. Younger people hold their hands with palms up and the older person puts his or her hands on top of them. This shows respect for the elders and

Chaga bairam 115 a readiness to support them if needed. It also expresses care and advice, which elders are ready to give to the younger people. Although nowadays everyone celebrates their own birthday, people remember that in the past this was the day when a year was added to everybody’s age. Greetings and best wishes, which people give to each other on the day, usually begin with a question: Kancha jashtu? – How old are you? One should name a number much higher than his/her actual age – even a hundred years or more. Such answers are greeted with pleasure and laughter. The most respected guests receive gifts – usually 3-metre long light-coloured fabric belts for men (kur) and shawls or table clothes for women. The celebration lasts all day long. The news that Chaga bairam is celebrated in a particular household spreads very quickly and people who want to give their best wishes to the hosts or enjoy good food, drink and company come and join the celebration. The next day everything returns to the usual routine, were it not for the fact that some other household is probably celebrating Chaga bairam. Invited guests and relatives gather in the other house, make a sa˘ offering and there is another day of celebration ahead. The Chaga ritual is composed of the same segments of action as the ritual performed at arzhan suu, which was described in the previous chapter. These include: sa˘, chachylga, alkanar, amzagar, mürgüül and ailanar. As in the previous case, the actual content of these segments is varied. Again, all the details are discussed, challenged and selected from a range of possibilities. Not only are the details of the ritual actions discussed, but the date of the celebration and the time of it are also explored. What is different and new, however, compared with the ritual at arzhan suu, is the political exploitation of Chaga bairam. In this context, the legitimacy of the very existence of Chaga bairam is questioned. It is also important to say that the Telengits currently celebrate two new years – Chaga bairam according to the lunar calendar, and New Year’s Eve according to the Gregorian calendar.6 While Chaga bairam is definitely a ceremony with a spiritual dimension, New Year’s Eve is about dancing, drinking and having fun. Nevertheless, in terms of the preparations, the food and the clothes people wear, there is much more attention given to New Year’s Eve then to Chaga bairam. Chaga in Kökörü is a domestic feast; New Year’s Eve is a communal one. Chaga bairam is local, familiar and ordinary; New Year’s Eve gives people a feeling of being part of something global and powerful. New Year’s Eve has a very clear structure, which is followed by everyone. Certain dishes, adopted from the Russians, are always served (zimnyi salat – potato salad, vinegret – beetroot salad, kotlety – chops, pielmieni – ravioli). Everyone meets in the House of Culture in the evening and gets back home just before midnight in order to eat, drink and listen to the speech from the President of the Russian Federation on TV.7 Afterwards everyone goes back to the House of Culture and the dancing begins again.

Chaga bairam in Kökörü village The earlier description of the Chaga bairam celebration is just what the national ideologists would like to have – a clear, step-by-step manual of how to celebrate

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Chaga bairam. But in fact it is still not detailed enough for them. I talked about sprinkling milk during the ceremony – but how many times it should be done? Alkysh should be said by an elderly respected man – but by whom exactly? Should people kneel at the end or not? Clearly, when it comes to actually conducting the celebration, people do so in many different ways. Moreover, as with the ritual at a sacred-healing spring, analysed in Chapter 4, so here there are discussions and disagreements which form an integral part of the process of preparing and conducting the ceremony. In Chapter 2, I suggested that the location of Kökörü in Chuidy˘ bazhy, that is, near the source of the Chui River, gives a special significance to this place, and through the place to the actions of the people living there. Living at the origin (Russian – nachalo; Telengit – bazhy (lit. a head)) of Ere Chui places upon the people of Kökörü a special responsibility. This is not only the place where the river begins. This is the place, where everything begins. Quite a few families from Kökörü celebrated Chaga bairam during the Soviet times too. Not only the herders living outside the village and less exposed to surveillance, but also people in the village celebrated it. People remember that, at that time, it was usually carried out very early in the morning, exclusively by the eldest members of the family. Each household organized its sa˘ ceremony separately. There are also quite a few families who started celebrating Chaga bairam only at the beginning of the 1990s. Kökörü is known as the place where spiritual life has always been important, where there have always been shamans, turguzu (vessel for spirits) on the walls and, probably most importantly, knowledge about wandering spirits and eeler of the places. On the other hand, the religious practices and Telengit customs were not as much forbidden as ridiculed by Soviet propaganda and the Soviet education system. In the 1960s and 1970s, it was not an offence for an ‘ordinary’ person (i.e. not an official) to talk in Altaian in the town or to wear a traditional winter coat. However, such behaviour was laughed at and ridiculed. For those people who began celebrating Chaga bairam in the 1990s the most difficult thing was to get over their own embarrassment and psychological stumbling blocks. Such ritual actions as sprinkling milk and tea (chachylga) or making blessings (alkanar) seemed ridiculous even to them. They felt uneasy while sprinkling milk around, putting food into the fire or praising mountains and sacred springs. It took them a few years to feel at ease while performing ritual actions. One does not have to celebrate Chaga bairam. There are certain moments in an individual’s life when it should be celebrated; there are also moments when it is forbidden to celebrate it. People who should celebrate Chaga are women who, according to the 12-year cycle, were born in the same year as the passing year and men who were born in the same year as the coming year. It is said that for women exiting ‘their’ year it is a dangerous moment just as it is for men entering it. Everyday problems can also influence the decision about the feast. If there is lack of food or some members of the family living outside the village cannot come, it may happen that Chaga will not be celebrated that year at all by a particular

Chaga bairam 117 family. If there was a death in the family during the past year, it is forbidden to celebrate Chaga. Strong feelings towards late members of the family may lead towards a total abandonment of Chaga. For example, Chynchai Samunov, an elderly man from Kökörü, has not celebrated Chaga since the death of his first wife several years ago. Marfa Sakhilianova, an elderly lady from Kökörü, has not celebrated Chaga for some years either. She said: I am sick, I have only one eye, I do not have children any more, they have all gone away. I live with my daughter and they do not know how to celebrate Chaga. I celebrated it before, when I was healthy and I had both eyes. There should be a positive atmosphere when celebrating Chaga – people should feel like doing it, they should be in the right mood for it and they should have everything ready to make it a pleasing day. Choosing the day on which to celebrate Chaga bairam can be difficult. First of all, as in the case with a journey to arzhan suu, people do not talk about it much before the day. They accept that they have only a very limited control over their lives. Things can happen that are beyond their influence. These include events as obvious as natural calamities or as subtle as a bad mood, both of which are viewed as being beyond a person’s control. For activities as important as celebrating Chaga bairam, everything should be just right: food should be prepared, relatives should gather and everyone should be in the right mood for a celebration. It is better not to do things about which you feel uneasy. Hence, as one never knows how things will be in a week or two, it is better not to plan. The date of a Chaga bairam celebration relates to the length of a lunar month and the movement of celestial bodies. This movement can be observed and also checked with the help of calendars. It is common knowledge in Altai that the Chaga celebrations should not begin before the third day of a new lunar month. Still, there is often a discrepancy between what people say they should do and what they actually do. Arriving in Kökörü in the last days of the old lunar month I was just in time to celebrate my first Chaga bairam that year with the family of an elderly Kökörü shaman (kam), Aryman Kuralbaevich Konstantinov. The day he celebrated Chaga bairam was aidy˘ arazy. Ara means ‘between, just before’, while ai means a Moon. Aidy˘ arazy would mean then ‘just before the moon’ or ‘between the moons’ and accordingly it is interpreted as the last day of the old month or the day in-between the lunar months. This day is the most dangerous of all days. The world is full of körmöstör (evil spirits), who can kidnap people’s souls (jula). People avoid beginning any new activities on this day, let alone beginning the whole year. Children are not allowed to exit a house after dark. No celebrations, weddings or trips are planned for this day. Still, this was the day when the shaman celebrated Chaga bairam. Some people thought he must have miscalculated the day; others were saying that as a shaman he had his own special ways of doing things. Another explanation was given by the shaman’s wife, Ajike Sandykovna Konstantinova. She said that

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some of her ancestors came from Khalkha (i.e. Mongolia) and that someone among them was nama, that is, a person who received some education in a Buddhist monastery. She said that Chaga on that day is a tradition of nama, which was continued in her family, although they did not call themselves Buddhist (Burkhan ja˘du). Studies of Chaga bairam celebrations in Mongolia show that the last day of the old year there is marked there by various ritual actions (Galdanova 1983; Zhukovskaya 1988; Pakhutov 1989), which differs from the Altaian tradition. What is more, kam Konstantinov belongs to Irkit söök and the majority of Irkits now living in Ere Chui are descendants of people who arrived there from Tuva. Kam Konstantinov’s parents arrived from Tuva themselves. This may strengthen the interpretation of his wife, as Buddhist and shamanic traditions in Tuva have strongly influenced each other. Chynchai Samunov, an elderly man from Kökörü, said that his father used to celebrate Chaga on the very first day of the new lunar month, when the Moon was not yet visible. His father was known in the village as a nama, who had spent three years in Mongolia studying in one of the Buddhist monasteries. No one was quite sure if this day should be called aidy˘ arazy or if it was the very first day of a new lunar month. Still, the very first day of the new lunar month, when the Moon is not yet visible, is also not a proper day on which to celebrate Chaga. The method of determining the beginning of the lunar month is not easy to fathom. This issue was discussed the next month during a meal after a Chaga bairam ceremony in the house of Taberek Koiotovich Erlembaev, a son of a well-known kam who used to live in Kökörü. His Chaga bairam was organized on the same day of the lunar month as the day kam Konstantinov organized his celebration, but a month later. The discussion was very calm as nobody wanted to spoil the atmosphere of the celebration. It was also calm because it was the only Chaga I have attended that was celebrated without a drop of alcohol. During the discussion the discrepancy between the Telengit way of calculating the beginning of a new lunar month and the beginning of a new lunar month as indicated in the wall calendars became apparent. Based on the calendars, the beginning of a lunar month is always one day earlier according to those Telengits who watch the movement of the celestial bodies. Hence, people who consult a calendar would celebrate Chaga a day earlier than that calculated according to the Telengit system. If, as in the case of kam Konstantinov and Taberek Erlenbaev, they plan to celebrate Chaga on the very first day of a new lunar month, they would actually be celebrating it on aidy˘ arazy. Not only the day but also the month of the Chaga bairam celebration is a matter of debate in Kökörü. Initially, when I arrived in Kökörü at the end of December to celebrate the beginning of the Gregorian year 1999, the family with whom I was staying declared that they would celebrate Chaga bairam in February. However, when I returned in mid-January, the celebration in our household was being reconsidered because it was clear that half the village were going to celebrate Chaga bairam in January. The arguments for celebrating in January centred on the fact that some respected elderly people were insisting that Üker would pass the Moon on the ninth day of that month and that to hold Chaga in the

Plate 5.1 Family Chaga bairam in Kökörü.

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second half of February would delay it unduly. Arguments for celebrating Chaga in February centred on the fact that February is closer to the beginning of spring when the days are getting noticeably longer. The official Chaga bairam in the Republic, as advertised in the national newspaper, was to take place in February. Nevertheless, after some hesitation, Chaga bairam in our household was celebrated in January. Jondy˘ Samunov, a respected elderly man from Kökörü, said that in the valleys around Kökörü it was always like that. People living in Ene jany (the Side of Mother) of the Boroburgazy River (see Chapter 2) used to celebrate Chaga bairam a month earlier than people from Ada jany (the Side of Father). This tradition was carried on in the village after collectivization. Hence, the celebrations of Chaga bairam are held in Kökörü in the first two quarters of two consecutive lunar months. I have heard that in the village of Beltyr 1 or 2 families even celebrate Chaga bairam in December. In every household where Chaga was celebrated, the sa˘ ritual was carried out in a slightly different way. The sa˘-tagyl itself, for example, was commonly constructed of various materials. I have seen sa˘-tagyl made of a log, bricks or even an empty barrel. On the top were stones, bricks or iron plates. Although people knew that sa˘ should be offered on stones, they did not pay much attention to this. Some people went round the sa˘-tagyl at the end of the ceremony, some bowed while kneeling on the ground, while in other households people stood. Some people sprinkled milk (chachyp) in all directions, others would omit sprinkling towards the west altogether. Guests attending the ceremony in a particular household for the first time often commented on these particular differences. People noted them with interest and viewed them as the ja˘ of particular families (Plate 5.1).

Communal celebrations of Chaga bairam in Kökörü The communal celebrations of Chaga bairam in Kökörü are a recent addition to the ritual practices in the village. The first of these celebrations was organized in the mid-1990s, after the establishment of the Republic of Altai and the encouragement from new republican authorities to revive Altaian traditions. Nevertheless, the legitimacy of communal celebrations is questioned, as I discuss in the next two parts of this chapter. In February 1999, two communal celebrations of Chaga bairam were held in Kökörü:8 one at the primary school and the other organized for the whole village. In 1999, the director of the secondary school in Kökörü decided that, unlike previous years, Chaga bairam would not be organized there that year. Some elders had warned her that a school was not a proper place for Chaga and any ritual misconduct could have serious consequences, bringing bad luck to all the participants. As this was the year when the primary school had been separated from the secondary school, teachers from the primary school decided to celebrate communal Chaga bairam there. They were aware that not everyone in the village

Chaga bairam 121 approved of this, but they wanted to mark the opening of the new school and, after discussions, decided that they would celebrate Chaga bairam. The ceremony took place in front of the school. A few older people were invited to lead the ceremony, to say alkysh and make chachylga. Every class, led by the teacher, prepared the offering and every class made it a little bit different in certain details. Some classes split into two groups of boys and girls, who made offerings separately; some went around the sa˘ at the end of the ceremony and some only bowed facing the east. After the offering, there was a concert in the school, and children played Telengit games: tebek, kuresh, kazhyk. They seemed to be genuinely interested and involved in the ceremony. Chaga bairam is one of the important subjects taught during classes on Telengit culture organized in the school, and care is taken to explain its meaning to the children. A few days later Chaga bairam was celebrated in Kökörü as a whole-village event. It had been organized in several previous years, but that year the ceremony was to be special. In previous years the people who had organized the ceremony were the employees of the House of Culture. In January 1999, the leaders of clans (söök) who had been elected the previous year (see Chapters 1 and 2), took over the organization of the celebration. For the people of Kökörü it was a significant change. The leaders stressed that this time it would be a real, properly organized Chaga. The leaders of sööktör (pl.) were all respected people, some of whom professed to know the traditions very well. Although, as always, there were discussions about the time and the place of sa˘ offering, and the individual authority of each clan leader was questioned, as a group they were trusted on the matter of Chaga bairam. The people working in the House of Culture were quite relieved to get rid of the responsibility of organizing Chaga bairam. Most of them were women and although women do lead religious ceremonies devoted to Altaidy˘ eezi on many occasions, there is still a feeling that the proper person to do this is always a male elder. In this case, people conducting the celebration were middle-aged men, respected and powerful in terms of authority and, in some cases, in terms of economic influence. Still, the head of the House of Culture, Sonia Kraevna, and the head of village administration, Mariya Nikolaevna, took part in the planning meetings when all organizational matters for the Chaga were decided. The actual sa˘ ceremony was left to the clan leaders, who decided between themselves when the ceremony would take place, who would say alkysh and who would bring food and drink for the offering. Sonia Kraevna was responsible for organizing the sporting events after the ceremony and a concert in the evening. The ceremony started at 8 o’clock in the morning. Everyone from Kökörü who was attending the ceremony were asked to stay some distance from the sa˘-tagyl, which was built next to the House of Culture on a little plateau on the eastern side of the village. Some of the clan leaders came on horseback and tied their horses to a specially erected pole. Some wore their traditional Telengit winter clothes. Among the people making the offering there were two who were not elected clan leaders. One was Aleksandr Ivanovich, a former librarian, a respected person, whose presence did not raise any objections. The other one was Batyr Byrchyevich, the head of the local collective farm, who joined the celebration

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despite some light-hearted comments from the village crowd, pointing out that he was not an elected clan leader. Nevertheless, people seemed to understand his reasons for standing with the people who were soon to assume positions of power and authority in the village and, after some jokes, left him in peace. On the eastern side of the sa˘-tagyl (made of stones), two willow trees had been stuck into the ground and a wool thread (jip) tied between them. The appearance of the place corresponded to the descriptions of Chaga bairam in herders’ camps in the past according to several older people from Kökörü. Approximately 150 people gathered for the celebration. They stood at a distance, watching the leaders making the offering. The celebration was started by Valerii Arymanovich Kontantinov, a leader of Irkit söök and a son of kam Aryman Konstantinov.9 He said the first alkysh, sprinkled milk and tea and put the first pieces of food into the fire. Afterwards, all the men who were gathered around the sa˘ did the same. Next, they attached jalamalar to the jip. Some tied them but others believed that the proper way is rather to pass them between the threads that form the jip. Altaidy˘ eezi does not like tight knots. Jalamalar were white, with light patterns, yellow and orange. Instead of fabric, some people used brightly coloured (green and yellow) threads. When the main ceremony was over, Marya Nikolayevna (the head of the administration) and the wife of kam Konstantnov came closer and tied their jalamalar to the jip as well. After the ceremony, which lasted for about half an hour, the clan leaders went to the house of one of their members for tea. The rest of the villagers watched the sporting events and the concert in the House of Culture. The concert was organized as a form of competition between some sööktör from the village (Kypchak, Irkit, Sagal, Jabak). Such competitions have been organized in Kökörü and other villages since the early 1990s on various occasions. Every söök had to give a brief description concerning its origin, details of their sacred places, animal and tree. Every söök had to present one kelin, that is, a young woman married into the söök, who was wearing a traditional costume, and was asked some questions about Telengit customs. What otty˘ baiy do you know? How should you behave in front of your kaiyn? What are baiy of kindik ene?10 How should one behave at arzhan suu? Afterwards every söök took 2 or 3 turns at singing, dancing, dramatizing sketches or playing instruments. Everything was judged by a jury made up of employees of the House of Culture and teachers. The leaders soon returned and in their meeting they discussed several issues concerning their future work in the village. One of the most interesting issues was their approach towards organizing Chaga bairam in the future in Kökörü. The general conclusion was that the way people celebrate Chaga bairam in the village at present was disorganized. Half of the village celebrate it in January, the other half in February. This has the result that the beginning of a new year is spread over almost two months. It was resolved that next year Chaga would be celebrated in February and that those in the village who wished to celebrate it would organize their private sa˘ over one week. As Boris Dilekov, a clan leader of Tonzhaan söök said, what people need nowadays is unity, and their job as the leaders is to organize things. They also discussed the issue of head gear for the people making sa˘ offering. Altaidy˘ eezi does not like any tyrmaktu a˘ clothes, that is those

Chaga bairam 123 made of skins and the fur of animals with claws. Hence, high caps worn nowadays by many people, which are made of fox paws, are not suitable for the ceremony. In addition, the high cap was considered Altai-kizhi headwear and not a Telengit one. Hence, the leaders decided that they should stick to their own Telengit traditional clothes. It became clear from this that the people of Kökörü were annoyed by the attitude towards them of the people from other districts, and especially from the town. On one hand, they had always been praised for their observance of traditions and spirituality; on the other hand, they were ascribed certain attitudes which they did not fully accept. They began to feel that they were being pressed to conform to an outsider’s image of Kökörü as a spiritually powerful place rather than being allowed to create this image themselves. This was almost the first thing I was told by one of my friends when I arrived in Kökörü in July 2000. The year 1999–2000, when I was away after finishing my year of fieldwork, was full of events, with people coming to Kökörü for various reasons and trying to convince local people of this or that approach. The breaking point was a celebration of Chaga bairam in 2000, after which the Kököru clan leaders decided never again to allow people from other districts to have a say in issues concerning the spiritual life in their village. The following outline of the events of the 2000 Chaga bairam was related to me by my young friends from Kökörü. The district Chaga bairam was organized in 2000 in Kurai village. The celebration was very well organized, everything went well, and the people who attended the ceremony praised it afterwards. Nevertheless, the television company of the Republic of Altai was not present during this ceremony. Instead, they went to Kökörü to take part in the village Chaga celebration there. One of the most dedicated propagators of Buddhism in the Republic is Altaichy Sanashkin, a journalist working for this TV company (see Chapters 1 and 3). He brought with him to Kökörü some Altaian Buddhist apprentices, who currently study in one of the monasteries in Buriatya. My friend from Kökörü reported what happened next in a letter to me: The Buddhists came to our Chaga and asked for permission to take part in it [and were granted it]. However, they then began to beat the drums and produce all sorts of weird sounds, and as a result all the people became really angry with them. It was shown in the TV broadcasts afterwards as if Kökörü wants to build a datsan and pray in a Buddhist way. I was also told that biler ulus (knowledgeable people) from Kökörü said afterwards that Altaidy˘ eezi was so scared from all the noise made by the Buddhists that he did not attend the ceremony. His displeasure could bring serious misfortune and even death to the village. Hence, in May 2000, a special ceremony headed by kam Aryman Konstantinov was conducted close to Kökörü village. During this ceremony, kam found out that another ceremony is also necessary, with an offering of a yellow sheep (sary koi). This offering was made during the sa˘ ceremony before El-oiyn festival in July 2000. The two communal ceremonies that I attended in Kökörü in 1999 show an important shift in the local interpretation of Chaga bairam. At the beginning of

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the 1990s the celebrations of Chaga bairam were organized either by the House of Culture or by the school. Chaga bairam stood on the same level as other events organized by these groups. In the Soviet times, the House of Culture in every village was a part of a centralized hierarchical structure, which was responsible for organizing ‘cultural entertainment’.11 The regional centre (Gorno-Altaisk) received materials and instructions concerning the organization of cultural events from the higher administrative level (Altaiskii Krai), which in turn received the main guidelines from the appropriate organizations in Moscow. The guidelines were passed on to the district centres, which distributed them to the villages. As a result, each House of Culture organized a certain number of events on the same topics each year. In the 1990s, when the Republic of Altai separated from Altaiskii Krai, the ‘processes of national and cultural revival’ (see Introduction and Chapter 1) came to shape public life in the Republic. Still, the old structure of the Houses of Culture as well as that of the school system continued the organization of ‘cultural entertainment’. Some events stayed the same, but some have been gradually replaced or supplemented by events with a ‘national’ and ‘traditional’ label, such as inter-clan competitions or celebrations of Chaga bairam. Some employees of the Houses of Culture, as well as some teachers, told me that initially everyone was delighted that events based on local traditions were to be introduced into village or school life. However, after a few years, the appropriateness of central organization of these events by Houses of Culture or schools came under scrutiny from the people. The Soviet approach of organizing ‘culture’ centrally as entertainment caused the people to argue that Chaga bairam, being part of their spiritual experience, should not be channelled through the same organization that prepares clan competitions or New Year’s Eve parties. Although both the latter events are important to people, and belonging to a clan is an important part of identity, the events do not require spiritual involvement. By contrast, the sa˘ offering, which is the crucial part of Chaga bairam, relates to the presence of Altaidy˘ eezi and can influence people’s well-being. Although, as shown earlier, the details of ritual actions can differ greatly, the offering itself has to be performed responsibly and by appropriate people. Neither the school nor the Houses of Culture are places that should accommodate such an event. This is why the village sa˘ ceremony is no longer the responsibility of the House of Culture and has been handed over to the clan leaders. The entertainment part of the feast (sports events and a concert) remains the only part of the celebration in the hands of the House of Culture. The celebration in the primary school was still held, but the sa˘ ceremony itself was conducted by respected village elders.

The variety of practices: Chaga bairam elsewhere in Ere Chui In every village of Ere Chui there are families who celebrate Chaga bairam, but nowhere is it as popular as in Kökörü.

Chaga bairam 125 In Beltyr, people organized Chaga both in January and February. Moreover, Isaak Demidovich Sablakov, an old man from Beltyr, told me that he used to celebrate Chaga in December. There are few families in Beltyr who make a sa˘ offering in the front yard of their houses, which is different from Kökörü. Most of the people who celebrate Chaga bairam do so within their own houses, making an offering of food, milk, araky and tea to the home fire only. They are aware that this is not how things used to be done – in earlier days, when people lived apart in neighbouring valleys, they conducted Chaga bairam in what were considered pure and clean places outside the villages. After collectivization, some families continued to conduct the celebration in the village, but gradually fewer and fewer of them had the courage to do so. The main reason behind the gradual abandonment of Chaga bairam was not Soviet persecution but the attitude of the people themselves. The elders were concerned about conducting a ceremony in such a polluted place as a village, where körmöstör (evil spirits and spirits of the dead) could get the offerings instead of Altaidy˘ eezi. According to some older people, the final straw came in the 1960s when a famous and powerful kam from Beltyr, Sergei Tutushev, forbade the making of a sa˘ offering inside a village. People think that his advice was related to the notion that the souls of dead people were no longer accompanied to the Lower World by a shaman, as there were not enough powerful shamans left. Instead, the souls of the deceased stayed in the Middle World and walked, sat and ate together with people. A place full of the souls of dead people would not be visited by Altaidy˘ eezi. On the contrary, the offering would attract evil spirits, whose presence would, in turn, bring misfortune to the living. A similar explanation for the abandonment of the sa˘ ritual within the village was given to me by several people in Kurai. Still, in Kökörü nobody mentioned such an issue. This might be due to the general picture of relations between humans and between humans and non-humans in each village. As we saw in Chapter 2, the social relations in Kurai can be perceived as unstable and the social environment as insecure. It is a comparatively new village, where there is little sense of community and people live in fairly closed and small circles of family and friends. At the same time people are frightened of any relations with spiritual beings. They rarely consult shamans or other spiritual specialists for they feel uneasy about such contacts and claim that, once initiated, such contact must be maintained for the rest of the person’s life, as the spirits require constant attention. Once established, the relationship with non-humans cannot be broken. Because of that, people prefer to avoid them altogether. It makes them oversensitive to their presence and extremely careful about any kind of involvement with them. In Kökörü the situation is very different. Both at the level of human–human and human–non-human relations the situation is stable. There are obviously sympathies and antagonisms in the village, but people easily recognize themselves as a community. During village gatherings the House of Culture is always full (in Kurai it was difficult to gather enough people in order to elect the head of the village administration) and there is a sense of common identity and belonging.

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At the same time, although fear and respect for spiritual beings is present, people do not avoid contact with them when it becomes necessary. Their relation with non-humans is in fact the important part of their lives, which is dealt with more easily because of the presence of spiritual specialists who have always been active members of the community. In Beltyr, although people seem at ease with the landscape and their place, relations with other people are maintained mainly along kinship lines. People seem secure and at ease, but they are quite cautious about engaging in any kind of relations that are outside their normal paths. The atmosphere of suspicion, which is characteristic of Kurai, is not present in Beltyr. Still, people are very careful about what they do and what they say. The same attitude applies to their relations with non-humans: their respect for ‘other worlds’ is great, but it does not stop them from having contact with spiritual beings. I would argue that while people in both Beltyr and Kurai are wary about performing Chaga bairam in the village and next to their homes, this should be interpreted differently in each case. In Kurai, the general insecurity in social relations and lack of community spirit in the place have resulted in rejection of all relations with the unknown and potentially dangerous world of non-humans. People try to leave it out of their lives altogether. It may also explain why it was so difficult for me to talk to people in Kurai about the spiritual dimensions of their lives. Usually they denied its existence altogether. There is great fear in this village – fear of fellow villagers, who all come from unknown places, fear of strangers, and fear of the unknown, spiritual world. This also helps to understand why accusations of tarma (witchcraft), which I mention in Chapter 2, meet with much stronger disapproval and fear here then in other villages. Tarmachylar (witches) are despised everywhere, yet, in Kurai, people are really scared of them and labelling someone a witch is treated very seriously, whereas in other villages such accusations would be met with laughter. In Beltyr, the world of non-humans is a part of people’s lives. It is not present and recognized almost everywhere and in every moment – as in Kökörü – but its existence is identified and accepted. This is the village where elderly people remember many generations of ancestors for every person in the village (see Chapter 2). It is also the place where people were quite enthusiastic about the ‘national and cultural revival’ of the 1990s, which was aimed at underlining kinship and clan ties. I have never seen as many family and clan trees drawn by people themselves as in Beltyr. Thus, since relations between humans should be clearly organized, so too should relations between humans and non-humans. Therefore, people of Beltyr are careful about any possible misconduct and misinterpretations of relations with the world of spiritual beings, which is nevertheless a legitimate part of their lives. The situation in these three villages illustrates how different experiences of place, of the history of social relations and of kinship structure are important in understanding such complex phenomena as Chaga bairam. Relaxed and selfconfident Kökörü, respectful and modest Beltyr and suspicious and scared Kurai as communities shape the individual reactions and interpretations of the people.

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Complexities of the communal In the early 1990s, the communal village Chaga bairam was organized for the first time in the House of Culture in Beltyr, which is considered the best establishment of this type in the district. However, from the outset, some people did not approve of this. My friend told me that her father forbade her to take part in the ceremony or even come close to the place, which stood in the middle of the village. In such an impure place, all kinds of evil spirits gathered and they could kidnap the soul of a living person. The authority of the person leading the celebration was also questioned, as were the kinds of words she used for blessings and the construction of the sa˘-tagyl in the form of an iron tripod. Unfavourable gossip spread in the village and after just one celebration the employees of the House of Culture decided to abandon a communal sa˘ celebration altogether, organizing only a clan competition and a concert in the evening. As noted in Chapter 2, some families in Kurai came to the village from the upper reaches of the Chui River and others from the lower reaches. This division is well-remembered and holds much significance. Generally, all the families who celebrate Chaga bairam (in whatever form) have come to Kurai from the upper reaches of the Chui River. For example, Nikolai Sindinov’s parents were from Kökörü and he celebrated Chaga bairam with neighbours who went outside the village to a small hillock, where he made an offering. While Nikolai Sindinov had been celebrating Chaga bairam for many years, there were also people in Kurai who had began to celebrate it only in the 1990s, encouraged to do so by articles in the national newspaper Altaidy˘ Cholmony and the general atmosphere of ‘national and cultural revival’. One such person is Oirot Kurtin, a middle-aged man. He first celebrated Chaga bairam in the first half of the 1990s and described it in the following way: Under the Soviet rule we could do nothing of our own things. It was forbidden to believe in our own God, it was forbidden to believe in God at all! Still, we believed secretly. And now, nobody forbids this, quite the contrary, now they teach us to believe. I have celebrated Chaga for two years only. The first year we did not quite get the point, but from the second year it was OK. And we will celebrate this year too. [A.H. – Do you lead the celebration?] Yes, of course, as I am the head of the family! I should ask for the well-being of my family, for future generations. I am responsible for that myself. On the wood log, a fire should be lit carefully, and juniper should be added and food and whatever I have. And I should go around and worship nature, to begin with the God and end with a master of my home fire. The youngest is the master of a home fire. Russians have a domovoi; he lives somewhere in the cellars, I do not know. But in this house a master is in this fire . . . I should address the God at the beginning, then a master of nature, i.e. Jerdi˘ eezi, then lower and lower and at the end – the fire . . .

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Ritual and knowledge I will do it slowly, in detail. Master of the mountain, save me! – I will not say anything like that of course! For the blessing I will ask in the end, for his help, to stop misfortune, to keep everyone alive and healthy. To keep well-being, affluence.

Oirot Kurtin showed me a special folder in which he had gathered several newspaper articles concerning Chaga bairam. When he decided to celebrate Chaga bairam in the mid-1990s, he had absolutely no idea how to go about it. Because he lived in Kurai village (not in Kyzyl tash), which was Russian-dominated till the late 1980s, he turned to newspaper publications and books as a guide. He compiled words of praise (alkysh) using Altai Alkyshtar, a book published in Gorno-Altaisk (Tolbina 1993). He expressed clear ideas about the hierarchy of spiritual beings, and compiled his alkyshtar according to this principle. This sharply delineated hierarchy is not used by the elders in the Kosh-Agach district, and his approach towards Chaga bairam and to the Altaian religion in general is clearly influenced by recent developments related to the processes of a ‘national and cultural revival’. The communal Chaga with a sa˘ offering was organized for the first time in Kurai in the year 2000. On at least two occasions prior to this, the employers of the House of Culture organized a council of older people from Kurai to discuss the question of celebrating Chaga bairam in a communal way. These meetings took place in the mid-1990s. The respected and well-known biler-kizhi (knowledgeable person, sometimes also referred to as kam) from Kurai, Kura˘ Olchonova, had a very important say during these meetings. She thinks that the sa˘ ceremony carries a lot of responsibility. It has to be done properly, at the proper time, in the proper place and by the proper person, using proper words and with a properly built sa˘-tagyl. She was against organizing the communal celebration in the village. Still, in 2000 it was Kurai’s turn to organize a district Chaga bairam. The employees of the House of Culture were ordered to do so by the Department of Culture from the district centre. At this moment the local discussions on Chaga bairam, which until then had always resulted in a negative decision, were confronted by the centrally generated requirements of the ‘national-cultural revival’ movement. Local people feared that an improperly conducted Chaga bairam would bring misfortune to the people both by offending Altaidy˘ eezi and by attracting evil spirits. In Kurai people hold a strong notion that sa˘ should not be conducted inside a village. For some of them, the idea that such a pure and powerful spirit as Altaidy˘ eezi would come to take an offering near the threshold of a village house was inconceivable, as it was an impure place. An offering should be made outside the village, on a hillock, where people usually do not go. Still, the elders could not agree where such a place should be. Maimash Dyurekova, an elder from Kurai, described the situation in the following way: During Chaga bairam you have to address the God (Kudai) and you need a proper place for that. Still, if you go to Mezhelik, it is the West. Ak Turu – it is also the West. There [to the South – A.H.], it is also forbidden, it has to

Chaga bairam 129 be in the direction of a rising Sun. We discussed this question in meetings, we wanted to celebrate Chaga bairam together, to purify Altai. To make a big feast. In Beltyr people worship, hence we also wanted to do this. In Kökörü – they have also done a beautiful celebration for so many years now. If you make a sa˘ offering, Altai purifies, Altai Kudai softens. We wanted to do it in Kurai too, in the same way as in Beltyr and in Kökörü. Still, we were told that there was not a proper place for it in Kurai. When they showed a Kökörü celebration on TV it was very pleasant to watch. People worship their Altai, they address their God during Chaga bairam. Still, we do not have a proper place in Kurai. Everywhere here there are tombs, people began to bury their dead everywhere, they started to dig the ground everywhere, spoil everything, these mines, they spoil the ground of course. And they dig the ancient tombs, the kurgans. While Maimash Dyurekova was pleased with the Kökörü celebrations, other people criticized the way in which people there celebrated Chaga. The building of sa˘-tagyl was criticized – in the TV broadcast not only a communal sa˘-tagyl made of stones was shown but also wooden and iron ones of private celebrations. The use of iron was criticized as it was symbolically related to the Lower World. The use of wooden logs was also criticized. I have heard some people in Kurai saying that only kara kamdar, that is shamans having relations with the Lower World and hence being dangerous, were allowed to make offerings on wooden logs. The place of the celebration, very close to the village, was also criticized. Yet, for many people from Kurai, Chaga bairam was not just their feast – it was viewed as a tradition belonging to the people from the upper reaches of the Chui River. People from different villages know what is happening in other settlements. They know about the republican celebrations from articles in the Altaian newspaper and from TV broadcasts. Sometimes they learn about events in other villages from the same sources. Chaga bairam ceremonies in Kökörü, for example, were widely featured in Altaidy˘ Cholmony and on Altaian TV in the 1990s. In addition, there are the Houses of Culture, schools and village administrations, which are still governed in a centralized way. Hence, for example, employees of Houses of Culture or teachers meet regularly in the district centre and know what is happening in the region. People from different villages meet quite often in the district centre while shopping or dealing with administrative matters. Gossip and news can spread easily and people are able to compare what happens in their villages with events in other places. Since 1993, a district Chaga bairam has been organized in turns in various villages, according to a schedule prepared by the Department of Culture (Otdel’ Kul’tury) in Kosh-Agach. Each year prior to day of the celebration, there is a lot of discussion concerning various details of its organization. In 1996, Chaga bairam was to be organized in Mukhor-Tarkhata. The head of the collective farm (kolkhoz) in Mukhor Tarkhata was Filip Olchonov, the son of the famous biler kizhi from Kurai mentioned earlier, Kura˘

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Olchonova. Although Kura˘ Olchonova was very displeased with the very idea of a communal Chaga bairam, she decided to minimize the anticipated evil outcomes of the improperly organized ceremony for the people in her son’s village and agreed to lead the celebration. The decision to invite her was accepted in Mukhor-Tarkhata before the celebration, as she was considered a powerful spiritual specialist. She decided to separate the religious part firmly from all the concerts, sport games and parties, which are a necessary part of communal celebrations in Ere Chui. It was she who chose a place for the sa˘ ceremony on a hill on the eastern side from the village. She led the ceremony herself, very early in the morning, allowing only nine elderly people to follow her there and make an offering together with her. The celebration was recorded on video from a distance by a local person. She chanted alkyshtar (blessings) and prayed on her knees, bowing in front of the rising sun. She has a very powerful voice and the celebration was very impressive. Only after the ceremony was completed and she was back in the village, did the festival begin, with the usual sports and a ritual sliding down from a hill, which brings luck for a coming year. Still, after a few weeks, disagreements resurfaced and mutterings about the celebration began to spread over the district. Many of the misfortunes that struck the people of Mukhor-Tarkhata the following year were attributed to the fact that the ceremony was not conducted by local people, but by someone from outside. There were also accusations about mistakes in the actual performance of the ritual. I attended the district Chaga bairam in February 1999, which took place in Chagan Uzun. As in Kurai in 2000, it was the first communal celebration of Chaga organized in this village. The sa˘ ceremony, conducted by Oirot Undylganov, kös körör,12 involved very few people. There was no communal walking around the sa˘-tagyl nor any bowing in front of it. Some people stood on the eastern side of the sa˘-tagyl, that is with their backs towards the rising sun. The ceremony was followed by a concert and sports in the main square of the village and in the local House of Culture. Everyone, including officials from the district centre and foreign guests (i.e. myself), was asked to slip down an artificial shute made of snow in order to ensure good fortune for the coming year. I visited Chagan Uzun for the second time in May of the same year. As expected, the Chaga bairam was still being discussed and commented on. Generally, people were not pleased with the sa˘ ceremony. I was told that the family of Oirot Undylganov had faced a series of misfortunes, which was seen as having a direct causal link with certain mistakes he had made during the ceremony. I also learned that it was the first time Oirot had conducted Chaga bairam. He had never even performed it in his own house before. When the House of Culture, village administration and a collective farm13 from Chagan Uzun realized that it would be their turn to organize Chaga, first they asked Sovet Sablakov, a respected elderly man, to lead the celebration. He refused, as he is a widower. A person to lead the celebration, should be a married man, the head of a fortunate family. It was on this basis that Oirot Undylganov was asked to lead the ceremony. He himself was pleased with the way it was conducted: he said that

Chaga bairam 131 he saw eeler (master spirits) of the places and that they were pleased with the ceremony. But still, the negative gossip spread over the region. Post-factum judgements like these in the case of Mukhor-Tarkhata and Chagan Uzun are common and they follow all communal celebrations. As in the case of a ritual at arzhan suu (see Chapter 4), although agreement is eventually achieved at the moment when a communal ritual has to be performed, it is fleeting. Very soon afterwards, criticism and disagreements return. Humphrey and Laidlaw (1994) have discused the issue of making ‘mistakes’ in Jain puja ritual, drawing on the distinction made by Searle (1969) between regulative and constitutive rules. Constitutive rules are the those which create a field of action (a context) while regulative ones constrain the action within this context. Hence, if one makes a mistake by, for example, incorrectly placing a fruit in front of an idol during puja ceremony, one still performs a ritual and mistakes do not influence the outcome of the ritual, as only ritual acts count as puja. The Telengit case is different. One could say that discussion is a constitutive feature of the existence of a ritual in the Telengit case. The ritual always encompasses some actions, which some would considered to be ‘mistakes’, but is still counted as having been performed. Some of these mistakes can be interpreted as having an impact on the outcome of the ritual. If someone performs a Chaga bairam offering incorrectly, it is still a Chaga bairam offering; however, in contrast to the Jain puja case, these mistakes are not neutral, but instead can be dangerous. Incorrectly performed Chaga bairam can be a source of misfortune for a given community. The difficulty in the Telengit case lies within the tension created by the requirement for disagreement, which is a manifestation of a preference for processual knowledge (see the following chapters), and a fear of making mistakes, which might influence the outcomes of the given ritual in undesirable ways.

Chaga bairam in the Republic of Altai The search for an all-national celebration, which would unite all Altaians, has been a concern of Altaian intellectuals since the mid-1980s. The first such celebration to be organized was El-oiyn (lit. national games). El-oiyn is viewed essentially as equivalent to the Soviet athletic games (spartakiada) but where international sporting competitions are replaced by national ones.14 It also involves religious acts, as the eezi of the place has to be asked for permission to organize a festival. Still, although it is an important festival in terms of promoting national unification, it does not carry with it the potential for religious and political interpretation that the Chaga bairam provides. It is generally recognized in the Republic that it is the Telengits who claim Chaga bairam as their own traditional celebration. For other contemporary Altaians, there is an ongoing discussion on the subject. Nowhere is the Chaga bairam celebration as widespread in private households as in the Kosh-Agach district. The advocates and opponents of Chaga bairam cannot agree if this is a matter of forgetting or a matter of non-existence. The question is: have the people

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from other regions of Altai forgotten about the celebration or has it never been celebrated there at all? It is probably not possible to answer this question nowadays. Still, the potential of Chaga bairam as a unifying force constantly draws the attention of the Altaian national leaders. Chaga bairam is a celebration that can be looked at from various angles. As the point marking the beginning of a new year, which is defined by the movement of the Moon and the stars, it is related to many Altaian practices. In political terms, this can be used to emphasize the differences between Russian and Altaian ways of life. At the same time, it provides an alternative link to Altaian–Russian political connections, that is the states and nations of Inner Asia. The use of a solar–lunar calendar, of which Chaga bairam is a part, places the Altaians among the nations of Inner Asia with a different history, culture and political framework to that of Russia. Chaga bairam has both an internal and external power. While offering the potential for an internal unification, it also gives an opportunity to link a unified group with a broader community. In addition, it can be also viewed as a Buddhist celebration which gives Chaga bairam a prominent place in the ongoing political and intellectual discussion concerning the religious future of the Republic. The Buddhist associations in the Republic are extremely interested in the development of Chaga bairam as a national celebration, stressing its ancient origin and deep religious symbolism. Moreover, while it can be interpreted and perceived as being deeply religious, it is nevertheless accessible to people who are not much concerned with religious issues. They are free to interpret and accept Chaga bairam as a secular feast and perceive it simply as a marker for the beginning of a new year. On account of this, Chaga bairam remains the focus of popular debate. On the one hand, there are many people who support the organization of Chaga bairam in the town, and who actively prepare TV and radio broadcasts about Chaga bairam in villages and newspaper articles so as to provide guidelines for its organization (Kortin et al. 1993; Ukachina 1993; Shumarova 1997; Tadina 1999). On the other hand, there are people who oppose the celebration of Chaga bairam and claim that it is a tradition alien to the Altaians. During the Second Kurultai (assembly) of the Altaian Nation (see Chapter 1), which took place in February 1999, Dr Valentina Aleksandrovna Muytueva, a lecturer at the University of Gorno-Altaisk and the author of books on Altaian religion (Muytueva and Chochkina 1996; 2004) made a speech in which she criticized Chaga bairam as entirely incompatible with the Altaian religious life. According to her, the feast is organized when it is still winter, hence Altaidy˘ eezi is asleep and can neither hear people’s prayers nor take their offerings. If people bother him then with their prayers and bows, he can become angry and the celebration can turn out to be more dangerous than beneficial. The advocates of Chaga bairam replied that Altaidy˘ eezi is not a bear that hibernates in winter. Yet despite the ridicule that met her pronouncements, it is important to realize that she raised an issue that does exist in the internal discussions in the Republic. The organization of Chaga bairam is a political question, related closely to religious life in the Republic and to political claims for belonging to a broader community of Inner Asian and/or Buddhist countries.

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Unification The unification approach emanating from the towns is starting to reach the villages, including Kökörü – the heart of Chaga bairam. People are starting to rethink the way in which their old feast works and, as we have seen earlier, are beginning to consider implementing some changes, which, in my opinion, could alter the internal structure of their activities. Certain ideas which have been slowly introduced – like the idea of national unity – influence their way of thinking about what they do, but a direct confrontation with their practical implementation often causes clashes. Earlier, I have described the case of Kökörü, where the clan leaders were planning to unify the way in which the people of Kökörü celebrate Chaga bairam. The strict codification of Altaian rituals, which is constantly attempted and, so far, never achieved by various intellectual leaders, promises to have a significant influence on future Altaian ritual practices and, more generally, on the way in which they see themselves as a group. Kökörü is one of the most important places in the political struggle concerning national identity in Altai. It has a unique position as Chuidy˘ bazhy – the source of the Chui River. It also has Mongolian and Tuvan connections through the ancestors of some of its people, and a powerful spiritual atmosphere. Since my very first trip to Altai, I have been hearing from some intellectuals in Gorno-Altaisk about strong Buddhist or Ak ja˘ traditions in Kökörü and about the past existence of a Buddhist monastery or temple there. Still, while the fact that some people from valleys close to present-day Kökörü used to travel to Mongolian monasteries and receive education there is beyond doubt and is important to local people, the existence of a Buddhist place of worship has not yet been proven. What is important is the attitude of people regarding their homeland as either a Buddhist or a non-Buddhist place. Generally, Kökörians do not consider themselves Buddhists. For them, Buddhism is a Mongolian and Tuvan ja˘. What is more, they are tired of being on the one hand praised for their persistent attachment to spiritual life and for their preservation of celebrations and knowledge that have been forgotten elxewhere, while on the other hand being taught how to perform rituals and how to believe in a ‘proper’ way. This was very visible during preparations for the national games festival El-oiyn, which took place in Kökörü in the year 2000. As always before huge communal gatherings, there is a need for a special sa˘ ceremony in order to ask Altaidy˘ eezi for permission and blessing for the event. Such a ceremony was thus planned before the El-oiyn in Kökörü. Still, even in the programme of the festival it was stated that the ceremony would be held on top of a mountain by elders from Kökörü. I was told that in fact the elders and clan leaders from Kökörü had already conducted a ‘true’, ‘real’ sa˘ ceremony several days before the beginning of El-oiyn, without the presence of anyone from outside the village. On the day of the official opening of El-oiyn, the second ceremony was held, including representatives from other villages and districts. I was also told that the second sa˘ was more a show for journalists and guests from abroad than a ‘true’ offering.

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What is the point of all these discussions and challenges that arise in connection with Chaga bairam? Where is the tension situated? How much of the answer is provided by explanations such as forgetting the rituals under the Soviet rule, having a communist upbringing or coping with current difficulties? What is the relation between a general description of Chaga given at the beginning of this chapter and the ways it is practised? The concept of Altaidy˘ eezi, and the relation between this concept and a newer concept of Altai Kudai as described in Chapter 2, can serve as a starting point for answering these questions. As was shown in earlier chapters, the concept of Altaidy˘ eezi encompasses one of the crucial relations in the Telengit way of life – a tension between unity and diversity. It is a metonymy, being at the same time one and many, partial and holistic. Every single eezi is at the same time a different and separate entity, with its territory, character, references, but yet one Altaidy˘ eezi. The similar relation can be seen in contemporary Altai in relation to the cult of mountains. The cult of each mountain is at the same time a cult of Altai as a whole. There is no barrier between them, people’s thoughts and prayers flow freely between the Altai and any of their local altais. Chaga bairam is structured in a similar way. At least for the district of Kosh-Agach it is a widely recognized celebration. Still, it is a subject of argument, discussion and quarrelling. I claim that these types of discussions and disagreements on Chaga bairam, as encountered in villages and not as communal celebrations, manifest the Telengit perception of the world. Just as the notion of Altaidy˘ eezi encompasses diversity without breaking unity, so Chaga bairam in this sense is diverse without compromising the unity of the group. Still, if we look at the notion of Altai Kudai, which is a relatively new concept that stresses unity of the group without differentiation (Muytueva 1990; Tyukhteneva 1995), we can compare it to contemporary discussions on Chaga bairam as a national celebration. In this situation, the diversity of Chaga bairam is explicitly denied and the attempts at straightforward unification are made openly. Chaga bairam becomes an object of contemporary processes, which can be channelled and recreated for certain purposes. Given that discourse on unity (national, cultural, religious) now permeates every facet of the contemporary situation in Altai, the differences in practising (or not practising) Chaga bairam at the communal level have become subjects of discussion. These discussions are qualitatively different from village arguments over practising Chaga bairam. In the former case, the disagreements are a function of the strive for unity in terms of creating a common national culture, which could be presented to the outside world as a clearly defined whole. In the second case the disagreements are a function of the Telengit perception of the flexibility of the world.

6

Ontology of the spirits

I began this book by arguing that the attitude to land forms a basis of Telengit and Altaian religious life. In Chapter 1, I suggested that the notion of ‘the Altaians’ should be understood through reference to the Altai – the land – as the name itself suggests. In this sense, the description of the Altaians as an ethno-national group, as described in contemporary Russian law and academic tradition, does not fully correspond to the way in which this group forms itself according to its members. We have already seen in this regard the attempts at including Russian old-settlers (starozhily) into the system of Altaian clans, based on the understanding that in some sense they have become Altaians through their relationship with the place – Altai. A similar understanding is apparent in the attitude towards leaving Altai (Chapter 1). In the case of the Kazakhs (Chapter 2), the Telengits argued that having once being accepted by Altai the Kazakhs could not live happily in Kazakhstan and were compelled to return to the Altai. In the contemporary situation, this approach to understanding personhood and group-belonging among the Altaians and the Telengits is not the only possibility. One of my main aims in this book is to show the intertwining of different ways of looking at the land, the person, religion and knowledge. In Chapter 5 we saw how national ideology influences the reshaping of one religious ritual. In the next two chapters we consider how different modes of knowledge coexist in Telengit religious practice. In this chapter I want to suggest an approach to understanding the Telengit way of looking at spirits. Apart from the importance of the land, the second component that I emphasize in this book is an idea of mobility. Movement is important both in its literal meaning (mobile pastoralism underlies Altaian and many other cultures of Inner Asia) and in its metaphorical extension. Just as to travel is as important as to arrive, so in local religious traditions the process of understanding as highly or more highly valued than the content of the knowledge gained. This valuation is reflected in the ways in which the local spiritual specialists work. The spirits with whom they communicate are in constant flow, they change their characteristics, they arrive and disappear, change their voice, appearances, moods and they are not easily predictable. The mode of existence of the spiritual and other beings important in Telengit religious life is the main subject of this chapter. In a general sense, I believe that the elaborately described cosmologies of Siberian shamanism

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(including the Altaian case) were generated to a large extent by researchers interested in questions relating to the classification of religious systems. Hence, the system was produced out of a flexible experience of spiritual specialists and other ‘animistic’ people. Why does one need a whole chapter about the spirits given that the changeable character of the Telengit practice has been already demonstrated through an analysis of their mode of travel, encounters with sacred places and ritual practice? Although I agree that the way in which spirits exist can be understood only through analysis of people’s practices, I find it worthwhile to extract from them the basic principles of the mode of existence of the beings important in Telengit religious life. This provides a gateway towards understanding contemporary changes in religious life and points towards the most basic source of conflict between Telengit religious practice and contemporary attempts at its institutionalization. The arguments and, at times, conflicts between various religious traditions in the Altai, although specific in any different case, are underscored by one basic difference: the difference that exists between institutionalized and noninstitutionalized religious traditions. This is why the contemporary attempts at introducing Buddhism, various institutionalized forms of Altai ja˘, or forms of Christianity (as briefly described in Chapter 1), all encounter similar problems. The two main sources of discrepancy between non-institutionalized and institutionalized religious traditions are: 1 2

the mode of existence of the beings important for a given religious tradition (which I call here ‘ontology of the spirits’); and the question of legitimacy and authority of spiritual specialists and their religious knowledge.

This chapter will deal with the first question; the second one I address in the following chapter.

Cosmology There have been many attempts on the part of various researchers to construct Altaian cosmology, from the early works of ethnographers and travellers (Potanin 1883; Radlov (1893) 1989; Verbitskii (1893) 1993; Anokhin (1924) 1994), through studies of Russian and Soviet ethnographers (Karunovskaya 1935; Sagalaev 1984b; L’vova et al. 1988; Potapov 1991) to the works of contemporary Altaian researchers (Me˘desh and Kanichin 1993; Muytueva 2004). The reasons for seeking such a construction are varied. While the early travellers, and especially the missionaries, would see the Altaian religious traditions through the prism of their own institutional religion (Christianity), the contemporary attempts at creating an ‘Altaian cosmology’ can be understood if we take into account the valuation of different approaches to religious life. When I tried to explain my position on the Altaian religious life to local researchers, we could agree on many details, but my claim that the Altaian beliefs do not form one ‘worldview’ and the

Ontology of the spirits 137 spirits cannot be seen as a part of a fixed cosmology, was regarded as offensive. It was as if having a clear system of beliefs, a clear-cut cosmology was better and more progressive than having a flexible approach to spiritual beings, to the land and to customs. The search for the Altaian cosmology goes on. In her recent book, Valentina Muytueva (2004), an Altaian researcher who has worked for years on the issues of religious life with very interesting, challenging and insightful results, still places her work within a general framework of worldview and cosmology. Although she makes challenging and interesting claims that are quite new within the Altaian and Russian academic traditions (such as that a question of the hierarchy of gods or spirits is not the right tool for the analysis), she still tries to fix the characteristics of particular religious personages. This is like saying that a religious life without a clear cosmological system is worth less than one with one. There is of course an issue here of sacred/secret knowledge. Perhaps the cosmology is being hidden from outsiders, such as myself, by local people; are the outsiders being deliberately misled into believing that there is no cosmology? Or perhaps I have not met the right kamdar (pl. shamans) and biler ulus (pl. people who know), or have not earned their trust? Perhaps I made a mistake by looking at people’s practices rather than searching for information among spiritual specialists? Why then have the attempts of Altaian researchers, activists and religious leaders, that is, those who would like to see an Altaian worldview and cosmology, all failed? Why is there no agreement among them even about what seems to be the most basic issues, such as: do Altaians have a main god? Is he a creator? What is he called? Do they believe in the afterlife and what does it look like? I would suggest that the multiplicity of answers to these and similar questions lies in the fact that the Altaian non-institutionalized religious life is based on flexibility and on immediate encounters with changeable worlds of beings, spiritual and others. In this case, a search for a cosmology, even the one ‘in the making’ (cf. Barth 1987) is rather an outcome of the researcher’s or activist’s agenda than a question resulting from his/her encounter with the local situation. Even if one leaves aside the contemporary influences of national ideology and institutionalized religious traditions in the Altai, there are still different modes of experiencing the spiritual beings, just as there are different modes of experiencing the landscape (see Chapters 2 and 3). In Chapter 3, I talked about chiefly and shamanic landscapes, with reference to work carried out by Caroline Humphrey (1995). In both landscapes the idea of movement is very important. In the chiefly landscape the acts of people can be viewed as attempts to reach towards some abstract power and fix its epiphanies in more or less clearly defined places. In the shamanic landscape the power is not experienced as coming from one source and the energy in each place is different, often unpredictable. The shamanic landscape relishes difference and the ability to change, while the chiefly one praises sameness and eternity. The division between the chiefly and the shamanic can be extended to the question of religious life. On the ethnographic level, the religious concepts that are related to the Altaian clan structure work differently compared to those

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relating to individual encounters with spirits and to the practices of spiritual specialists such as kamadar. There is one crucial distinction, however, between my approach and that of Humphrey. Like Humphrey, I relate the practices and concepts of the chiefly type to processes of group formation and durability, and the shamanic ones to experiential encounters. However, I argue that in the Altai in both cases these should be understood with reference to the essentially unreachable power, which, as I explain later, I choose to call ‘the occult’. The relative stability of the chiefly concepts, in contrast to the shamanic ones, stems not from the lack of reference of the latter to one source of power, but from the concern of the former with issues of group stability and their unification.

The occult In one of his early works, Alfred Gell, drawing on a paper by Fortes (1966), developed an idea of ‘the occult’, which he saw as being ‘those aspects of homogenous reality which seem to bespeak a hidden articulating power, inaccessible in itself, but manifest in its effects’ (Gell 1974: 20). Furthermore, he did not view gods, spirits and disembodied powers (as mana) as being identical to ‘the occult’ per se, but as images or manifestations of it. Using Gell’s own terminology from his later works, I would say that spirits, gods and powers are indices of the occult (Gell 1998, 1999). The occult then can never be fully known, grasped or understood. Gell goes further by saying that spirits and deities, ‘being products of the human mind, are knowledgeable absolutely while it is of the essence of the occult that it is not known, that it cannot be grasped in itself’ (Gell 1974: 20). I agree with Gell on the nature of the occult, but if we treat the spirits and gods as indices of this hidden power, they can be known in a very specific sense only. ‘Index’ comes into being at the intersection of two agencies – one is the manifestation and the other is the perceiver. If one takes the most used example of an index, that is, smoke, one can see that the index is between the source and the perceiver. As the occult is essentially unreachable and unknown, the index exists in a particular shape and with particular conclusions concerning its source only as far as it is perceived. Only the occult exists independently, but it cannot be reached as such. The spirits and deities, as indices, are diverse because they come into being in interaction between the occult and the person who aspires to have some knowledge of them. The result is that the images of spirits are not rigid – they are indices of something else, coming into being here and now for a particular perceiver. I argue that this is how the Altaian spirits exist. Some aspects of Rudolf Otto’s work, although based on Christian and European tradition, contain a similar idea (Otto 1928). The Holy in his work is also unreachable; it is ‘out there’, and although it cannot be defined in positive terms, once encountered it evokes certain states in people. Gell’s occult is also somehow ‘out there’, and it can be seen in manifestations which are nevertheless not identical to the occult per se. The occult, as the Holy, remains mostly unreachable and unknown. It could be said that in comparing Altaian notions with the conclusions of Otto’s work, which is rooted in Christianity, I commit the same mistake as the

Ontology of the spirits 139 early researchers of the Altai, indeed the very mistake I have accused them of. I have to be clear then, that my comparison refers only to the unreachable Holy or the occult. Telengits say that ‘there is one God in the Sky’; but my comparison stops here. The images of the God, the saints, the angels, seraphines and cherubines of the Christian cosmology are precisely what differentiates institutional religions from the Altaian religious life. The indices (gods, spirits, angels) that became fixed in the process of institutionalization and creation of the Christian church with its dogmas and hierarchies, did not undergo such a process in the Telegit religious life. They are still indices at the intersection, coming into being only through the experience of the presence of the occult in particular situations. In his work Otto emphasizes the transcendence of the Holy. If I use his concept for comparative purposes, I should ask further what the position of the occult is in relation to transcendence and immanence. I find it useful that Gell’s occult, through the notion of enchantment, can encompass both immanence and transcendence. Enchantment is a mode of presence in the world that is evoked by the influence of the occult. This means that the occult is neither permanently transcendent (‘out there’) nor immanent (embedded in things and phenomena). Enchantment as a manifestation of the occult suggests that immanence and transcendence can be seen as aspects of the same phenomena. Max Weber, in his comparison of Judeo-Christian and Asian great religions (cf. Kronman 1983), emphasizes a difference between the Judeo-Christian God as transcendent creator and the deities of other religions as immanent in the world. He also stresses the contradiction in Christian theology which sees God as a person and at the same time as an entity that is basically different from any human being. The question remains open: Where is deity? Inside or outside a human? Inside the world or outside of it? In Weber’s interpretation, the Judeo-Christian tradition is situated in the realm of ‘the God outside the world’. The world is disenchanted and divine power comes into it from the outside. Hence, the separation of the sacred and the profane is, in these ideal terms, quite possible. In other religious systems where, according to Weber, the divine power is immanent in the world, this separation would be more difficult, as the world as a whole is enchanted. The idea of enchantment is helpful in the analysis of the Telengit situation. When Telengits talk about various kinds of spirits, shamans, masters-spirits of places and also about Altai, there is an immediate change in their tone of voice, body language, and the atmosphere of the conversation. Thus enchantment and disenchantment should be viewed as interchangeable modes of presence. At any given moment, enchantment may appear and change the aura of the place. There is no distinct realm, no people and very few places, which are constantly enchanted. The potential for enchantment is a quality of beings, of everything eelü – everything with energy or power, as we saw in Chapter 3. In summary, what makes itself available for knowing are indices of the occult. Their presence (always linked with enchantment) marks what I call a spiritual aspect of life. The occult should be understood as a potential for enchantment and the existence of spirits. The Telengits seem to perceive and acknowledge the

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existence of this essentially unknown realm, but its unreachability does not mean that this is transcendent. The land itself is a powerful source of enchantment.

Modes of existence of the spirits The spirits are not available for knowing by everyone in the same way and on every occasion. The most important and general difference is the one mentioned earlier between chiefly and shamanic modes of religious life. As can be seen from the earlier literature on Altai (e.g. Tokarev 1936) and from contemporary Altaian publications (Bayankina and Maskina 1993; Maskina 1993; Pakhutov 1994) there is at least one area where it seems that the spirits have more or less fixed images. These are the religious and spiritual concepts, which are related to the clan structure of the Altaians (see Chapter 1). Each clan is known to have its own sacred mountain, tree, animal and a being called tös Valentina Muytueva (2004: 18) writes that tös should be translated as an ancestor, a basis or a root and argues against translating this term as a god. She argues that tös stands for a sacralized beginning, the origin of the clan and, in some cases, a personage who acquired that status of clan protector. There are many discussions in the literature concerning which particular tös is the protector of which clan and which animal or tree is sacred to which clan. They were briefly summarized by Muytueva (2004). Also, during contemporary clan festivals and in newspaper publications, one can see many tables or graphs presenting the clans, their sacred objects and protectors. There is little agreement between these tables and it is not clear if the protector of, for example, the Todosh clan is Karshit or Ülgen. What is important for my argument is not to enter into historical, linguistic and ethnographic discussions about particular tös names and the character of their attachment to particular clans. More important for me is the fact that the tables giving their names are repeatedly produced, and not only by researchers who try to introduce some order into the often confusing and contradictory statements of their ‘informants’. The production of such tables meets with the interest among the ‘informants’ themselves. Whereas in other contexts (e.g. travelling through the landscape, going to a biler kizhi, visiting arzhan suu) the experience of hearing, seeing and generally sensing the presence and the moods of spirits comes to the foreground, in the context of clan structure the clear-cut images and relations between people and people, spirits and people, spirits and spirits become the prime interest. Hence, however difficult it is to give the answer as to who protects whom and who should worship whom or what, with reference to the clan structure there is a concern with stabilization of these relations. To keep with the terminology introduced with regard to landscape by Caroline Humphrey, I say that these relations encompass a chiefly mode of existence of spiritual beings. Yet, the contemporary religious life of the Telengits takes place most often without reference to the chiefly mode. If we leave aside influences of institutionalized religions (the institutionalization of spiritual knowledge is the main theme of the next chapter), the shamanic mode becomes dominant. I keep the term

Ontology of the spirits 141 ‘shamanic’ in order to follow the terminology of Caroline Humphrey, but it is important to underline that it is not confined to the activities of the shamans. Kamdar (shamans) are only one group among many other kinds of spiritual specialists in the Altai. Moreover, this term relates to the mode of existence of the spirits and other beings visible in the practices of the people, who do not lay claim to any sort of spiritual knowledge. In the next section I am concerned with this mode.

Knowing the spirits Ol biler and ol o˘dop jat – these two Telengit expressions can be translated respectively as ‘s/he knows’ and ‘s/he understands’.1 They can be used in everyday speech, and also in relation to spiritual knowledge. For the Telengits the worlds of spiritual beings are perceived as distinct, but not separate from the world of humans. As I argued earlier, the transcendent and the immanent are not exclusive. In Janice Boddy’s (1989) words, people and spirits occupy one physical space, but different, though interpenetrating, realities. The events in one reality can cause effects in another one. Managing the events in which the spiritual realm is involved does not lie within the competence of everyone. ‘People who know’ (biler kizhi) manage them through a process of understanding. This is possible because these people have extraordinary sensual abilities, through which their understanding is mediated. The process of understanding is highly individualized. It is widely accepted that, because each ‘person who knows’ has different sensual abilities, what they know must differ. Hence, a coherent and unified knowledge about the spiritual world (or spiritual worlds) can exist neither on an individual nor on a social level. This follows both from the acknowledged constraints of the process of understanding, which cannot be claimed to be either full or certain, as well as from the character of the spirits themselves, who are indices of the occult. Hence, the spiritual worlds are not fixed and waiting out there ready to be known. First, every ‘person who knows’ is conscious of the limitations of his/her understandings (it is one of the reasons why they so often refer their patients to each other). Second, the understandings of various biler kizhi do not add up together, hence all the attempts at creating a coherent ‘cosmology’ out of bits and pieces of information derived from different biler kizhi are bound to fail. The knowledge cannot be essentialized and distilled from the process of acquiring it. The Telengits do not seem to look for coherent wholes and unified systems in the realm of spiritual life. In this context, biler in a spiritual sense would mean to recognize and understand the causality of events. Uchurlu means literally ‘with a meaning’.2 It implies that there is something beyond the immediate appearance of the phenomenon, which should be accounted for. In some cases, the fact that the event has a meaning can be recognized immediately by people, although the meaning itself can remain hidden. On the other hand, there are also events that are not recognized immediately as bearing a meaning. In this case, both the presence of the meaning and its content are hidden.

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For example, if a horse bites a stirrup, it is immediately recognized as a meaningful (uchurlu) event by the Telengits. They also know that this is a sign of a future misfortune for the owner of the horse. Still, they know neither the cause of this misfortune nor the nature of it. The exact meaning of this event must be exposed by biler kizhi, that is, ‘a person, who knows’. A person, whose horse bites a stirrup, goes to a biler kizhi, whose explanation may refer to various things. For example, Dimitri, a young man from Kökörü, was told that his horse behaved in this way because he should become a shaman. This was the final sign that if he did not begin his training as a shaman (kam), he would die. Still, the biting of a stirrup can also have a different import. An understanding given by a biler kizhi can refer to another meaningful event, whose significance was not immediately recognized by the people. Meeting a single goat in the steppe might or might not be recognized as a meeting with an evil spirit – körmös3 – rather than with an innocent animal. This event can be, post factum, remembered by biler kizhi and linked with the biting of a stirrup.4 Then it would be explained that körmös, who was met disguised as a goat, is now after the person who met him, although he was not recognized instantly. Hence, what we have here is a sequence of two meaningful events. The first (meeting a goat) was not immediately recognized as meaningful, while the second one (biting a stirrup) was recognized immediately as carrying a meaning. The next question is how the biler kizhi finds out the meaning of the event and how he or she determines which events are meaningful. Generally, biler kizhi is a person who can perceive cause – effect relations between things and events that are not recognized by bilbes ulus – people who do not know. The special area of biler kizhi’s extended perception is what I call the spiritual dimension of life, especially the worlds of spiritual beings, which are not perceived sensually by everybody. Every biler kizhi learns about the spiritual reality through his or her own, varied, individual means. What reaches the people are indices of the occult, mediated through the individual abilities of every single biler kizhi. Abilities of biler ulus to know the spiritual realm are conceptualized as extensions of the senses – including the sense of intuition. Hence, there are people in Ere Chui who can hear more than others – kulak ugar (lit. a hearing ear). They can hear spirits talking and they can hear the sounds made by their movement. They can talk to the dead and they can hear the masters of places – eeler. In some cases, this special ability to hear is limited to one kind of spiritual beings only. For example, there are people who can hear dead people, but cannot hear eeler. The same applies to kös körör (lit. a seeing eye, also called kösmekchi), who can see the souls of the dead and/or eeler. There are also yrymchy – people with presentiments or premonitions – who can predict future events. Ol biler and ol o˘dop jat mean that the person has ways of accessing and understanding the cause–effect relations in the world. This experience is embodied (in Merlau-Ponty’s sense); the individual sensual characteristics of biler kizhi are crucial in this process of understanding. The spiritual world is an index of the essentially unknown realm (the occult). What a biler kizhi knows are these indices, which appear in the process of understanding, and which is attained

Ontology of the spirits 143 through the individual experiences of people with special sensual abilities. Hence, it is no surprise that the things that a biler kizhi knows are so diverse. It has to do both with a process of understanding and knowing and with the way in which spiritual worlds are. Biler ulus (pl.) do not only know about spirits, but they also can communicate with them. Apart from eeler (pl.), masters-energies of places, the most often evoked category of spiritual beings is körmös. Körmös is the spirit of a dead person. While comparing different expressions related to the human soul, Baskakov and Yaimova (1993) conclude that körmös is a non-material aspect of the dead person.5 They divide körmös into aru (pure) and jaman (bad) that are, respectively, aspects of a good person and a bad person. They also conclude that jel salkyn is a material counterpart of aru körmös, while üzüt of jaman körmös. I see a difference between their conclusions and the way in which the Telengits use these terms. It may be because the authors rely mainly on Altai kizhi material as well as sources from the beginning of the twentieth century. Currently, among the Telengits, the term has a much broader usage than that suggested by Baskakov and Yaimova. Körmös (sing.) and körmöstör (pl.) is a generic name of a broad category of various beings with ancestral origins (being the dimension of dead people), but this ancestral link is often experienced as remote and unimportant. Although körmös is seen as dangerous, it is not necessarily evil. Körmös can be placed in a house by a shaman to protect the inhabitants from other körmös, whose intentions are evil. These körmös-protectors have to be dealt with in a special way (through offerings) and should not be offended. A körmös does not like to be called körmös. This is not a respectful term and if talking about a particular körmös, which seems to be active in person’s vicinity at that time, one should use the term neme, which means ‘this’, a ‘(some)thing’, an ‘entity’. It is something that exists, but which cannot or should not be named. Usually körmös is referred to as kara neme, which means ‘something black (bad)’. A shaman’s helping spirits are referred to as körmös, and in this context this word is always accompanied by uneasy laughter or a lowered voice. The other word used to describe the helping spirits of a kam is kizhi – the word denoting a person. This is a respectful and openly used term. Kizhi is used both for dead people and for the living. The living person and the dead person are aspects of being a kizhi. Dead and alive are two aspects of the same entity. Hence, all of the helping spirits are kizhi. When I asked about turguzu,6 which are the material markers of the presence of the spirit helpers or protectors, people answered: ‘This is a person’ (ol kizhi), or more specifically, ol er kizhi or ol ui kizhi, ‘This is a man, this is a woman’. Some shamans also know their spirits as particular persons, with specific life-stories. The spirit-helpers of contemporary Telengit shamans and some other biler kizhi7 can be to some extent treated as extensions of their senses. From my conversations with biler kizhi it seems that presently it is very rare for the soul of the shaman (kam) to travel either between places in this world or into the Upper and Lower worlds. Instead, contemporary shamans send their spirit-helpers with

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orders to find out about situations in all sorts of places. In this sense, the spirits act as extensions of the shamans’ senses, seeing what they cannot see and hearing what they cannot hear themselves. In this interpretation, the spiritual knowledge of biler kizhi is not separated from their bodily experiences. Nevertheless, it must be underlined that in the case of shamans (kamdar) one should go beyond the interpretation of spirit-helpers as extensions of the shaman’s senses. The spirits are a part of the shaman’s person in other ways as well. They are what connects a shaman with previous generations, as the spirits are either inherited from ancestral shamans or they are the souls of previous generations of shamans. In this sense shamans are not separated from their spirits – rather, the spirits are an integral part of their personhood. Zoya Morokhoeva, in her analysis of personhood in Buriatya,8 emphasizes the concept of person as a relation (1994). Her approach to relation seems to share some common ground with Marilyn Strathern’s theoretical approach based on Melanesian material (Strathern 1988). In both cases there is a shift from looking at persons and things as entities towards looking at them as relations. Strathern claims that the relations of which a person is constituted partly eclipse one another. In his illuminating article on Strathern’s theory, Alfred Gell refers to her theoretical concept as a ‘fractal person’ (Gell 1999). Persons are seen as indices of existing gendered relations of exchange. The part of Gell’s interpretation of Strathern’s theory that resonates with Morokhoeva’s approach is an assertion that although relations are eclipsed, they are structurally the same – as in fractals, where the structure stays the same regardless of the level of augmentation or diminution. However, while Strathern analyses internal relations, that is, relations which constitute a person, that do not exist as an entity beyond them, Morokhoeva stresses the fact that a person cannot be distinguished either ontologically or structurally from its relations, and hence the distinction between external and internal relations cannot be made at all. Morokhoeva makes a general point that there is structural sameness between a part and a whole. Although both authors use similar concepts, the way in which they apply them is different. While in Strathern’s case a relation is seen in terms of exchange, in Morokhoeva’s case the emphasis is on a relation seen as a link. The important similarity, though, lies in the assertion that regardless of the character of the relation (or link) the structure of the part is identical with the structure of the whole. Moreover, what constitutes a part and a whole is relative and a whole is a part of the whole of higher order at the same time. Morokhoeva’s approach resonates with the Telengit situation. As understanding is a process, a person is also a process, coming into being through flexible relations. A person cannot be seen apart from these constitutive links. Morokhoeva, in the style of Soviet academia, tries to trace an ‘historical evolution of links’. First she stresses links with nature and the concept of person as an energy, which is structurally the same as ‘nature’ and its parts, followed by links with kin community and finishing with links with territory and finally all sorts of institutions (such as a state). While I think that it is useful to see a person in terms of relations or links, I also think that it is unnecessary to see the links changing in terms

Ontology of the spirits 145 of stages of evolution. What is most interesting is the multiplicity of relations present and active at the same time, which (and this is different from Strathern’s argument) cannot be eclipsed, because there are qualitative differences between them. A person is constituted through relations to kin, to landscape, to other energies within the world. It is commonly said in Ere Chui that Telengits cannot live happily outside Altai. They are happiest in Ere Chui, they would survive somehow in central Altai, but they would be miserable outside the Altai Mountains. Telengits are inseparable from them. As a person cannot exist without their kin (söök jok kizhi jok9), they cannot exist without their land. As we saw earlier, körmös is probably one of the most complex notions used by the Telengits. It can be understood as an aspect of the person, but the way in which this notion is applied suggests that when the link with a particular person is lost, körmös comes to be understood as a spiritual entity in its own right and as such should be treated as an index of the occult. Hence, in this section we are constantly moving back and forth between two intertwined groups of concepts, both best understood through a notion of relation. The first group includes the indices of the occult, such as eeler, körmös (in one meaning of this term) or some shaman’s spirit-helpers, of which not all are the ancestral spirits.10 The other is a group of concepts referring to the aspects of the personhood. I have argued so far that one aspect of personhood is the land itself. Moreover, these two groups (indices and aspects) are not exclusive; indeed in many cases only an understanding of a phenomenon or a being as both of these groups can lead to fruitful analysis. Such a case is körmös; another is süne. Süne or sünezin is a notion used most often by the Telengits as a straightforward translation of the Russian term dusha, which means ‘soul’. There is also a Mongolian word with a similar meaning. Baskakov and Yaimova (1993) claim that this is the most general Altaian expression for the soul and do not refer to it in their further analysis of other Altaian terms. Anokhin ((1934) 1994) writes that süne is an aspect of both animals and humans, but Verbitskii ((1893) 1993) says that it is exclusively human. In the contemporary Telengit language it is rather understood as an aspect of a human personhood, both of dead and living people. Potapov (1991: 55) says that some of his Altaian informants understood it exclusively as an aspect of a dead person, while others thought about it as an aspect of a dead or a living person. In any case, süne can leave a body and be seen by ‘people who can see’ (kösmekchi). After death it stays around until the final commemoration ceremony is done. Older Telengits sometimes forbid their relatives to conduct a commemoration ceremony a year after the death, because it keeps their süne around the places of the living for too long. It is clear then, that süne is an aspect of personhood. However, it is also an index of the occult. Wandering souls can be seen by people with special abilities and such events are interpreted as uchurlu – ‘with meaning’. If a süne is seen next to someone’s house, the person in question has a good reason to go to a biler kizhi to ask for divination and help, as he or she may be in danger. As in the case of körmös, süne as an aspect of personhood can be eclipsed by its quality as an index of the occult.

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The following notions denote only aspects of personhood and are never seen as denoting beings in their own right. When the deceased is about to be buried, the palms of the body are forced open and checked for the presence of a hair. If a hair is found, it is called jula. This is another aspect of personhood. When a shaman says that an illness is caused by a soul-loss, he refers to the lost soul as jula. A person can live without jula, but he or she becomes distracted, and sometimes loses the ability to talk. The person is alive but as if sleeping all the time. During a healing seance jula can reappear as a single hair and in this form is returned to the person seeking help. Radlov (1893: vol. II, 553) translates jula as an essence, an extract of the deceased. He also says that shamans can show the captured soul of an ill person in a material form. Still, Baskakov and Yaimova (1993: 11) claim that jula is a non-material aspect of a soul, which in some situations (as described earlier) can turn into sür (see below). Tyndu means ‘with a breath’. It refers not only to people but also to animals and plants. It literally means ‘breathing’ (Baskakov 1942: 164). Tyn is only an aspect of a living person, in everyday speech it means simply ‘alive’. Still, tyn can also be seen as separable from the body. As Potapov (1991: 33) writes, in Altaian heroic epics, the hero can hide his tyn in a safe place, away from his enemies. Sür is encountered also in the Mongolian language, where it denotes a powerful image, an appearance of majesty (Humphrey 1995). In the Telengit language sürlü would mean ‘with a proper, strong appearance’. Telengits use this word while commenting on photographs and pictures of people. However, it is not just an image, an outward appearance, but rather an embodied internal power. It is an impression that is made by a person. Baskakov and Yaimova (1993: 11) claim that sür is a material aspect of jula. Sür is an image of a person, which can separate off from the body and be seen in other places. Kut is a term used only rarely nowadays by the Telengits. They sometimes say kutty chykty, if a person is very frightened. Radlov (1893: vol. II, 990) translates it as a living power, soul or luck. It can also be understood as a potential for fertility. Üzüt is another word rarely used by the Telengits today. If they use it at all, they translate it into Russian as chert, that is, a devil. It is used in a joking manner, for example in reference to children who are naughty or dirty. Baskakov and Yaimova (1993: 13) explain üzüt as a kind of a wind, which is a materialization of a dead person, known to be evil. Contrary to üzüt and kut, which are mentioned often in the works of researchers but rarely used by the Telengit, sus (or suzy) has so far rarely been described, but it was used frequently by people during my fieldwork. The Telengits say that the suzy of children yet to be born are located in the fire. On the other hand, if someone is approaching a house and a host feels that this person is coming (although they weren’t informed about it beforehand) they say that the guest’s suzy has already come to the house. It is one of the reasons why any trip should not be planned in advance – in this case suzy may go there beforehand and be lost, if the trip is not finally completed. Potapov (1991: 62) analyses this term as foetus, nucleus or an essence having the potential for growth. Sus is probably best understood as the potential for full realization.

Ontology of the spirits 147 I choose to treat all these notions as denoting aspects of personhood. A person is a complicated network of relations and each of the aforementioned terms draws people’s attention to different relations that are important for humans in the process of life. They are intertwined with indices of the occult, which are products of the relation between the unreachable power and the aspects of the personhood of ‘people who know’.

Varieties of understanding Understanding the spiritual worlds is not limited entirely to spiritual specialists (biler ulus), and the verb bilip – to know – should be viewed as a relative one. Generally, Telengits talk as if the human world was divided into biler ulus and bilbes ulus – people who know and people who do not know. However, as its literal meaning (‘to know’) suggests, the term bilip (biler) may be used in various contexts. Many people can know (biler), but just a very few are biler kizhi. The term biler kizhi is not generally used to describe people who do not perform any rituals. However, other people can also have some sort of understanding of spiritual matters, although they are not called biler kizhi. What is more, even some animals can biler (know) – some dogs and horses can feel, hear or see what is invisible for ordinary people and for ordinary dogs and horses. However, nobody would think about such animals as being essentially knowledgeable. In some sense all the Telengits biler. People say that, in comparison to other nations, the Altaians (and sometimes the Telengits more than the rest of the Altaians) have a sharpened sensitivity to the presence of spiritual beings and realities. Virtually everybody has meaningful dreams and apprehensions. This is especially true for the village of Kökörü. People from other villages often say: everybody is a shaman in Kökörü! Though this is said metaphorically, they mean that everyone in Kökörü seems to have some access to knowledge about the spiritual worlds. However, although they biler, they are not biler kizhi. If in some sense every Telengit biler (knows), there are also people whose knowledge is more specific, but who also should not be called biler kizhi. I am talking here about such people as bone-setters or diviners. Somehow they are biler kizhi and somehow they are not, they just ‘know’ (biler). Their access to the ordinarily unknown is nevertheless more specific than in the case of all the Telengits. Among people who ‘know’, there are some who have meaningful dreams, some who hear sounds produced by wandering souls, some who can see them, and others who can foretell coming events. People with specific knowledge who are not considered to be biler kizhi ‘proper’ are listed below. It happens, for instance, that the same person may be syimuchy and tüschi, that is, has access to what is ordinarily unknown through more than one sense.11 1

Touch

Syimuchy Tuduchy

people doing massages bone-setters

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Kösmekchi (köspekchi, kös körör) people who see spiritual beings. They are invited to take part in funerals and commemoration rites in order to watch the behaviour of souls. Some of them can also see eezi, körmös and wandering souls. 3

Hearing

Kulak ugar people who can hear voices, steps, music and other sounds generated by spiritual beings of various kinds. 4

Intuition/apprehension

Tüshchi people who have meaningful dreams and can help with an explanation of other people’s dreams. Yrymchy people who foretell coming events. They can also feel the presence of wandering souls, although they cannot see them. There are also people who use additional non-spiritual means in order to get access to the unknown. Emchy-tomchy12 is the term for ‘healer’. In the past these were people who used various methods (including herbs) in the healing process. Nowadays emchy also means a physician.13 Apart from divination methods used by kamdar (shamans), there are three main groups of diviners. The first group divines with playing cards; the second group, kumanakchy, with 41 stones or beans; and the third group, jarynchy, read signs on the singed shoulder blade of a sheep ( jaryn)14 – a rare skill and considered to be difficult. There are also people who are conversant in certain ritual actions, and are asked for advice on them or to perform them on behalf of a family or other group of people. For example, alkyshchy knows blessings and can be asked to bless the fire during a wedding ceremony. There are people who know how to chachyp – sprinkle milk or tea. Other people know how to prepare jalama – strips of material to tie next to a sacred spring or at mountain passes. Others can alastap – purify, for example a house, with juniper smoke. However, these are all actions that can in principle be done by anyone. Preparing jalama or purifying a house with juniper smoke is a technical skill that can be mastered. It involves knowledge, but does not necessarily involve relations with the spiritual world. These are about mastering skills and not about having any kind of special abilities. However, in some cases these ritual actions can also involve ways of understanding.15 The best example is saying alkysh. Everyone can say alkysh; it is enough simply to memorize some stanzas. It is also enough just to praise using your own words, without any rhythm and poetry. Some people are skilled in memorizing alkyshtar heard from other people. However, the most valued are blessings said by people whose words, as Telengits say, ‘just flow’. Such alkyshtar appear during the ritual and cannot be easily repeated outside ritual contexts. The performer (alkyshchy) does not remember them afterwards. In this case, alkyshchy has a way of accessing the spiritual world and alkysh comes into being through his or her interaction with it. Saying an alkysh ceases to be a technical skill. It becomes a way of understanding the relations between things that are not ordinarily noticed.

Ontology of the spirits 149

Seeing more The main theme of Chapter 3 was an experience of the landscape through movement. Yet, the travels I described there were undertaken by people without any special sensual abilities that would give them distinctive access to the indices of the occult. The present section concerns the story of travelling through land as told to me by Akbala, a young kösmekchy from Beltyr. He told me about his encounters with spiritual beings at the outskirts of Beltyr. What follows are the stories about Beltyr and its places, and he emphasized many times that ‘you will hear various versions. It is obvious. People do not see these things in the same way. Everyone sees it differently’. At the herder’s camp called Komoi, Akbala saw a körmös, an old woman, who crossed the path in front of him. She never causes any harm to people; she just stops a person for a moment in order to have the path to herself. Akbala was travelling once on a motorcycle, when the engine suddenly died out. He looked up and saw the old woman crossing the path. When she had crossed it, the motorcycle could be started again. He saw her twice in this way. He thought her tomb must have been somewhere nearby and that probably a shaman had not taken her soul to the world of the dead which is why she still walks in this world and disturbs travellers. At Közhö˘ Chöl there is the dwelling place of a wolf-körmös, that is, a spirit that takes the form of a wolf. He is quite unpleasant, although not especially dangerous. When someone crosses the plateau on a motorcycle, he jumps on the seat behind the driver and goes with him up to the next üle, where he dismounts. Although he is not harmful, Akbala said that it is disagreeable to ride like this, knowing that the körmös is sitting right behind you. In Ak Köl (lit. ‘a white lake’) valley there is another turgaktu jer (see Chapter 3), where one can be stopped and made to fight with a körmös. However, a more dangerous place is that close to the village where people used to bury their dead. Recently they stopped doing this, as the place became too close to the growing village. Akbala has seen many souls wandering around there. The path next to Ogyrak köl (lit. ‘roaring lake’) is also dangerous. Two ancient-looking horse-riders frequently go this way. They ride backwards and forwards, disappearing somewhere in the direction of Kosh-Agach (the regional centre), then return and disappear in the mountains. When Akbala saw them, he did not know who they were. He asked the elderly women who lived in the part of the village closest to the path the riders took. He was told that they had been travelling in this way as long as the women could remember – they themselves had been told about them by older kösmekchy. The riders travel from the Tal Tura valley to Kosh-Agach and back. They might be ancient shamans, perhaps the ones who are buried in Tal Tura. However, nobody is sure. Akbala told me an interesting story about Ogyrak köl. He knows that the eezi of this lake is kök byka – a blue bull. This figure appears in the Altaian heroic epics, sung by kaichy. It has been described many times by the researchers, who associate this personage with the element of water and the Lower World (cf. Surazakov 1985). Sometimes people say that the roar of this bull can be heard

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coming from the lake. The lake is dangerous and many people drown there. Akbala knew the stories about an angry bull, who lures people into the depths of the lake, never to return. Still, he was not very much interested in such stories. For him, the lake was full of algae and the people were just trapped by these and drowned. What could be the roar of a bull is for him an effect of various gases, which produce roaring noises as they reach the surface of the lake. What is important for Akbala, however, is his own experiences of the spirits. The meetings with the old lady in Komoi or the wolf-körmös in Közhö˘ Chöl form the basis of his perception of the spiritual worlds. These are the indices of the hidden power, which come into being through his own encounters. He is less interested in the personages already fixed in the Altaian cosmology, which he can read about in books or newspapers. They acquire a different status, becoming part of the ‘Altaian culture’, which in this context is supposed to exist independently from anyone’s experiences of the spiritual presence in the world.

Searching for the spirits Some people can see eeler when they take the form of wild animals, usually a deer or a chamois. If people with special sensual abilities look at such an animal, they just know that this is not an ordinary beast – this is an eezi. Some people see meaningful dreams. There are some images that are commonly recognized as bad or good omens. For example, building a house in a dream portends the death of a person close to the dreamer, while seeing a piece of jewellery foretells the birth of a baby girl. However, most people claim to have their own, individual patterns, which are recognized as good or bad omens exclusively for them. More often than not, the spirits for the Telengits do not have fixed images. They exist here and now, appearing as indices of the unreachable power, mediated by the people, who, owing to their sensual abilities, are sensitive to their presence. The situation is complicated by the fact that the condition of kizhi (a human being) is also not stable, but at any given moment should be viewed as a composition of different aspects of personhood. Hence, the spirits are indices coming into being at the intersection between the essentially unknown occult and the complex personhood. The need for more or less fixed images of spirits comes to the forefront when issues of group stability and unification become of prime importance, as in the case of Telengit and Altaian clans and their spirit protectors. Such need also arises when flexible religious life becomes institutionalized. The processes of the institutionalization of religious life appear in the Republic of Altai in two related contexts. The first one is marked out by the influence of the national ideology; the second is formed through the encounter of the Telengit and Altaian religious life with the existing institutionalized religious traditions. The next chapter is devoted to a comparison of the characteristics of knowledge associated with two types of religious specialists: shamans and lamas.

7

Lamas and shamans

The analytical distinction between shamans and lamas is not new in anthropological writing. Modes of ritual practice and the religious knowledge of shamans and lamas have been presented as an axis of difference in several works (Ortner 1978; Mumford 1989; Samuel 1990, 1993; Mills 2003). The common premise of these works is the grounding of the analysis in the ethnographic material concerning regions where Buddhism has been firmly established and where there are Buddhist monasteries and communities. In such contexts the starting point of the inquiry has been the Buddhist practices and ideas. Subsequently, the questions asked concerned relations between Buddhism (as a dominant religion) and local shamanic modes of spiritual knowledge (often considered as more ancient; Mumford 1989). These relations were conceptualized in various ways, with interpretations ranging from presenting the situation as a conflict between two religious regimes (Mumford 1989), contestation and subjugation of the shamanic mode of religious life by the Buddhist one (Ortner 1978), and the actual production of local (chthonic) concepts and spirits through Buddhist rituals (Mills 2003). Although there is no doubt that Buddhism influenced the Altai for many centuries (cf. Saglaev 1984b),1 the Telengit situation is very different from that in Tibet and the Himalayas, which provided ethnographic data for the aforementioned works. The only lamas living in the Altai at the moment have been educated recently in monasteries in other part of the Russian Federation (mainly Buriatya). Moreover, there is no evidence of the past existence of Buddhist shrines or monasteries within the territory of the contemporary Republic of Altai, although there were Buddhist shrines, or even monasteries, in regions very close to its borders.2 Only very few inhabitants of the Altai in pre-Soviet times travelled to Buddhist monasteries in Mongolia (or perhaps Tibet) to receive training. Their children and grandchildren still live in the Telengit villages and remember the artefacts and practices brought by them. The elderly Telengits also remember peripatetic lamas, who offered their skills and advice to the people (see also Tadina 1994). In the mid-1990s several people admitted to finding Buddhist artefacts (sutras and Buddhist figurines) hidden in caves or high in the mountains. Nevertheless, Buddhism in the contemporary Altai is more an idea about a certain way of religious life, knowledge and authority, than a lived practice. Therefore, there can be no conflict, adaptation or recreation of shamanic spiritual

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experience in response to Buddhist ritual practice in the way described in the works referred to earlier. As we have seen in Chapters 1 and 5, the Telengits have had encounters with lamas in the flesh since the 1990s, but the presence of Buddhism, especially in the Telengit regions of the Altai, has so far been too weak to be described as a fully fledged encounter between two religious traditions.3 As the anthropological arguments are built to interpret ethnographic data, it is important to stress the shift of focus, which the Telengit situation has encouraged in this work. The implicit question in existing works on shaman–lama relations is: what does it mean for Buddhism to have to deal with chthonic spirits, as well as experiential and non-institutionalized religious practices? The Telengit material has suggested a different direction of study and subsequently a different question. Here the activities of shamans and other knowledgeable people (biler ulus) must be the main focus, while Buddhism remains an idea which local people have to deal with and against which they project the characteristics of the modes of non-institutionalized religious knowledge that pervade their own religious practices. Most importantly, the declaration of ‘being a Buddhist’ is viewed by the local people as an acceptance of a certain paradigm concerning religious knowledge and ritual practice. The figure of lama surfaces constantly in discussions on religion, both in the intellectual circles of the Altaian capital as well as among people in the villages, when discussing their own religious life. In these discussions lamas and shamans come to stand for two approaches to religious life. This chapter is an attempt to reveal the basic differences between these two approaches. It is important to remember, however, that in this discussion ‘shamans’ stand for a broader category of ‘people who know’. I use the two categories of lamas and shamans in order to ground the theoretical distinction in the ethnographic material. In the more abstract mode of writing, the opposition between lamas and shamans could be replaced by a differentiation between institutionalized and non-institutionalized modes of religious life and authority. By institutionalized religions I mean those that have an explicit system of determining spiritual knowledge as valid or non-valid, which leads to a discourse of inclusion/exclusion employed in order to clarify what belongs to a given religious system and what does not. It usually leads to the establishment of some sort of hierarchy of spiritual specialists, organizational structure and, last but not least, a canon of religious dogma. Moreover, as will hopefully become clear by the end of this and Chapter 8, the kind of difference between paradigms in which lamas and shamans work is by no means specific to this particular encounter. Rather, the argument is that on the paradigmatic level the encounter with Buddhism, other kinds of institutionalized religions as well as with the unifying ideology of the modern nation-state, can render similar responses and changes in the local, non-institutionalized religious traditions. My interpretation has much in common with the suggestion of Martin A. Mills, who offers a critique of earlier works and indicates where they differ from his own position. He writes: [t]raditionally, the cult of local deities has been relegated to the status of ‘folk religion’ by most analysts, and indeed it is usually regarded as interacting

Lamas and shamans 153 with Buddhist institutions in the matter of a corrupting or compromising influence. Such models of religiosity depend on the assumption that local spirit worship can be counted as a religious tradition of a comparable nature to Buddhism, and therefore their relationship is one of either contrast, syncretism or contestation. In what follows I argue that such an assumption is mistaken, and that local deity worship in Tibetan and Himalayan regions is part of a powerful (but largely implicit, or at least not textually formulated) cultural construction of the social and ritual capacities of humans, one which conceives of embodied personhood as a nexus of productive and reproductive relationships with local chthonic sources, embedded within the wide landscape in which the person is born. (Mills 2003: xvii–xviii) While I still use the adjective ‘religious’ to elicit the practices and concepts of the Telengits which are the focus of this work, I agree with Mills that this religious tradition is of a nature not easily comparable to Buddhism. The difference between Buddhism and local religious traditions concerns the very basis of what spiritual experience, authority and knowledge are about. In the light of what was described in Chapter 6, especially the conceptualization of the mode of the existence of spirits, I have to take one step beyond Mills’s interpretation. He shows how the local deities are an indispensable component of Buddhist ritual practices and conceptions of authority. In his work, the Buddhist monks, being themselves embedded in what he called a chthonic personhood, actively contribute to the production of the local deities. In Chapter 6 I have shown the interrelation between the concepts of Telengit personhood and the ontology of the spirits. Nevertheless, I argue that the very fact of stabilizing the spirits, fixing their images and naming them, points towards a paradigm shift that had already happened in those places where Buddhism (or other institutionalized practices) had gained a certain level of influence, as in Tibet or the Himalayas. The idiom of subjugation or taming remains in my analysis a crucial concept (cf. Mills 2003: 260). Still, it is vital to point out that before the local spirits can interact with the institutionalized traditions through relations of contest, conflict, submission or replication, they must first begin their existence as deities, so the way in which the spirits exist has to change. There must be the possibility of knowing them in a way that is different from the flexible experiences and the processes of understanding that are characteristic of shamanic knowledge. Spirits have to become objects of authoritative knowledge. Hence, this chapter is mainly about the authority and power of religious specialists. Again in agreement with Mills, I think it is useful to make an analytical distinction between their authority and their power, because, as Mills writes: [i]n many writings, the terms power and authority are treated as synonymous; this however neglects much of the term’s etymology as a word semantically akin to ‘authorship’. So, for the purposes of this work, let me start by making explicit how I define the term: authority is the formation of statements which

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Clearly, in the Telengit case, power and authority do not have to come together. While local people would rarely deny power to biler kizhi (including shamans), they do not have an authority in the sense defined earlier. On the other hand, lamas (nama) are regarded as people whose judgement on religious matters is true; hence they are regarded as someone with authority. While the practices and statements of shamans are always discussed and challenged, the lamas are considered to have access to indisputable knowledge. Let me emphasize again that this argument concerns primarily the ways in which the knowledge and practices of shamans and lamas are viewed by the Telengits, for whom these categories of the religious specialists come to stand for two paradigmatically different approaches to religious life. In the previous chapter the focus was on the modes of the existence of spirits that influence the life of the Telengits. Those spirits do not have permanent, fixed images and characteristics. Rather, they come into being at the each time when people with specific abilities perceive them. In Chapter 3, I showed briefly that the land itself can be considered as flexible and changeable. The theme of interaction between Buddhism and local religious traditions concerned with the powers in land has also appeared in that chapter, in a brief section on taming the land by the activities of Buddhist protagonist in Inner Asia. In that context Buddhism appeared as an institutionalized religion. This chapter is concerned with difference with modes of religious knowledge, power and authority held by religious specialists.

‘People who know’ in Ere Chui In Chapter 6 I listed the main categories of people who have abilities that give them with access to spiritual worlds. Such people are generally called biler ulus (pl.). Nevertheless, people whose knowledge is qualified by further specifications such as tushchy, tuduchy, kösmekchi and others mentioned in the previous chapter, are regarded as less powerful and less knowledgeable than the people who are called simply by this one term: biler kizhi (sing.). The people whose knowledge is more specialized are not even always called by the term biler kizhi – it is used with regard to them only sometimes, depending on the context. They are knowledgeable, they ‘know’, but in order to be biler kizhi they must have multiple access to the spiritual worlds, have spirit helpers (not necessarily of ancestral origin) and have a kinship link with previous generations of powerful biler kizhi. These three conditions seem to differentiate biler ulus ‘proper’ from all other categories of ‘people who know’. The only additional classification of the term biler kizhi which people use in Ere Chui is a kam. The Telengits translate this term into Russian as a ‘shaman’. Nowadays there are very few people who are called kam by others, and even fewer

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would refer to themselves in this way. In the title of this chapter I nevertheless use the term ‘shaman’, as this denotation constantly surfaces in discussions of contemporary religious life in the region.5 During my fieldwork there were 9 biler ulus in Ere Chui: 6 women and 3 men. They were renowned in the district – and sometimes in the Republic as a whole6 – for their extraordinary abilities. Of these biler ulus, 4 lived in Kökörü, 1 in Beltyr, 2 in Kurai, 1 in the steppe between Beltyr and Ortolyk and another in the village of Mukhor-Tarkhata. Kökörü village is outstanding in terms of the numbers and fame of its biler ulus, which in the region is seen as justified, given its location close to the source of the main river (see Chapter 2). Beltyr also stands out in terms of its spiritual specialists, as apart from biler kizhi ‘proper’, there are quite a few other people there who biler (know). Below I talk in more detail about Bidinova örökön,7 who was the oldest biler kizhi of Ere Chui at the time of my fieldwork, and the one most often referred to as a kam. She died in 1999 and her ritual possessions were carried into the mountains in the autumn of 2003. The only other people in Ere Chui who were referred to as kamdar (shamans) were Aryman Konstantinov and Dimitrii Samunov from Kökörü and Aiyldash Tebekov8 from Beltyr. They all had a tü˘ür – a piece of white fabric with drawings, which is called a ‘drum’ and has a similar function in providing access for the shaman into the worlds of spirits. Liza from Kurai was preparing to be a kam.9 Marusia eje, whom I mentioned in Chapter 3 as probably the most respected biler kizhi of Ere Chui, is rarely referred to as kam. As far as I know, she does not have tü˘ür, but I cannot be sure. Kura˘ Olchonova from Kurai holds a similar position to Marusia eje. She is respected and, although most people think of her as biler kizhi, she is sometimes referred to as kam. Alya Tolmotovna is not considered a kam, but her deceased father, Tolmot Demchinov, was regarded as a very powerful kam in his time (D’yakonowa 2001: 168–169), and some of his fame has transferred to his daughter. Svetlana Byrchykovna from Mukhor-Tarkhata is a biler kizhi who has incorporated contemporary healing methods into her practice. She told me that older shamans identified her shamanic vocation but she was able to refuse this path and remain a biler kizhi. I return to this issue in the next section. Bidinova örökön was the oldest biler kizhi of Ere Chui. She died during my fieldwork at the age of 82, in March 1999. Unfortunately, I did not have a chance to talk to her directly. During my first visits to Kökörü people repeatedly stated that her health was too poor for conversation and that she did not like strangers bothering her with questions. She was perceived as being extremely powerful and even my closest friends were afraid to introduce me to her for fear of her anger. Moreover, her daughter (who lived with her) was portrayed as a firm communist believer who did not like people referring to her mother as biler kizhi. I finally saw the old woman, but at that time she was already too sick to communicate. I visited her with her granddaughter Tatyana, a schoolteacher, whom I met very late into my fieldwork. According to her fellow villagers, Tatyana was also unwilling to talk about her grandmother so I decided to negotiate my meeting with the assistance of the director of the school in Kökörü, who

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was a very close relative of the family I was staying with. However, the actual conversation with Tatyana was extremely pleasant, open and informative. Her mother (a shamanness’s daughter) was also very helpful and kind. Our relationship at that time was brief, because after the death of the grandmother, the family’s suffering was so evident that I decided not to continue with my questions. I describe the process of getting access to biler kizhi in order to show that secretiveness and exclusiveness are all part of a shaman’s ethos. These features belong more to the perception of what this knowledge is like than to the actual process of understanding spiritual matters. I do not deny that there are parts of a biler kizhi’s spiritual experiences that are not revealed to anyone – how could I ever be sure about that? Yet, there is no doubt that secrecy, unattainability and beyondness are integral parts of a shaman’s spiritual way of understanding. Shamans have access through the spirits (understood as indices of the occult – see Chapter 6) to a kind of reality that cannot be known per se. For most of the people from Kökörü, Bidnova was kam kizhi – a shaman. The term kam is never applied to a person without hesitation. There is general agreement that ‘real’ kamdar do not exist anymore. Even the people who are labelled as kamdar say that the power of contemporary shamans is nothing in comparison with those of the past. However, this claim that real power lies elsewhere may be yet another aspect of the shamanic mode of religious knowledge. As the occult is never attainable in itself, but only through its indices, which are known because of the abilities of particular people, there is always the possibility that someone else has access to different aspects of reality. What is interesting is that in the case of Ere Chui, and especially Kökörü, there is a temporal ceding of spiritual potential, not a spatial one. Ere Chui is the powerful place and only exceptionally do the Telengits say that the powerful shamans are located somewhere else: in Tuva or in Khakassia. Most often, the powerful shamans are the personages of the past, but this is the past of this place, the past of Ere Chui or, more seldom, of all Altai. Interestingly, my brief research among Altai kizhi in central Altai suggests that they cede shamanic power both temporally and spatially – according to them, the powerful shamans live in Ere Chui. Bidinova örökön had nine helping spirits, whom she could not see but only hear or sense their presence. The main one was Sagal kam, a male kam from the clan Sagal. The others were men and women of various clans. Some had yiyk animals10 and each of them required a different kind of offering. The spirits came to her in different disguises. Much of her ritual activity (as related to me by her daughter, who was also her ritual assistant) involved analysing the way in which the spirits spoke and the words they were saying, so that she could find patterns that would link a particular appearance of a spirit with her previous spiritual experiences. Although she managed to link the sounds and impressions into flexible images of spirits, she could never be certain about who they were and how would they react to her questions, what was phrased in the idiom of spirits being deceitful and cheating. The spirits did not provide any certainty and her practice was a path of perpetual attempts at interpretations and re-interpretations. She addressed the spirits using respectful terms such as kairakan, or kinship terms, such as ejeler,

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akalar and taailar. Despite the avoidance of naming as an indication of respect and maybe fear, it may have been that she could almost never name them, not being sure who they were. The way of the shaman (kam ja˘) is regarded to be the most difficult means of acquiring spiritual knowledge. A kam goes through painful illnesses and experiences, whereby his/her body is torn to pieces and put back together by the spirits. S/he spends a lot of time in total solitude in the mountains, eating artysh (juniper), spiders and bugs. Although nowadays shamans are deemed to be less powerful, such perceptions of shamanic spiritual initiation are still prominent, and they apply to all biler kizhi ‘proper’, not only to those called kamdar. The Telengits say that the real shaman should have one or more drums – tü˘ür. There was gossip that some shamans were preparing drums, but I did not see any of them. What I have seen and what is also called tü˘ür is a white material with drawings on one or both sides, which closely resemble the drawings that were made on drums (D’yakonova 2001: 161), garnished with strips of fabric, bells and buttons12 (Plate 7.1). It is widely recognized among the Telengits that being a kam is extraordinarily difficult and unpleasant task, not only for the shamans themselves, but also for their families, despite the prestige attached to it. In the contemporary context of the Russian media and public interest in alternative medicine and all sorts of healers travelling to the Altai, this new trait of prestige has made a shamanic vocation more attractive. However, there is still a crucial danger in the kam ja˘. While in the contemporary situation, it might be attractive and prestigious for some people to become a biler kizhi, kam ja˘ remains a painful path for the few, who would not have followed it if they had a choice. The power of kam is ambivalent. People approach shamans as healers and diviners, seeking their help in difficult situations. Nevertheless, the shaman’s power is potentially dangerous, both for the people and for the kam him/herself. The way in which this power is used and the network of relations that its application creates have to be taken into consideration. Svetlana from Mukhor Tarhata rejected her shamanic vocation, deciding to ask the spirits for a path of biler kizhi, without a drum, which seemed to her an easier one. As she told me, she was predestined to become a powerful shaman, but as she says: There are dark powers (temnye sily – Russian) with which kam has to work anyway. You know, shamanism is such a faith (vera – Russian) that you have to be extremely powerful in order not to hurt your descendants. I know that I am a good person, so maybe I can agree to exchange someone’s soul (jula) . . . It is why I do not want my descendants to answer for me. It is why I want to stay moderate. I have begged them [the spirits] to allow me to restrict myself to healing only, to stick to the good things only. Some people divide shamans into different categories according to the kind and extent of the power they hold, but these terms are often contradictory. For example the term kara kam can be understood as: (1) a shaman who deals primarily

Plate 7.1 Daughter of Bidnova örökön showing tü˘ür of her mother.

Lamas and shamans 159 with the spirits of the Lower World; (2) a shaman with evil intentions; (3) a shaman who can exchange one’s soul for a soul of another man; and (4) a diviner, seeing the future (Beltyr village). This adds to the anxiety about the kind of spiritual specialists particular shamans might be, and what kinds of spirits they relate to and what their intentions are towards their fellow human beings. Still, this anxiety is not primarily a function of the multiplicity of descriptive terms. Rather, there is never any certainty about the outcomes of the shamans’ activities, as they are dependent on their relations with the spirits who exists as flexible and ever-changing indices of the unreachable sphere (the occult). There are many stories about shamans of the past which feature the shaman going into a trance or a shaman’s soul travelling. Although contemporary shamans are perceived as being less powerful and neither trance nor soul travelling is a part of their conduct, the fame and power of the old shamans still adds to their image. One of the main activities of shamans nowadays is returning someone’s jula. Jula, as described in Chapter 6, is the aspect of personhood, materializing most often as a single hair and being a kind of an essence of the person, without which the person in question loses the will to live, eat, talk, or find enjoyment. Sometimes, the only way to return jula to the person is by exchanging it for the jula of someone else. This was the event Svetlana was referring to in the aforementioned quotation, which provides us with further insights into the nature of shamanic practice. In the Telengit case personhood is best understood in terms of relations. One aspect of this is the inseparability of a person and their kin, both in terms of the present as well as past and future generations. The intra-generation influence means that the acts of the oldest relatives in a given generation will influence the way in which the life of younger people is arranged. For example, in one family in Kökörü this influence was attributed to the fact that all five sisters divorced their husbands. The oldest started the flow of divorces. Such a series may last for one generation or can continue in subsequent ones. If such undesirable events repeat themselves over several generations, they are called kinchek. Those Telengits who know the Russian language well usually translate the term kinchek into Russian as grekh, which is a close equivalent to the English term ‘sin’. However, there are no identifiable rules that, on being broken, can become kinchek. An action is deemed as kinchek only in relation to its outcomes for the future of the person who has done the deed and/or for the future of their relatives. If we think about the use of the word ‘sin’ in the English language and within a Christian context, the sentence ‘I know that this is a sin, but nevertheless I will do it’ would sound if not reasonable, then at least imaginable and understandable. The notion of kinchek cannot be used in this way. The action becomes rendered as kinchek usually post factum. Hence, polluting a sacred healing spring (arzhan suu) can be classed as kinchek, but only if the person who did it (or a relative of theirs) was afterwards struck by a series of unlucky events or illnesses. Committing kinchek takes a person’s luck (yrys) away. The most important point to make here is that kinchek committed by a kinsman influences his or her relatives, usually in subsequent generations.

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Svetlana classified the action of a shaman exchanging a lost jula for the jula of another person as a possible kinchek. For the Telengits it is certain that the activities of a shaman can easily bring bad luck to subsequent generations. The shaman is the manager of dangerous powers and it is not surprising that any relatives would be concerned about the outcomes of using these powers. Although people need shamans, their physical presence is dangerous, so it is sensible to keep a shaman at a distance. Aiyldash Tebekov, a young shaman from Beltyr, was much more popular in his own village when he used to live on the herder’s camp far away on the steppe. When he moved to the village, local people gradually ceased to ask him for advice. Young Aiyldash was a sociable person, liked parties and to drink in company. He visited his neighbours often and sometimes, when in a party mood, talked about his shamanizing. Other shamans in Ere Chui tend to keep their distance from the whirl of social life in their villages. Some of them live outside the village; others do not often go to communal gatherings. They are not completely isolated, but they are always seen as potentially dangerous. Shamans and other biler ulus of Ere Chui are frequently the subject of gossip and discussion. Because the most powerful of them can know (through their spirit helpers) when they are being talked about, this gossiping is undertaken with lowered voices, under constant worry of being overheard and with uneasiness. Still, the gossip is passed around effectively and concerns both the rituals conducted by shamans and details of their private lives, usually interpreted in light of their shamanship. People also discuss the question of which shaman they trust and why, and which one is, in their opinion, capable of misusing their powers. There is no fixed hierarchy of shamans, no universal respect for each of them. It is true that some shamans and biler kizhi are considered more powerful then others. In Ere Chui it is Marusia eje, who is widely regarded as being powerful. Nevertheless, although she is respected, this does not make her opinion less questionable. She can be accused of making mistakes in managing her spirits as well as of malevolence. She is powerful but does not have an authority understood as a formation of statements widely regarded as true (Mills 2003: xiii). In this context, it is inconceivable that a kam’s activities and conclusions (and those of any biler kizhi dealing with spirits) would not be questioned. It is vital for kam ja˘ to be flexible and open to mediation. The anxiety and fear a shaman causes is an indication of his/her relation to the potentially dangerous worlds of spirits. Moreover, the activities of a shaman are a process, which is interesting and thrilling to observe and comment on. The Telengits seem to relish anxiety about the outcomes of rituals and shamanic practices. They enjoy the process of arguing, reaching consensus and then challenging the outcomes yet again.

Lamas In the Telengit context, a person who has received any sort of Buddhist training is called a nama. The same term is used for contemporary lamas visiting the Republic with Altaichy Sanashkin (see Chapters 2 and 5), and by elders who remember peripatetic lamas from the beginning of the twentieth century or

Lamas and shamans 161 who can recount stories about local people who had been trained in Buddhist monasteries. Nama can also be a woman. In Betyr village, for example, a wellknown nama was a woman who had inherited some Buddhist artefacts (including sutras) from her older relative trained in Mongolia. Today, although there are no namalar (pl.) living in Ere Chui, memories of them are vivid. Several recent visits of lamas and other Buddhist adherents to Kosh-Agach have also served to revive such memories. In Chapter 5, I described the visit of a group of followers of Buddhism to Kökörü for a Chaga bairam in the year 2000, when local people were taken aback and displeased with the lamas’ conduct. Another place frequented by lamas of various Buddhist traditions,13 is Telengit-Sortogoi. Here, in a school-teacher’s house, there is a Buddhist statuette found by the schoolteacher’s son in nearby mountains in the early 1990s. The finding of several such statuettes in the territory of the Republic is an important argument for the people who underline Buddhist nature of Altaian religious beliefs. Lamas are well received in the house of the Telengit-Sortogoi teacher, where they spend several days praying and walking in the nearby mountains. However, they are not so welcome in other settlements of Kosh-Agach. In some villages people are merely uninterested, in others curious, but in several cases they are outwardly hostile, accusing lamas of missionary activities comparable to those of the Altaian Orthodox Mission and other Christian churches and groups (see Chapter 1). Apart from such accusations against lamas, there is one other significant and recurring motif in the narratives of recent visits of lamas to Kosh-Agach. In such stories, the lama stands in the valley between the mountains or in the middle of the steppe and tells people that they have a powerful land inhabited by powerful spirits. He points at the mountain and says that there is an eezi there, who is a young man, and that at that sacred spring there the eezi is a young lady. He also reveals to people what he calls the real names of the places, using names, which have never been heard before. His listeners are surprised and full of admiration for his knowledge – they have never heard such detailed accounts from their knowledgeable people (biler ulus). The listeners are amazed by the lamas’ accounts, they feel proud that their land is so powerful and that this power is acknowledged by the guest from far away. Still, their awe is mixed with disbelief. How it is possible to know the spirits so precisely, to give such detailed descriptions of them? The flexible worlds of the spirits suggested by the shamans and other knowledgeable people are now being presented as structured and accessible. This lama knows so much and claims to know it for certain! I argue that through the practice of naming spirits and fixing their images, the lamas prepare the way for subjugation of the land (Chapter 3). They create the spirits as deities, thereby establishing them as partners for the future dialogue between different religious traditions. On coming to the Altai, the Buddhist protagonists are not just entering into dialogue with the pre-existing systems of beliefs, but they are actively creating such systems in order to be able to interact with them. Lamas, both living ones and those from peoples’ memories and imaginations, are perceived as bearers of knowledge by the Telengits. Currently they are not readily accepted and there have been instances when lamas were asked to leave

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a village. Outside the Telengit region, in the district of Ongudai (O˘doi), conflicts have even been violent – the very first Buddhist stupa erected in the territory of the Republic was destroyed (see Chapter 3). Nevertheless, people do not usually say that the lamas are wrong or that they make mistakes in identifying the spirits or that they are ignorant about a spirit’s character. The discussions do not reach this level of disagreement, as the content of knowledge is not discussed. Because the Buddhist stupa is a solid, carefully structured, visually intrusive object it violates the Telengit perception of the land and of living in it; the narratives of the lamas stand in opposition to the way in which the spirits exist in Telengit religious life. The lamas’ knowledge cuts through the flexibility and mobility of the biler ulus’s process of understanding. The certainty expressed by the lamas is awe-inspiring, but it also indicates a change in the paradigm of religious knowledge. The flexible experience of the biler ulus is transformed into a corpus of knowledge. In the Telengit narratives about lamas of the past, the most often-remembered item in their possession is the sudur – a book. This motif is also present in the Altaian heroic epics (Surazakov 1985) where the lama is always a personage in possession of the book, which, when opened, gives answers to all the questions posed by people. The lama is seen as a person who knows for sure – it is enough for him to open the book and give the answer. The book contains a written, unified knowledge, which is attainable through learning. You can be taught to be a nama and in the process of learning you acquire knowledge. From a Telengit perspective, the nama’s knowledge is not questionable. In this sense it is authoritative – it is the content of this knowledge that is important and the lama has means to produce statements which would be judged as true in this social context. The Telengits often refer to a nama’s books as a source of cultural stability and homogeneity which, although once present among the Altaians, has since been lost – the namas and their books no longer exist. Telengits talk about sudur as lost knowledge, which, if preserved, would give stability and unity to the Altaian ways of doing things (Altai ja˘). They see in this written knowledge a source of authority that is not questionable. Esteem for namalar and their books is great and the written knowledge contained in sudur is perceived as complete. Why then are the Telengits often hostile towards lamas? Why do most Telengits claim that they are not and do not want to become Buddhists? This is despite all the encouragement from the adherents of Buddhism who, from the late 1990s, have gained considerable influence in the capital, especially by propagating Buddhist ideas in the media? On one hand, the lamas’ knowledge is a potential source of religious authority (and in Chapter 8 I show that there are certain situations where there is a definite need for such an authority); but on the other hand, the way in which the lamas approach religious life indicates a paradigm shift that changes what religious experience is about. Although the Telengits see written knowledge as a potential source of authority, which is desirable in certain situations, there is a price to be paid for this stability and assurance. Written knowledge ceases to be an individually mediated process, but instead it turns into a corpus, accessible to anyone with appropriate skills, which can be learned. It is

Lamas and shamans 163 no longer about sensual abilities, mediation and interpretation. At the same time, although potentially very effective, it is deemed less powerful. In the Telengit context, whereas authority is inherent in stability, power is a trait of a flexible and contestable process of knowing. It is not only more difficult to be a kam or biler kizhi, it is also more interesting and more challenging. The way of the shaman is about direct experience through senses and about an immediate exposure to the potentially dangerous world of spirits. It is highly valued, and being flexible it can be negotiated and challenged. The knowledge of lamas is authoritative but it is no longer stimulating as it cannot be both challenged and sustained at the same time. While nama can know future events or medicines capable of fighting the most serious diseases, he is not at ease with the worlds of spirits, understood as indices of the occult. He has to first stabilize the spirits in order to enter into interaction with them. It is important to reiterate that this argument does not lay any claim to an analysis of Buddhist practice in the regions where Buddhism has been already introduced and firmly established. Instead, I show that for the Telengits the paradigm of the Buddhist knowledge is perceived as different from that of their own religious life, where flexibility and movement are crucial concepts. The knowledge of lamas for the Telengits is not alive anymore, it lies in front of the people as an immovable force, which might be effective, valued or useful, but it ceases to be a part of their mobile perception of the world.

The institutionalization of religion In discussing Chaga bairam in Chapter 5, I suggested several reasons why this particular celebration has been so important to the Altaian intellectuals who are pursuing the idea of Altaian national unity. One of these reasons was the supposedly Buddhist character of this celebration, which can be found in many countries in Inner Asia and is closely linked to the 12-year lunar calendar, which is used in many countries where Buddhism holds sway. Nevertheless, support for Buddhism by many representatives of the Altaian national elite has deeper roots than simply providing cultural links to Buddhist countries of Asia – it has the potential to create an alternative set of political possibilities for the Altai vis-à-vis its connections with the Russian Federation. My argument is that the stress on unification and stabilisation of images of spirits and religious dogmas accords with the main goals and structure of the national ideology. From the very beginning of the 1990s, when discussion of the future of the Altaian nation openly entered the media, there has been an ongoing search for the forces that will bring unification about. As we saw in Chapter 1, the issue of common religion has been an important part of these discussions. From the outset, Buddhism, with its potential for authoritative knowledge and religious institutions, was one of the main options discussed by the national ideologists. It was viewed as a unifying force, with structures appropriate for state-like formations, usually presented in contrast to shamanism, which was seen as too diverse and uncontrollable to become the religion of a nation-state (cf. Hamayon 1994). Vladimir Kydyev, an Altaian publisher and active participant in affairs of the Republic, told

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me openly that his decision to support the Buddhist option was not a matter of sentiment but a rational choice based on his conviction that Buddhism would best serve the future of the Republic. It is also the case that some Altaian intellectuals are driven towards Buddhism by its philosophical potential. They say that Altaian religious life now lacks this kind of philosophical layer, which could serve as a base for personal growth. They look for a source of spiritual authority that is trustworthy and upon which they can build their own ideas. Interestingly, just as the Telengits are clearly sceptical about the development of Buddhism in the Altai, so they are sceptical about other attempts at institutionalizing their religious life. None of the organizations promoting a rethinking of Altaian religious traditions in order to clarify and unify their practice has received much support in Kosh-Agach. I mentioned in Chapter 1 a heterogeneous movement called Ak ja˘ and one of its leaders, Sergei Kynyev. Kynyev travels to villages throughout the Altai, organizing meetings with local people and trying to convince them to support him. One of the explicit aims of the Ak ja˘ movement is to provide the framework for homogenizing Altaian rituals, customs and religious beliefs. Its adherents would like to see a gradual homogenization of those Altaian beliefs and practices that would provide a common, integrative core for the Altaian nation. As Kynyev told me, the task is not to tell people exactly what to do, but to start an avalanche of reflection and searching, which would surely end in strengthening the unity of the Altaians. As yet, however, the Ak ja˘ movement has met with much scepticism in Kosh-Agach. I have heard several accounts of Kynyev’s interventions in various ceremonies (marriage rituals, offerings at sacred springs) and all were negative. This supports my argument that the Telengits’ negative attitude towards the institutionalization of religion is not merely opposition to any sort of missionary activity, but rather points towards a sense of apprehension at the shift in understanding what religious experience is about. Caroline Humphrey (1996: 320) points out that ‘given the dispersed character of “shamanism”, no single part of which encompassed the totality of human exigencies, people faced with unexpected and unintelligible forces in the world could not but react by creating another “segment” ’. The Telengits willingly acknowledge new forces in their lives as flexibility of the shamanic experience provides a possibility of accommodating them. Hence, for example, they do not question the existence of the spirits about which the lamas or the Ak ja˘ leaders talk; but what disturbs them is the authoritative character of their knowledge, the certainty, which underlines the institutionalized religious practice. Generally, in their evaluation of spiritual knowledge, the Telengits shift the emphasis from its content (e.g. precise claims about the characteristics of spirits) to the way in which the subject (spiritual specialist) arrives at the claims he or she expresses. Hence, one encounters a great variety of claims that, at the level of content, can be contradictory. Moreover, the contradictory character of the claims can be seen as desirable as it is an indication of the way in which the claim was reached – a specific encounter of a specific individual with specific indices of the occult. In contrast, the knowledge held by practitioners of institutionalized

Lamas and shamans 165 religions is seen as a corpus of things to know. It is imagined as something which has a content, which can be retraced and presented in a systematized form – for example, as a book. This feature of this kind of knowledge is, on one hand, desirable and appreciated as it gives a basis for authority and stability; on the other hand, the very same feature points towards an important paradigmatic shift, which would require a rephrasing of the religious experience based on flexibility and movement. This does not mean that there is no need for community or stability among the Telengits beyond ideas of national ideology. In the previous chapter we saw that in the context of the clan system there is a tendency towards clarification and stabilization of the images of the spirits, although a clear-cut system of clan protectors has not yet been established. In the next chapter we look more closely at a single ceremony, which is familiar in many countries in Inner Asia, and which has as one of its main goals group stability and unity.

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The Telengits use the term neme, which literally means ‘something’, when they refer to what anthropologists might call spirits, gods, the energies of nature and, ultimately, the occult. Telengit religious life is underscored by a sense that there is ‘something’ in the land, in the sky, in the surrounding world that should be accounted for. The accounting for and dealing with this underlying power and its indices is undertaken when the need arises. Even a ritual such as Chaga bairam, which marks the beginning of a new year, is not necessarily performed on a yearly basis by each family. As we saw in Chapter 5, all the members of the family have to feel that this is the right moment for them to worship Altai, that everyone gathered together is in good health, that there is enough food for the offering and that nobody holds a sense of grief. Generally, although the lives of Telengits are pervaded by the feeling that there is a power, which has to be taken into consideration, negotiated with and understood, most rituals, including those described so far in this book, do not stand above the flow of everyday life. Rather, they are embedded in this flow and only occasionally, when the understanding of what is happening falls beyond the capacities of bilbes ulus (people who do not know), are the spiritual specialists called upon for assistance. All rituals, regardless of their different purposes, timing and location, seem to include similar action elements, which come together in various combinations. Caroline Humphrey (1996) describes such a ritual practice in the example of the Daur Mongols. She gives a list of action elements that matches those presented in Chapters 4 and 5 above. These elements are combined into various groupings and are given different meanings on different occasions, and so can be compatible even with quite divergent ideologies (Humphrey 1996: 141–142). In Chapter 3 we saw a clear example of this, when one ritual that included almost identical action elements evoked different responses from two groups of people whose ideological positions on Altaian religious life were divergent. In the same work, Caroline Humphrey also argued against Maurice Bloch’s idea that the ritual itself is inherently ideological (p.142). Instead, she held that although it is necessary to have ideas in order to give meaning to ritualized action, these ideas ‘may equally well be idiosyncratic, heterodox or tentative. They may even be absent.’ In an earlier work, John Laidlaw and Humphrey claim that meaning is not inherent in ritualized actions (Humphrey and Laidlaw 1994). If a ritual

Ritual and revival 167 action is to be rendered meaningful, the meaning has to be given to it. Nevertheless, although the ideological character of ritual should not be taken for granted, it may be that the social establishment of ideology requires ‘a systematic and furious assault on non-ideological cognition’ (Bloch 1985, 1989: 129, as quoted in Humphrey 1996: 142). I agree with Humphrey that, at least for most Inner Asian rituals, the meaning does not have to be given to various groupings of ritualized action elements. People bow, sprinkle milk, vodka or tea, or walk round piles of stones or sacred springs, and combinations of these action elements can be given various meanings depending on the particular context of the celebration – there is no need to search for an ideology underlying them. Nevertheless, Bloch’s argument about the relation between ideology and ritual is helpful in a situation where a ritual becomes a target for the proponents of some ideological system. On the part of the Altaian national ideologists there is a search for communal rituals that might serve as a focal point for national identity and memory (cf. Connerton 1989). Because ‘Altai’ is the name of the political unit, provides the derivation for Altaian ethnic names and is the basis of their ritual practice and spiritual experience, the ritual held to be the most significant by national leaders is that concerned with the communal worship of the land. Bloch’s argument is helpful here because of his conceptualization of ideology as an authorization of power through denial of everyday cognitive processes (Bloch 1985). The religious practice and the mode of knowing of the spirits among the Telengits are primarily based on flexibility, movement and changeability of land and the spirits. Conversely, the way in which the national ideologists try to introduce a communal ritual of Altai worship nowadays cuts through such everyday cognitive experience. They aim at establishing a ritual concerned with group stability and their ideas seem to fit into the mode of knowledge that, as argued in Chapter 7, is seen as the domain of Buddhist religious practitioners. This can be one of the reasons why Buddhism nowadays is so popular among Altaian national leaders. This is not to say that such rituals, aimed at stability of the group and cutting through the flexible experience of spiritual worlds, have never been present in the Altai. As in the case of the stabilization of the images of spirits that takes place when Altaian clan divisions are debated (see Chapter 7), in the past clan-based worship of the land was also present (Tokarev 1936; Potapov 1946). My fieldwork materials show that some elderly Telengits remember clan-based ceremonies of land worship. Nevertheless, nearly all communal ceremonies of land worship were abandoned during the Soviet era and nowadays there is no agreement on how they actually should be conducted. Today such rituals have entered into a pool of religious practices that are constantly discussed and challenged by the Telengits. This creates an interesting tension between the aim of group stabilization and the ways in which most rituals are actually practised nowadays among the Telengits. An analysis of the complexities of reviving communal land worship in contemporary Altai is the main subject of this chapter. It brings together the arguments concerning landscape, knowledge, movement, nationbuilding and different kinds of spiritual authority, which have been considered throughout this book.

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Altai tagylga in an Inner Asian context The elderly Telengits, those who were small children in the 1920s and 1930s, remember communal rituals performed on the hills near high mountains or on the mountain passes. It is not possible, however, to rely on their memories to achieve a coherent picture of such rites. Their memories are so varied that they may actually refer to several different kinds of ceremonies held in the past. The fact that the elders apply one set of names used interchangeably to the ceremonies of land worship is not surprising. Ultimately all those names imply one intent – a worship of the Altai. The precise mode of that worship becomes confused by the detailed descriptions. The names used most often are Altai tagyry (Altai tagylgany, Altai tagylga),1 Altai ködürgeni or Altai etkeni.2 Altai tagylga can be linked, both in terms of the meanings attributed to it by the actors and its ritual actions, to two types of communal ceremonies that are held throughout Inner Asia. Existing studies on the rituals of land worship in this region suggest their possible division into two broad groups: the oboo-type ceremonies and taiylgan ceremonies.3 Taking into account the flexibility of Inner Asian religious practices (cf. Humphrey 1996) and the intertwining of different modes of religious knowledge in the region,4 it is not surprising that a classification of all rituals into these two suggested groupings cannot be exclusive. Nevertheless, as an analytical tool, it is useful to consider the general differences between these two types of communal ceremonies. This would facilitate our understanding of the challenges that face contemporary Altaian national ideologists who seek the revival of land worship. In Inner Asia, one of the most widespread rituals is what I call an oboo-type ceremony. This expression is widely used among specialists in the context of, or in relation to, the cult of nature and spirits of nature, particularly with reference to mountain worship. Usually it denotes communal rituals, led by spiritual specialists, which are conducted in fixed places at a specified time. In those countries where Buddhism is strong or dominant, lamas usually conduct oboo rituals, leaving more individual, less fixed ceremonies and those performed at individual request to the shamans. Compared with other rituals in the region, oboo ceremonies seem to be more rigid to the extent that some researchers (Abaeva 1992) refer to them and the places where they are conducted as ‘a system of oboo’. Oboo means literally ‘a cairn’ in Altaian and Mongolian. Although there are many types of constructions built in various parts of Inner Asia,5 the most wellknown and widespread type is a pile of stones shaped like an inverted yurt (Humphrey 1998a: 24). Such constructions mark the places where the ritual is conducted; these places are cared for and remain sites of worship for subsequent generations. Abaeva (1992: 67–68) says that although the oboo ceremonies are most often identified with the cult of mountains, their significance is much broader. She stresses the social role of these rituals for the Buriats and her suggestion is sustained by Humphrey’s work (1996) among the Daur Mongols. Humphrey suggests that most of the oboo rituals stress a tie between men and their land and are aimed at blessing male-defined groups – both in terms of

Ritual and revival 169 territory and kin. The rituals stress male fertility, which in a patrilineal or patrilocal society gives continuity and strength to the group (p. 151). As oboo ceremonies are focused on the unity and power of the group, in some cases they are organized at the state level too. Sacrifices for Bogd uul mountain in Mongolia were performed twice a year by official order of the ruler. The mountain was also given special gifts that were placed in the house near the oboo site (Tatar 1976: 11). In Inner Mongolia the sacrifices are organized at all levels of territorial division (Sneath 1990). Most of the descriptions of oboo ceremonies stress their link with the cult of mountains. The mountains and the spirits of mountains are the most obvious recipients of the offering and prayers. The spirit recipients of oboo-type ceremonies can also be bodies of water (rivers, springs, lakes6) or trees (Tatar 1976), as well as Sky and Earth (Abaeva 1992; Humphrey 1996). Marina Mongush (1992: 81) writes that in Tuva there are four types of oboo constructions: (1) an oboo piled close to the source of a watercourse; (2) an oboo found at mountain passes; (3) a clan oboo; and (4) a mountain oboo. She only describes the last two types in detail. The second type is called üle in Altai and was analysed in Chapter 3. There I showed that üle should not be confused with other types of oboo places, as it is not the site of a communal ceremony. Instead, this is a crossing point that is approached and dealt with individually. In this sense, its presence in the landscape raises a different set of analytical questions from the other types of oboo sites, all of which are constructed with the purpose of conducting communal ceremonies. The distinction made by Marina Mongush between clan oboo and mountain oboo is most interesting. During both ceremonies (called respectively obaa dagyyr and taiga dagyyr), the principal recipients of offerings are the spirits of the places. However, the author’s informants clearly made a distinction between the significance of these two types of ceremony (p. 83). They underlined the fact that the clan ceremony was aimed at the unity of the clan as a group and involved cooperation between various clans through reciprocal offerings. Each clan had its own place of worship, but the representatives of other clans were invited to such ceremonies. These guests brought the leftovers of their own offerings and offered them at the clan oboo of the hosts, which was then reciprocated at the oboo of the guest clans. The ceremony could be led either by a shaman or a lama. Mongush contrasts obaa dagyyr with taiga dagyyr, where the main purpose of the ritual was worship of the territory. This ceremony was led exclusively by a high-ranking lama, and the entire male population of the territory gathered to participate in the ritual, regardless of which clan they belonged to. Thus, oboo ceremonies could be both territory and clan based. In the case of Tuva, these two dimensions of the ceremony were separated in different celebrations. In other places, they were encompassed by one celebration. Ultimately, the most important feature of the oboo ceremony is its communal character and its trend towards stability. The ceremonies tend to be conducted at a specified time, by a specified community, and strangers can only be welcomed as guests if their participation is subsequently reciprocated. Buddhist lamas, with their written

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prayers and strictly structured rituals quickly took over the leadership of oboo-type ceremonies as Buddhism strengthened in Inner Asia. Despite this, details of the ceremonies (the types of altars used for offerings, the types of offerings, and so on)7 vary greatly. In order to understand the contemporary situation in the Altai in general, and in Ere Chui in particular, one has to refer also to other types of ceremonies that are widely conducted in Inner Asia, particularly taiylgan.8 Khangalov (1958: 354) describes a Buryat taiylgan as ‘either an individual or collective offering, in which the whole region (ulus) participated or even the whole clan’. It can be conducted by a shaman as well as ‘by the whole community of householders without a shaman’s participation’. The offering is made on the slope of the hill. It always includes a sacrifice, and the recipients can be as varied as they are in the oboo ceremony. It was often performed as a special request, for example when someone had offended the spirits of the place, or the area was afflicted by a natural calamity. Hence, taiylgan was not necessarily performed on a regular basis. The differences and similarities between the taiylgan and oboo ceremonies come into play when the ceremonies are talked about rather than actually performed, as in the Telengit case. Although in other areas (where they are performed) the distinction between the taiylgan and oboo ceremony has never been clear-cut, in terms of ideal types, we can analyse these two ceremonies as structurally complementing one another. The oboo ceremony is performed regularly by the community and for the community’s benefit. It is aimed at stressing the unity of the group and its link with the land. The ritual is diachronic in the sense that it is aimed at the continuance of the group, especially if certain parts of the ritual stresses male fertility. The repetitive character of the ritual stabilizes the community through time. It has a tendency towards fixation and stabilization in terms of place and time. The place is permanently marked in the landscape and cannot be easily moved or removed, which again links the community to the place and gives stability to its boundaries (Humphrey 1995). Oboo ritual has a tendency towards accepting Buddhist influences and leadership. Taiylgan can be, but does not have to be, repeated on a regular basis. It can be performed when the necessity arises, precipitated by individual or communal requests. The group of people who request the ritual can come together for this special purpose and does not have to exist as a permanent social unit. Since the ceremony can be aimed at solving a specific, immediate problem, the group can constitute itself temporarily and disintegrate after the ritual. Although stone altars are built at offering places, and skins of sacrificed animals are suspended from poles erected at these sites, such places and their constructions are not taken care of or maintained. The place of offerings can, if necessary, be abandoned and changed. Hence, demarcation of the landscape is temporary. The ceremony is more flexible than the oboo-type one, and hence its enactment is left to the shamans. It is changeable and unpredictable, and this, rather than the presence of sacrifice, is the main reason why it was not easily accepted and appropriated by Buddhism.

Ritual and revival 171 Taky- in Mongolian means the bending of a knee. Daur Mongols used the word taki- for respectful rituals and the word taiy for offerings involving an element of bargaining (Humphrey 1996: 178). In Altaian, taky- means to repeat. Taiy-, on the other hand, denotes a sacrifice, but a similar root is seen in such words as taikyl – to slip, to be mistaken or taitak – a person with crooked legs (Baskakov 1947). Both Altaian and Mongolian meanings of the roots of taiylga and tagylga correspond to the aforementioned distinction between taiylgan and oboo-type ceremonies. The meaning of the word taky- in Altai tagylga would link it more with oboo-type ceremonies. Still, the actual descriptions of Altai tagylga given by the Telengit elders suggest that either they are remembering ceremonies that might have been clearly differentiated in the past, or that the Altai tagylga had been a meeting point of divergent conceptualizations of the land, its worship and its spiritual dimensions. This simultaneous presence in the ceremony of two contrasting sets of characteristics, which is typical of Inner Asia generally, is in the Altai reinforced by the issue of memory. Its is likely that various kinds of ceremonies, all of which once used to be conducted in the Altai, have merged to some extent into one ‘Altai tagylga’ type of ceremony in the memories of the elders. Thus, it is not surprising that the elders’ descriptions present a puzzle to contemporary national ideologists, who would much prefer a clear picture of how the ritual should be performed.

Remembering the rituals Altai tagylga was almost completely abandoned during the Soviet era (see below), but it is remembered as a ritual generally conducted close to a sacred mountain. The Telengits say that when Altai tagylga was properly conducted, their Altai was jymzhak (soft) and generous to its people. The ceremony was extremely important because without this kind of worship the Altai would harden (katulagan), which, according to the local people, actually happened after the ceremony was abandoned. The results of the Altai becoming katu (hard) are seen in poorer living conditions, the death of cattle, illnesses among the people and other calamities. Re-introduction of Altai tagylga is seen as one of the most efficient ways of putting a stop to these disasters. Hence, attempts at re-introducing this ritual have been undertaken at both the local and the national level. None of these attempts has so far been regarded as successful.9 The older Telengits remember ceremonies that were held in the mountains and involved the blessing of the Altai. They either attended them as children or heard them described by their parents. If one looks at studies of rituals in Inner Asia that are based on actual observation of performed ceremonies (Khangalov 1958; Mongush 1992; Humphrey 1996), one sees a classification system emerge in the accounts based on differences in participants, leaders, offerings and the purpose of the ceremony. The people also called them different names. I believe that if Altai tagylga was actually still being performed in Ere Chui, one would encounter several different ceremonies which could be put into different categories by the

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people themselves. In the present situation, however, all the ceremonies involving the blessing of Altai and its master-spirits are covered in elders’ recollections by this one term. Although the practice of this ritual was abandoned, it remains a constant reference point for the Telengits. The Altai needs takyp – it needs to be worshipped, no one seems to doubt that, but how should it be done? The importance, usefulness and meaning of the ritual are not questioned despite the fact that the practice has been abandoned. Among the reasons given by the Telengits for abandoning Altai tagylga, the most prominent is the lack of a person who knew how to conduct the ceremony. Knowledgeable people, shamans (kam) and nama (see Chapter 7) as well as knowledgeable elders, were either taken away during the repression of the 1930s or forbidden to conduct the ceremonies. While individual healing could take place, communal celebrations involving gatherings of people and preparations of food were much more difficult to organize. The Telengits recollect situations where a knowledgeable person conducted the ceremony near a sacred mountain without the participation of the community. Such ceremonies were probably taking place even in the 1960s. In this situation, the ceremony continued only until the death of the leader and could not be preserved in the habitual memory of the people (Connerton 1989) because they had not participated in it. In the following section I present the main features of Altai tagylga as it is remembered today by the oldest generation of the Telengits, that is those over 65 years old. The descriptions concern rituals of the 1920s and the 1930s. The leaders Leadership of the ceremony was attributed to four main categories of spiritual specialists: elders, biler kizhi, kam and nama. In this context, biler kizhi would denote a person who, while not involving him/herself extensively in healing or other spirit-related activities, had a special way of knowing the spiritual world(s) because of special abilities to see/hear/feel (such as kösmekchy or kulak ugar described in Chapter 6). A kam was a person who was involved in spirit-related activities on a day-to-day basis – this would be a representative of that category of people who in Chapter 7 were called biler kizhi ‘proper’. There would be a group of spirits that could be interpreted as his helpers. The kam did not have to go into trance, although it was possible and clearly linked to this kind of spiritual specialist only. A nama was a person trained in a Buddhist monastery (usually in Mongolia) or in the Altai by a person who had received such training. In the latter case, a nama could also be a woman. In the literature concerning the ceremonies directed towards worship of the local territory or the spirits of nature in general, leadership of the ceremony is considered to be of crucial importance (Khangalov 1958; Zhukovskaya 1977; Humphrey 1996). Humphrey (1996: 56) links ceremonies that are led by an elder (bagchi) or lama to the social order of the groups involved, especially in the case of male patriarchal groups and ceremonies focusing on male fertility, while she

Ritual and revival 173 associates ceremonies led by a shaman (yadagan or otoshi) with natural objects and phenomena. This corresponds roughly to the distinction between oboo-type ceremonies and taiylgan ceremonies made earlier. Although most of the Telengit elders say that Altai tagylga should be conducted by a man, in people’s actual stories women are also presented as leaders.10 The usual explanation for this is that there was no man available who was as skilled and knowledgeable as the woman in question. Later I describe the unique case of Saratan village where the ceremony has been performed continuously through the Soviet period. There, a man has always been the leader, although he was instructed by a knowledgeable female. As we will see later, a similar situation occurred in the revival of Altai tagylga in Telengit-Sortogoi village. Tordo Tanzynova from Beltyr, who witnessed Altai tagylga at the age of 5 or 6, explained: In order to conduct Altai tagylgan, there has to be a person who understands the language of Jerdi˘ eezi. Jerdi˘ eezi himself tells about it. If you do not know the language of Jerdi˘ eezi, it is impossible to conduct the ceremony. You have to relate to him, understand him and understand what he says: if the summer is going to be rainy, the snowfall heavy or the other way round. The question of leadership is crucial to the organization of Altai tagylga. The leader’s authority legitimates the conduct of the ritual. S/he must know what to do, and preferably, should also have some special abilities (as in the aforementioned quotation where s/he should know the language of Altaidy˘ eezi). The second component of the legitimization of the ritual is continuity through time. The elders’ knowledge can be effective (i.e. serve as a base for ritual leadership) if it is backed up by such continuity. As the case of leadership at the ceremony in Saratan shows, continuity is vital. Here, the leader of the ceremony (an old shamanness) had died but the ceremony could be continued because her acts were mimicked exactly by an old man who was not a spiritual specialist of any kind. In this case, the continuance of the ritual without interruption was sufficient to legitimize the ceremony. Gender issues surrounding ritual leadership and, more generally, female participation in the rituals, need further investigation. Because of Soviet insistence on women’s participation in public life, work and education, together with the portrayal of pre-Soviet ways as promoting gender inequality, one has to be extremely careful in generalizing about male/female roles in the ritual life. The contemporary significant participation of women in a spiritual life (6 out of the 9 most famous ‘people who know’ in Ere Chui were female) is combined with a discourse of the inappropriateness of such a situation. The place In most descriptions, the ceremony was located on a small hill from which the worshipped places were clearly visible. I have no reports of ceremonies being

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held on a mountain top (Humphrey 1998a). Rather, it was always somewhere lower, but high enough to allow an expansive view. I was shown some places where tagylgan had been held in the past. The hill called Nama To˘yl close to Beltyr village, where a lama was conducting a ceremony of Altai worship is an impressive place. Telengits treat this place with respect, but it is not a yiyk mountain. Instead, this is a place from where most of the mountains of Ere Chui, including yiyk mountains, are clearly visible: Tepse˘ bash is visible in all its glory; Kök yiyk looks bigger and more powerful than it would from a closer perspective; and even Ejelü-syiyndu, the two-peaked yiyk mountain, usually hidden behind the curves of many surrounding valleys, can be seen. The space is filled with significant places and the view is breathtaking. Nama To˘yl combines all the characteristics that make it a good place for worship (see Chapter 3). The time According to my informants, there were two main periods in the year during which the ceremony was held: jazhyl büür (green leaves) and sary büür (yellow leaves). The latter was quoted more often. The first period denotes late May or early June, while the second early or mid-September, that is, when the grass is already green and a warm time of a year is approaching, as opposed to when the leaves are changing the colour and the warm time of the year is about to finish. Both are times when there is an abundance of food, especially milk products, so the offering could be rich. Some of my informants said that the offerings were made in spring only, while others opted for autumn. Some said that the ritual was conducted either in spring or in autumn; others said that it was done both in May and in September. There was also a variety of opinions as to whether the ritual had to be conducted each year or at intervals of three or more years. The ceremony should be held during the first two quarters of a new moon, but the first quarter after the third day was the best time for the celebration. The ritual and the offering All the descriptions of Altai tagylga contained elements of ritualized action, the same as those described in Chapters 4 and 5 for offerings at sacred springs and during Chaga bairam, namely sa˘, chachylga, mürgüül, alkanar and ailanar. In most cases, there was also a huge communal gathering in the place where tagylga was conducted, with sporting events and a feast. The issue that was described variously by the Telengit elders and remains a bone of contention in current attempts at reviving Altai tagylga is that of the offering itself. Compare two fragments below: Marusia Tebekova, Beltyr village: Altai tagylgan was done in autumn. Everyone gathered on the hill and they prepared: a mortar,11 a plate, sieve and barley. They made talkan (coarse barley flour) there and they cooked köchö (barley mutton broth).

Ritual and revival 175 Young men were training young horses, they picked them out from the herd. They were making a mortar, a cot. They tied lambs, they milked goats, they tied calves, they milked cows. Women wore chegedek,12 they sang, they enjoyed themselves, they were laughing. Boys played kazhyk (a game using sheep joints). People poured araky (milk vodka) into tazhuur (a leather vessel) and they drank. Very early in the morning, around 5 or 6 o’clock, the herd of sheep and goats was taken away to graze. Then, around 9 or 10 o’clock, it was brought back and the herd was going around tagyl (ailanar). Then they made the sa˘ offering: they burnt food, juniper and sprinkled milk and airak (soured milk). Everyone went round tagyl (ailanar), people milked horses and sprinkled their milk (chachyp), they prayed (mürgüül) and said blessings (alkanar). I know it only from words of older people. The shaman (kam) headed this ceremony because an ordinary person might have been taken away by evil spirits and it would bring misfortune to the people . . . They were not doing a red offering, this is very bad. This is done only when there is an evil spirit in the house and people begin to get ill . . . Jer tagylgany is a white ceremony, people tie white or light blue jalamalar (strips of material). Tele˘ Abulova, Beltyr village: I remember very well as Altai etkeni, Altai tagylgany was done on Emile hill. I saw it when I was 6 to 8 years old. They said alkysh there but the words I do not remember. People brought food, meat was cooked and they offered a sheep or a horse. The skin was with head, tail and all the legs. Then they said alkysh to Kudai. In the mouth of the animal, there was juniper. I do not remember who organized this ceremony. Everyone was going around tagyl (ailanar). People put food into the fire (sa˘); we did everything the older people told us. There is nobody left alive from the people who attended this. It is forbidden to call older people by their name and it is why I do not remember anyone. I do not even know if nama or kam was the leader of the ceremony. The skin of the animal hung on the pole. What happened to it later – I do not know. The meat was eaten but the bones were collected – not even one bone was thrown away . . . The last time it was done in 1932–3, secretly. I have seen such a ceremony twice. Both times there was an offering of an animal; this was like feeding Altai. It is not surprising that the people wanting to revive Altai tagylga today are confused. The presence or absence of the red offering is of crucial importance all over Inner Asia, but especially in the Altai where the early twentieth century saw the rise of the Burkhanist movement. As described briefly in Chapter 1, the movement used a notion of purity as a means of differentiating its own ritual practices from other religious compounds present among the Altaians, especially shamanic

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practices. Spiritual leaders of Burkhanism explicitly challenged red offerings by implying that they were connected with dark powers and should be avoided in favour of their pure, white faith. As a movement which combined religious revival with a striving for Altaian national unity and emancipation from the Russian influences, Burkhanism serves as a prime reference point for contemporary Altaian national leaders. But the old people, who actually witnessed ceremonies of communal worship of the Altai, do not agree on the kind of offering which was made. The re-introduction of past rituals happens all over Siberia and beyond13 (e.g. Jing 1996). The land can be worshipped in many different ways and many different kinds of ceremonies were described for Inner Asia. The problem begins when there is a need, stipulated by the goals of national ideology, to revive or actually create the ritual of land worship, which could be presented not only as a religious ceremony but also as the Altaian national celebration. The community Some elders stated that tagylga was a clan-based ceremony. My field material also indicates that in the past at least some of the ceremonies were indeed clanbased. Some of the yiyk mountains, which are nowadays generally recognized as sacred by people regardless of their clan allegiance, are linked to particular clans. For example, in the Kökörü village, Kök yiyk is considered to be a sacred mountain of the Köbök clan, while Sailü kem is understood to be a sacred mountain of the Sagal clan. Still, the connection between a clan and a mountain or a place of worship (tagylgalu jer) is not straightforward. It is quite clear that in the past both territorial and clan ceremonies for worshipping Altai have been conducted and today they are included under one name, which might have been different in the past. There are also descriptions in which people say that a knowledgeable person worshipped Altai alone, without the presence of the community. I imagine that this would be a relatively new phenomenon connected to the Soviet prohibition on religious ceremonies. My informants, who said that in the 1930s some biler ulus (pl.) conducted the ceremony on their own for fear of punishment, confirmed this interpretation. Biler ulus felt responsible for the well-being of the community, hence they wanted to conduct the ceremonies. But they did not want to have witnesses, as this might have placed them in jeopardy. The recipient and the object of worship The most obvious recipient of the offering is Altai as the place, as Altai Kudai and as Altaidy˘ eezi. Altai needs worshipping, otherwise it becomes katu and it is difficult to live there. Altai as a whole should be tagylgalu jer, which literally means ‘a place (earth), with (a ceremony performed on) tagyl’. Still, not only Altai or Jer can be tagylgalu. People talk about tagylgalu agash (tree). A knowledgeable person alone, without the presence of the community, performs the ceremony next to a tree. The meaning of this ritual was not as clear to my informants as in

Ritual and revival 177 the case of Altai tagylga. It was performed individually by a biler kizhi for a reason unknown to the community. Another tagylga ceremony referred to a home fireplace. This was a blessing of a household performed by a knowledgeable person, most often a shaman (kam). My informants considered this ceremony to be rare and dangerous. After ot (fire) takyr the fireplace was treated with more injunctions and veneration than in other households. The possibility of conducting Altai tagylga today As we have seen, the main reason given for the difficulties of conducting Altai tagylga today is the lack of the right person to lead it. All the most respected biler ulus of Ere Chui (Marusia eje, Kura˘ Olchonova, Aryman Konstantinov)14 told me that they do not consider themselves to be the right people to conduct the ceremony. While talking about Altai tagylga Marusia eje said: Nobody can do it anymore. In this generation (uie) nobody can do it. If our generation is replaced, new life begins, maybe then such biler kizhi will appear, who will be able to do that. This is kalkanchy chak (the final age). If people change, then maybe something will begin anew. After these people other people will take the lead, other ja˘ (way of life, faith) will come – this will be their share (ülü). In our time it is like that: kam is no kam, a ruler is no ruler. If anyone shamanizes (kamdap) these days, s/he will not be able to go up (örö) anyway.15 The Earth (Jer), God (Kudai), trees, everything needs takyr. Everything should be respected, known, kept in plenitude, significant (uchurlu). All our people who knew that have died. All for their sins (kinchek) went tamaga.16 All of them died during the repression, they went to the dark place (karany˘ jerine bargan). And nowadays nobody will be able to do this. In this short account, Marusia eje, a well-known biler kizhi from Ere Chui, succinctly expressed the general feeling about Altai tagylga. It is a crucial ceremony but, sadly, there is no possibility of reviving it. That means that life in the Altai will become gradually more and more difficult, to the point that everything will be different, the land will change, the people will change and their ja˘ – their faith and their way of life – will change. The difficult economic situation in the Republic of Altai and the high rates of mortality, unemployment, suicide17 and manslaughter among the Altaians are attributed on one level to economic difficulties all over the Russian Federation and people’s psychological reactions to them. But, on another level, they are seen as signum temporis, beyond human control, as predicted by jarlykchy and yrymchy – people who can see the future (Muytueva and Chochkina 1996). Altai tagylga has always been a very important ceremony in the Altai. As stated above, it is possible that several kinds of ceremonies (conducted by various people, territorial or clan-based, with animal sacrifice or ‘white offerings’), aimed

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at blessing Altai, were made in the past. The fear, which is nowadays evoked by this ceremony, makes it very difficult to re-introduce it. The ritual has the power to evoke crucial changes in the welfare of the people, as it directly influences the state of the Altai Jer (Earth Altai). If Altai tagylga is not performed, Altai becomes katu – hard, it ceases to give support to the people. Re-introduction of Altai tagylga is seen as one of the most efficient ways of eventually stopping this process. If properly conducted, it would soften Altai, which would give protection to its people again. However, if conducted improperly, it could harden the Altai even more.

Reviving Altai tagylga in Ere Chui Altai tagylga is considered to be so important that, despite serious doubts about conducting it nowadays, there have been attempts to re-establish the ceremony. As far as I am aware, within the district of Kosh-Agach one Altai tagylga ceremony was conducted in Kökörü village in the mid-1980s, one ceremony in the 1990s in Chagan Uzun and since 1995 the ceremony has been organized almost every year in Telengit-Sortogoi. In 1982 a shaman from Kökörü, Tolmot Demchinov, decided to conduct Altai tagylga in the Kala˘ valley. This event is briefly described in a booklet written by Krai Adarovich Bidinov from Kökörü (Bidinov 1996). However, most of my information comes directly from the people who witnessed the ceremony. The shaman asked the authorities of the communal farm in Kökörü to lend him a bus and a group of people set off towards Kala˘. Herders from the neighbouring camps joined them at the place. The kolkhoz authorities at that time did not see any reason to prevent such a religious ceremony – they even lent the bus to the participants. According to Bidinov (1996: 26), some 60–80 people took part in the ceremony. The main parts of the offering mentioned by my informants were the sa˘, tying jalamalar to the string tied to two willow trees, and communal eating, drinking and playing games. The ceremony was conducted for the benefit of the territorial community and the people who were present were from Kökörü village and its herders’ camps. It has not been explained to me why kam Tolmot Demchinov decided to conduct the ceremony at that time. He was not a local person, and belonged to the Todosh clan, which is hardly represented in this village (see Chapter 2). His position in the village is remembered as ambivalent. On the one hand, he was a powerful kam, and Alya Tolmotovna, his daughter and biler kizhi, who now lives at a camp near Kökörü and helps people with healing and divination, is also respected because of her father’s fame. On the other hand, Tolmot was often accused of making mistakes in rituals and finally his death was attributed to the revenge of his helping spirits, who, not being managed properly, finally turned against the shaman. Altai tagylga, as conducted by him, was also judged unfavourably. People mention that there was too much drinking of alcohol, that the ritual was

Ritual and revival 179 conducted on a base made of cement, that the blessings (alkysh) were not proper blessings, and so on. Jondy˘ Samunov, an elderly respected man and kösmekchy, explained it in this way: He was doing this because the Altai Earth (Altai Jer) hardened (katulagan). He wanted to bring the order back. There was a huge loss of cattle, there were illnesses. People used to say that the earth hardened and it was necessary to do Jer takyr. Still, after the ceremony the earth hardened even more . . . I did not like the way he was doing it, as this was not done in the ancient way. Afterwards, all misfortunes in Kökörü began and among Tolmot’s kin people there were bad things happening: everyone was dying, there were handicapped children born . . . This was all because of the ceremony. Kam Tolmot Demchinov died a few years after conducting Altai tagylga. There were no attempts to repeat the ceremony in Kökörü. Both of the rituals in Chagan Uzun and Telengit-Sortogoi were organized by a group of people who gathered around Klaudia Samtakova, the director of the secondary school in Telengit-Sortogoi village. As we saw earlier, this is the school that is involved in the experimental programme for teaching Altaian traditions, and Klaudia Samtakova is very passionate about this project. The school became a kind of a spiritual centre for the Telengit population of the village, especially when a son of Natalia Banzyrovna, one of the teachers, found a Buddhist statuette in the mountains, one of four discovered on the territory of the Republic. The teachers gather regularly for prayer and meditation. It is important that most of them (and the director herself) are not local women – they were married to local men and some of them are not Telengits but Altai kizhi. Often, like Klaudia Samtakova herself, they come from areas which are more Russified then Ere Chui and where the Altaian language and many customs have been forgotten. This means that in order to run a programme on Altaian culture in the school, most of the teachers have had to learn about Altaian customs from newspapers, teachers’ seminars organized in the capital of the Republic, and from the local elders. Because of this, the flexibility of the lived-experience of the Telengits was replaced by the process of acquiring knowledge through learning and gathering information. The focus subsequently shifted to knowledge content and resulted in a strict differentiation between right and wrong, the allowed and the forbidden, the sacred and the profane. I was told that the slightest mistake during the ritual could have very dangerous outcomes. As the teachers were not sure if a stranger should attend the ritual, they were afraid of my presence. The necessity of organizing Altai tagylga in Telengit-Sortogoi was revealed to one of the teachers in a dream in 1993. The eezi (female) of Kök yiyk mountain appeared in the dream to say that the ceremony should be conducted in two days. Biler kizhi (Svetlana from Mukhor Tarkhata), who was asked to interpreted this dream, said that it meant two years. The year 1995 was a Year of the Mouse, which is the first in the 12-year calendar, hence an excellent time for beginnings of any kind.

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In 1995 the ceremony was conducted for the first time. A knowledgeable woman from Telengit Sortogoi, Ogosh örökön, instructed the participants in the ceremony on the basis of messages she received from her helping spirits.18 She said that the offering itself should be done by a man, so a respectable man was invited, who, not having any special abilities, fulfilled the tasks that Ogosh örökön described to him. The ceremony was conducted within a very small circle of people, mostly schoolteachers. It has since been repeated every spring with similarly limited participation. The ritual involved making a sa˘ offering, tying jalamar and a blessing (alkanar). The atmosphere around this celebration is one of mystery, exclusiveness and fear. It is not an open event. The group conducts the ceremony on behalf of the larger territorial group, which is not allowed to participate and does not even know that it is being conducted. The news about this ritual spread in the region via gossip, especially among teachers who gather regularly in Kosh-Agach for seminars and conferences. People from other villages seem frightened and astonished by Klaudia Samtakova’s courage in taking on such a grave responsibility. Klaudia Samtakova also initiated Altai tagylga in Chagan Uzun. It was conducted as a one-off event by people from outside the village, brought there by Klaudia Samtakova. So far it has never been repeated by the local people.

The case of Saratan – continuance of ritual practice Saratan is a village situated beyond the borders of the district of Kosh-Agach, which was the main site of my fieldwork. It is in the district of Ulagan, which is the other region of the Altai inhabited by Telengits. It is quite isolated – the road network in the district of Ulagan is not well developed and when it snows (usually between October and May), Saratan is often cut off. The district of Ulagan is also quite isolated within the Republic as a whole, not only in terms of transport, but more importantly because of the way in which this region is perceived. The Telengits of Ulagan were the first in central and southern Altai to yield to Orthodox Christianity. Today, stories of oppression by the protagonists of the Altai Orthodox Mission, with Telengits being forced to accept baptism, are prominent in the Altaian media and Ulagan is portrayed as the main site in the Altaian struggle against the missionaries. Despite this, the influence of Orthodox Christianity remains strong there and more importantly, the people of Ulagan do not necessarily reject it. Many of them accepted baptism as part of their religious life while continuing to worship the land and its powers. The Telengits’ acceptance of Christianity in Ulagan makes them an unlikely model for Altaian religious life in the eyes of the national leaders. The leaders tend to take their inspiration for a national ideology from the districts of central Altai (Ust Kan, Ongudai) or from Kosh-Agach, which is widely acknowledged as a spiritually powerful place. It is therefore not surprising perhaps that while Ulagan boasts being the one district where the ritual of Altai tagylga has been conducted without interruption throughout the Soviet era, this fact has never hit the media and the district has never been praised as being host to a prime example of this ceremony.

Ritual and revival 181 The tradition of conducting Altai tagylga close to the village of Saratan has never been broken. It has been conducted on the same hill, approximately 2 kilometres from the village, for more years than anyone can remember. Although I did not take part in the ceremony because of commitments at my main field site, I did receive permission to attend. Even this detail shows a crucial difference in the attitudes of the people organizing the ceremony in Saratan and those organizing it in Telengit-Sortogoi. For both parties, Altai tagylga is a very powerful ceremony, which, if not properly conducted, could offend Altaidy˘ eezi and have very dangerous outcomes (bringing illness and misfortune to the people). Still, the people in Saratan although anxious that the ceremony should go well, did not see any reason why a stranger could not observe the ceremony. On the other hand, in Telengit-Sortogoi, they were concerned that my presence could disturb a delicate balance acquired over a few short years. The newness of the ceremony resulted in purification of the celebration, and the rules, once established, had to be strictly followed. It also resulted in secrecy, with a small group of people keeping the organization in their hands without any communal participation. By contrast, the celebration in Saratan is open. Although only a few families took part during the Communist regime, in recent years the number of people attending it has grown. Apparently, nobody has exclusive control over the organization of the ritual (unlike Telengit-Sortogoi, where the school director and a group of teachers take charge), and people are free to join in. In fairness though, it might be that the ritual in Telengit-Sortogoi will over the years become more flexible and adaptable. The ceremony in Saratan used to be managed by an old shamaness, who died some 15 years ago. Although she knew the language of Altaidy˘ eezi and could talk to him, she gave the leadership to an elderly man without any special abilities. She would listen to the voice of Altaidy˘ eezi and guide the man through the ritual process. This indicates that this particular ritual is an example of an obootype ceremony – one concerned with group stability in a patrilineal context. After the shamaness’s death, the leadership remained with the old man, who tried to remember her advice and activities in order to keep the form of the ritual unchanged. All the clans from Saratan can take part in the ceremony. Each family prepares two young larch trees with a string hanging between them and 27 strips of material tied to the string. People belonging to the same clan place their trees next to each other. There is one common tagyl, where the main common sa˘ offering is burnt. In addition, there are small tagyls in front of family trees, where family offerings are made. All the main elements of ritual action outlined earlier are present. The offering included cooked meat but no animal was killed at the place of the ceremony. The ceremony conducted in Saratan is an integral part of the day-to-day life of the community. Although certain aspects of it can be criticized and discussed in the village (as in the case of Chaga bairam in Kökörü), the celebration remains an accepted and anticipated part of the year’s activities. By contrast, in Kökörü the one-off attempt at reviving Altai tagylga is remembered with fear. Older people, including shamans, say that the ceremony was a failure and that no

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one should dare to repeat it. Likewise, the organizers of the ceremony in Telengit-Sortogoi feel the need to protect it within their closed circle. For them, the ceremony is so important, extraordinary and scary that communal participation would be a danger to its purity.

Ritual practice and religious authority The contemporary term Altai tagylga may cover a whole range of different ceremonies held in the past, including ones that were not aimed at stabilizing the group but rather at solving particular problems arising in the course of life (taiylgan ceremonies in the above classification). Nevertheless, the contemporary attempts at its revival appear to interpret Altai tagylga more as an oboo-type ceremony – communal, repetitive, fixed in time and space, that is rituals aimed at the stability of a group. The ethnographic material presented earlier suggests that there are two ways of legitimating Altai tagylga – through continuity in time and through the authority of the leader. As noted earlier, following Mills’s (2003) suggestion, I regard authority as the capacity to formulate statements that are widely accepted as true within certain social fields. Spiritual specialists can be powerful – in other words, it is acknowledged that they can understand the spiritual worlds – but in the context of the communal ritual, their knowledge does not have to be authoritative. Despite being knowledgeable, they cannot have authority to conduct Altai tagylga, because the way in which they understand the spiritual worlds is not appropriate to conduct a ritual aimed at group stability. This is why the shamans (kamdar) and biler kizhi ‘proper’, whose knowledge, as argued in Chapter 7, is susceptible to challenge, do not successfully become leaders of the re-introduced Altai tagylga. The second factor of legitimization of Altai tagylga is continuity in time. If, in the contemporary context, the aim of this ritual is to provide stability of the social group through establishing its connection with the land and its powers, the individual senses that facilitate communication with the Altaidy˘ eezi may not be of prime importance. Although some of the above-quoted elderly Telengits said that an ability to hear Altaidy˘ eezi is crucial during the ceremony, as it allows the message of his/her wishes to be forwarded to the people, in the ritual at Saratan, the kam who could hear Altaidy˘ eezi ceded the leadership to an old man who had no spiritual abilities. She participated in the ceremony listening to Altaidy˘ eezi, but she was not crucial to the ritual’s conduct. After her death the Altai tagylga has been successfully continued, because there is a leader, who stands for the group and its continuity in time. The knowledge of elders is not about contemporary situations and current problems, neither is it about dealing with flexible and changing worlds of spirits. It is seen as the wisdom of previous generations related to the stability of kin and territorial units. As Caroline Humphrey writes, the elder (bagchi) is ‘like a quintessence of “the old man”, someone who emerged from the others by virtue of his knowledge of ritual and oratorical skills’ (1996: 30). Therefore, the elder is not qualitatively different from all the other men in the community and the knowledge of elders is not a function of

Ritual and revival 183 individual abilities. The elder knows by virtue of changing generations, he is a keeper of knowledge, but cannot generate it through the process of understanding. When continuity in time has been broken, as in the case of Altai tagyry beyond Saratan village, the elders no longer have the means of conducting the ritual. Tim Ingold (2000) argues against treating knowledge as passed from one generation to the next one, as if the younger members of the community were empty containers to be filled by the wisdom of the elders. Instead, acquisition of knowledge is implicit in practices, it is acquired through doing things together and through younger people observing and repeating the activities of their elders. This resonates with Paul Connerton’s (1989) notion of habitual memory. In his view, habitual memory is maintained through repetition of actions in such a way that it cannot be expressed in words. In the case of re-introduced ceremonies in the Altai, the habitual memory of the ritual has largely been lost. There is no one living today who conducted the ritual in the past. Apart from the elders however, there is another group of specialists who could probably lead the ceremony – the lamas. Their knowledge is authoritative in Mills’s sense and there is the authority of the written word behind their acts. Jun Jing (1996) describes a case from northern China, where the ritual of Confucius’s birthday was re-introduced. Although there were doubts and challenges over the way in which the ritual was conducted, there was also the authority of the temple and the Council of Elders, which could be referred to. With such a firm authority, discussion on the proper way to conduct the ritual was possible without destroying the feasibility of conducting it. In the Altai this opportunity does not exist as there is no authoritative leader or council of leaders who could be consulted. There is no institutionalized religion, no sacred scripts, and the spiritual specialists do not provide effective authority. Nevertheless, because of Altai tagylga’s great importance attempts to re-introduce it have been repeated several times in Ere Chui and even more often in other regions of the Altai. Since the beginning of the 1990s there has been a plan to conduct a big communal land worship ceremony in 2004. This year marks the onehundredth anniversary of the rout of a gathering of followers of the Burkhanist movement in the Tere˘ valley in Ust Kan district (see Chapter 1). After several attempts at conducting Altai tagylga in various places in the Republic, none of which has led to it becoming an annual event, the Altaian media started to push the idea of a carefully prepared ceremony in 2004. The inhabitants of Kyrlyk village, which is located next to Tere˘ vally and some of whose parents and grandparents participated in the Burkhanist gathering, have been visited and consulted by various groups of Altaians religious and political activists. However, when the time came to talk about the details of the ceremony, the apparent atmosphere of compromise between the various parties broke down. Ultimately, the elderly people of Kyrlyk forbade conduct of the ceremony in the Tere˘ valley. When another group of national activists visited in the spring of 2004 to talk about the details of the ceremony, they found the entire valley deeply ploughed so as to prevent any communal gathering being held there in the near future.

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Because of Altai tagylga’s great importance people are anxious about its results and proper conduct. In the case of Ere Chui, attempts at re-introducing it are met with fear, caused by the combination of the apparent impossibility of conducting the ritual and a deep need for it. It causes a frustrating situation marked by the tension between impossibility and necessity. The activities of the teachers from Telengit-Sortogoi, who insist on conducting the ritual despite accusations of bringing misfortune to the people, can ultimately reintroduce continuity of time as a way of legitimizing the ritual. If the ritual can be continued, it might in time come to be viewed as having been conducted from ‘time immemorial’. Still, there is a price to be paid for such an approach. In a fearful situation such as this, there is a tendency to rely on rules to control ritual. Where a ritual is established as a repetitive event in peoples’ lives, there can be place for compromise, bargaining and negotiation. Although people are anxious about its performance and results, they can also joke about it and be quite relaxed during its performance.19 In the case of newly introduced rituals anxiety is replaced by fear. Subsequently, the ritual becomes excessively serious and there is no place left for bargaining and negotiation. The new or re-introduced ritual has to have an explicitly clear structure and rules. There are no actions that can be taken for granted, as the very form of the ritual is not self-evident. On the other hand, there is no doubt that people recognize the importance of the ritual and, also, its meaning is clear to them.

Political significance of the communal ceremonies In the contemporary Republic of Altai there are three main ceremonies that are considered to have potential as unification ceremonies at a national level: El-oiyn, Chaga bairam and Altai tagylga (sometimes called Mürgüül in the newspapers, after the name of one element of ritualized action). The easiest to introduce was El-oiyn; the most difficult has been Altai tagylga. El-oiyn, which was mentioned briefly in Chapters 2 and 4, is a new ceremony focused around national sports and contests based on folklore and heroic epics. It has twin origins: one is the Soviet athletic events (spartakiada), the other is the tradition of sporting contests, which took place following all communal celebrations in Altai.20 El-oiyn is a secular festival; although it includes outwardly religious themes such as a blessing and a sa˘ offering before the opening, it is essentially a communal gathering to celebrate the establishment of the Republic of Altai (3 July). El-oiyn was successfully introduced as a common national celebration in 1988. It is organized every 2 or 3 years, each time in a different district of the Republic. In this way, it travels around the whole territory. The festival is overtly aimed at unification of the Altaian people. It is organized centrally, with one framework. The main theatrical performance (based on Altaian heroic epics) is directed by the most famous theatre directors from the capital of the Republic with the help of local artists and local people participating in mass scenes. The organizers also emphasize that each festival has to give the attending people a ‘local flavour’ of the district. The festival must make apparent the diversity of landscapes and traditions that are embodied in the common labels of ‘our land’ and ‘our people’. The secular

Ritual and revival 185 character of the gathering allows the Russian-speaking population of the Republic to take part in the celebrations. The Russians are invited to participate, as guests, in the Altaian festival, which commemorates the establishment of the Republic as a federal unit of the Russian Federation. In this way, El-oiyn is both a commemorative ceremony festival and a celebration with political aims (cf. Connerton 1989). It is interesting that the only parts of El-oiyn that are contested before and after the festival concern the spiritual dimension. As expected, each time the festival is organized there are arguments concerning the place where the gathering should occur. Whichever place is chosen, it is criticized for having some kind of spiritual disadvantage (e.g. evil spirits known to settle there; ancient graves, so the souls of the people would be disturbed; many accidents, meaning that the eezi of the place is hard (katu)). Despite all of this, the festival takes place and it is left to the discretion of the local people to purify the place after the festival and deal with the possible outcomes. Although El-oiyn has been quite successfully introduced as a national unifying ceremony, its success does not satisfy the leaders of the modern Altaian nation. What they are looking for is not only political and national unification, but also a spiritual one. Hence the significance of Chaga bairam and Altai tagylga. The interpretative potential of Chaga bairam was presented in Chapter 6. Here I want to underline the relation between the features of the three celebrations and the level of their success as unifying national ceremonies. In the contemporary situation, El-oiyn is well-established as a national ceremony while Altai tagylga has barely got off the ground. Chaga bairam occupies the middle-ground between them. Some Altai tagylga–Mürgüül celebrations were organized centrally from Gorno-Altaisk (Makosheva 1993), but they were all one-off attempts which could not deliver the sought-after sense of continuity. Chaga bairam is organized on a national level, but it is continually criticized and challenged. Chaga bairam and Altai tagylga have some common aspects. Although Chaga bairam offers the possibility of interpretation in secular terms (to mark the beginning of the lunar calendar year), the recipient of the offering is the same as that in Altai tagyry – it is the Altai, with all its spiritual and political dimensions. Nevertheless, although the explicit recipient of the ceremony might be the same, the character of the ceremony has to be considered in its overall context, that is who attends the ceremony, what are the prayers, what kind of participation it involves, what kind of offering is made. Altai tagylga is an extremely powerful ceremony in spiritual terms. I think that the communal character of this celebration, together with its spiritual potential, make it both attractive and feared by the intellectuals from Gorno-Altaisk. Chaga bairam, when conducted at a communal level, begins to resemble Altai tagylga and hence it also becomes feared. Although discussions and quarrels are integral features of many Telengit rituals (see Chapters 4 and 5), when a new (unifying, communal) dimension is introduced to the ritual, there is a need for a set of rules. New, invented or reintroduced ritual has to be strictly prescribed. In their book on ritual actions Caroline Humphrey and James Laidlaw address the issue of the emergence of ritualized actions (1994: 155ff). They show how practice gradually becomes ritualized, how

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it becomes objectified and how it gains independence. The problem with Altai tagylga is that it has to be introduced as a ritual, that is its performance has to be introduced in a way that has already been objectified. There is no possibility of a gradual ritualization of the action; it has to be presented to the people as an existing, objectified act. Hence, the re-introduction of the ritual needs an authority of specified and clear knowledge, which cannot be provided by contemporary biler kizhi, as their power lies precisely in the possibility of being challenged. For a ritual such as this, the person who is needed is neither kam nor any sort of biler kizhi who deals with spiritual worlds. Instead, what is needed is either an elder or a lama (nama). The knowledge of nama is seen as stable, written down and unquestionable. There are no namalar in Ere Chui nowadays and, taking into account contemporary attitudes towards Buddhism, any potential activities of lamas in this respect would probably be unsuccessful. Conversely, one cannot say that there are no elders among the Telengits, for there are many who know much about the rituals held in the past. However, the problem lies in activating this sort of knowledge. They may know, theoretically, how to do things, but without continuity in time their knowledge is ineffective. In the light of the overall argument made in this and the previous chapters, the attempts made by the group of teachers in the Telengit-Sortogoi village to re-introduce Altai tagyry, despite all the arguments and quarrels around it, can be seen as an attempt to reintroduce authority into the ritual through time. It therefore ought to be conducted in the realm of stable knowledge under the leadership of an elder. If a shaman conducted this ritual, he would need to exchange flexibility and unpredictability for stability and security (i.e. take on the mantle of an elder). The Altai tagyry ritual is needed because it is perceived as giving stability not only to territory– or clan-based groups but also to the largest group of all – the nation. It is also significant that performing Altai tagyry is perceived by the Telengits to be a difficult task. People do not talk about conducting it as enjoyment, although the old people say there were sports, games and dances organized in the past after the ritual. Still, Altai tagyry is seen as something that is an obligation and cannot be avoided. It gives a structure to life – it builds Altai. Let me remind the reader that one of the names given to this ceremony is Altai etkeni, which literally means ‘making Altai’. As already stressed, the abandonment of Altai tagyry is seen as a source of the present destabilization and difficult times affecting the region. Altai tagylga has attracted the attention of Altaian national leaders since the earliest days of the Republic. They are drawn to it on account of its relation to the land, which is the basis of many other relations in Altai, and because of its supposedly powerful potential for the spiritual unification of the nation. The old people, however, still remember all kinds of ceremonies that were held beside sacred mountains, both by lamas and by shamans. Initially, on the wave of national-cultural revival, attempts were made by shamans to conduct such ceremonies, but all were judged unfavourably by the local communities, mainly on account of inappropriate leadership. Subsequent attempts at re-introducing the ceremony indicate that if Altaian national unity is indeed to be achieved, it will be not with a shaman-led taiylgan ceremony, but with a lama or elder-led oboo-type ceremony.

Conclusions

A brief trip to the tin shanties of today’s Aborigines in Central Australia invites the unaccustomed visitor to interpret their lives as irrevocably dominated, if not destroyed, by Western civilisation. Ironically, the eyes of the concerned see mainly poverty and deprivation, rather then the structured social world Aboriginal people continue to maintain. With a view to the imposing, apparently unchanging landscape the nostalgic may reflect sadly on the intervention of history in a timeless world. But these reactions would be mistaken. (Myers 1991: 11–12)

Visitors to the Altai often come away with similar impressions to those presented above. To them, the contemporary life of the Altaians (including the Telengits) seems a spoiled version of an imagined Altaian past. A proud herder, living in intimate connection with his environment, skilled in traditional arts and crafts and respecting his ancestors – this is the idealized picture which now mocks the visitor. The contemporary Altaian seems for them a post-Soviet hybrid being, neither ‘modern’ nor ‘traditional’. Dressed usually in a tracksuit and baseball cup, fluent in the Russian language, drinking vodka and driving a 30-year-old Soviet car, a contemporary Altaian seems to epitomize the post-Soviet razval – collapse. This is particularly so if he is contrasted in the ‘tourist gaze’ (cf. Urry 2002) with the beautiful landscape of the Altai, with its snow-covered peaks and beautiful valleys, and with its vast steppes. But let me repeat after Myers – such reaction is mistaken. Focusing on the outward form alone makes it impossible to see the persistence of the modes of acting, being and knowing in the contemporary world. But this persistence does not necessarily refer to a form of social structure that persists despite the influence of external forces: for example, inclusion in Tsarist Russia and the subsequent processes of Russification; the spread of Soviet power and its anti-religious politics; the influence of the modern federal state and national ideology; and, most recently, the inclusion of local people into the global debate on indigenous rights. First of all, before one can speculate on whether the social structure persists, one must accept that once there was something in Telengit life that could be extracted from people’s practices and notions and called ‘social structure’. Instead, for Myers (1991: 287–288), who had to deal with a

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negotiated quality in everyday Pintupi life, the objective framework of sociality outside the individual and outside any temporary local group was ‘The Dreaming’ – a transcendental image of ‘permanence’ and ‘continuity’, the basis of being, the foundation of the visible, present-day world. To some extent the Altai itself, as a land with all the narratives and worship related to it, can be seen as the Telengit counterpart of The Dreaming. The Altai is a constant point of reference, an entity at once transcendent and immanent, through which and in which social relations and identities are located. The embeddedness in the Altai is the only unquestionable feature binding all Altaians together. There is at least one crucial difference between conceptualizations of The Dreaming and the Altai. Although the Altai is a constant point of reference, it is also flexible and changing. The mountains approached from various sides change their shapes, have various numbers of peaks, and the places change their qualities becoming jymzhak (soft and welcoming) or katu (hard and difficult) for the people. The power in places is felt differently by different people and their attitudes to particular places are accordingly varied. The Altai is here, this is the landscape within which people dwell and not a transcendent image as The Dreaming, which although shapes the world in which the Pintupi live, is not a part of everyday life. The Pintupi make an explicit distinction between The Dreaming and the visible, and between the transcendent image and the everyday life. By contrast, the Altai is immanent in Telengit life, and yet there is a feeling that it moves beyond such immanence, to give ultimate shape to what being Telengit is all about. The narratives from old Tibetan chronicles (see Chapter 2), which describe the land as uncontrollable and changing, with ‘flying mountains’ that have to be pinched down by the protagonists of Buddhism, seem to be disturbingly accurate in relation to the Altai. Here every place has its whims and needs, which makes the people move within the landscape with care and respect. It is nevertheless true that at times the Telengits are themselves disturbed by the changeablility and impermanence of their land. Thus they make attempts at stabilizing it, as we saw for example in relation to clan structure (Chapter 6) or kin-based or territorial groups as in the case of the Altai tagyry ritual (Chapter 8). This simultaneous presence of stability and changeability, permanence and impermanence, transcendence and immanence in the Altai is hinted upon in the two notions which are most important in the contemporary religious life of the Telengits (and also all the Altaians): Altaidy˘ eezi and Altai Kudai (Chapter 3). Altai Kudai, which is probably a newer concept within Altaian religious life, encompasses mainly immanence and transcendence as two aspects of the same phenomenon. Not much is generally said about Altai Kudai, and his characteristics are almost never discussed. The way in which this notion is present in Telengit religious life might be emblematic of the shift towards stability, which could ultimately foster a more significant change in the Telengit way of life and their attitudes to knowledge than the afore mentioned changes in the forms of the everyday life. Still, the persistence of the first of these two notions, Altaidy˘ eezi, suggests that the concern with stability has not yet come to dominate Telengit life. Altaidy˘ eezi is a metonym, encompassing both a whole and the parts, at the same

Conclusions 189 time one and many. Transforming itself (kubulyp), indistinguishable from the actual features of the land, although simultaneously present in anthropomorphic or zoomorphic forms, Altaidy˘ eezi can be seen as the notion which explicates the complexities of the Telengit life. The Altai is the basic reference point in securing sociality among the Telengits and the Altaians. All the identities and social relations can be understood only with reference to the Altai. Alas, as the conceptualization or even the ontology of the land includes its flexibility and impermanence, when the necessity for stability of social relations arises, the land has to be made as the ground for such relations and to be bound together with the group whose stability is of concern. This is done through the ritual of Altai tagyry, which in this respect resembles a broad class of ceremonies well known in Inner Asia, which I call oboo-type rituals (Chapter 8). It is significant that one of the names used for such rituals in the Altai is Altai etkeni (lit. ‘making the Altai’). During these rituals, the Altai is made as the base, the unmoveable source on which people’s lives and trust can rely. If we accept that the oboo-type rituals establish through land the basis for sociality, it is no wonder that the Altaian counterpart of these ceremonies evokes so many emotions and discussions. In the parts of Inner Asia where such rituals are practised on a regular basis, they may be seen as ‘meaningful repetitive actions’ (cf. Boyer 1990) through which the stability of social relations is confirmed. This is especially so in the regions where such rituals fall within the domain of spiritual specialists of institutionalized religions – such as Buddhism. The land can be seen then as essentially ‘tamed’, established as a base, but also subjugated to the aims and needs of the people. Not only is it stabilized, it is also constructed as separate from humans. In contemporary Altaian life there are also other instances where the land is constructed as separate from humans. The first of the noticeboards with instructions for visitors to the Altai, described in Chapter 3, presented the Altai as an objective background on which human activities unfold. The Altai is to be protected, respected and admired, but it is presented as ‘nature’ on which the human life depends. One can say that this board was prepared not for the Altaians, but for the visitors and written to ensure that they understand why certain behaviour is necessary. It can also be seen as emblematic of what the Comaroffs called ‘colonization of consciousness’ (1992). In putting up this board, the Altaians engaged in the conversation, which was not structured to the paradigm of their choice. Later replacement of this board with one that does not explain the details of the offerings or the character of Altaian–Altai relations, instead inviting the visitors to refrain from any ritual engagement with the land, can point towards the recognition of a paradigmatic shift, which the first board explicated. The text on the second board can be seen as a withdrawal from the conversation leading to colonization of consciousness. Similar attempts at withdrawal from such a conversation can be seen in the discussions surrounding the establishment in 2001 of ‘Üch E˘mek’ Nature Park in the Ongudai district. Anticipating the approval of the new Land Code of the Russian Federation (finally accepted in October 2001) and seeing a growing

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involvement of international organizations within the territory of the Republic, Danil Ivanovich Mamyev and his colleagues managed to convince Republic agencies of the need to establish a nature park along the Karakol valley. The park takes its name from Üch E˘mek, which is a sacred yiyk mountain (see Chapter 4) situated in this territory. Being sacred, the mountain should be approached only by people in dire need and with appropriate rituals. It should not be climbed and any irresponsible intervention with its powers could bring grave consequences to the local inhabitants. The establishment of ‘Üch E˘mek’ has been argued in both nature protection and culture protection terms. Danil Ivanovich says that the park initiators wanted to ensure that the Karakol Valley would not be appropriated by external investors and that they would be able to manage the territory in a way that accommodates the spiritual significance of this land for the local inhabitants. They used UN draft documents evoking indigenous human rights in order to argue that the park should be managed by the Altaians and according to ‘Altaian traditions’. However, although they used UN documents and Danil Ivanovich keeps in contact with international organizations, ‘Üch E˘mek’ can be seen as a case of ‘protection against protection’. The leaders of the park have doubted if any kind of state or international protection would accommodate the Altaian sensitivities. Hence, they decided to take the matter in their own hands before anyone else did. And yet, what seems to be a happy story about involvement and the use of state and international resources for local benefit has turned into a source of a local conflict. The rationale behind the establishment of the park, which could be summarized as: ‘let’s protect our land before anyone else does’, caused heated discussions and protests that came, in the main, not from the Russian population but from the Altaians. A whole array of arguments has flown between the supporters and the opponents of the park. For example, the position of the leaders of ‘Üch E˘mek,’ with regard to tourism can be summarized as follows: Development of the tourist industry in the Altai is inevitable. Closing the Altai for tourism is implausible – tourists will come here whether we want it or not. Hence, establishing a nature park will enable us to guide them in a way that would not interfere with powers of places. Moreover, we will have a chance of choosing who comes here, restricting individual ‘wild tourism’ and explaining to the visitors the inappropriateness of conducting rituals or meditation. The position of their opponents is the following: Establishment of the park means in effect advertising this land for tourist purposes. If an area is called a nature park, this indicates to outsiders that this is a place worth visiting. Hence, the influx of tourists will grow. Moreover, who is to decide what the appropriate ways of behaviour for outsiders are, taking into account the diversity of Altaian religious practice? Actually, the appropriate state of mind is the essence of respect for the Altai and as such can be ensured only on the part of local inhabitants.

Conclusions 191 For the opponents of the nature park any form of institutionalized protection implies a separation between land and people, even if the latter are still allowed to herd there or fell trees and catch fish in selected places. Hence, this argument is not only about an access to land as an economic resource. Instead, creation of a nature park is seen as interference with local concepts of personhood and relatedness. I have argued throughout this book that people and land are not always conceived in the Altaian context as ontologically separate. Creation of a nature park introduces such a distinction. The opponents of ‘Üch E˘mek’ park argue that institutionalized protection of land would ultimately result in suspension of the people’s usual respectful ways of behaviour towards that land. To be successful in their bargaining for existence and resources, the organizers of ‘Üch E˘mek’ inevitably had to tap into the global discourse on environment and indigenous rights. As argued by Tim Ingold (2000) and David Anderson (2001), this approach tends to look at the environment as if from the top of a mountain or even from a Geographical Information System satellite, rather then from the perspective of everyday practices. Although ‘Üch E˘mek’ was established partly as a ‘protection against protection’ initiative, it has already been identified by UN agencies and environmental organizations as an exemplary case of local involvement.1 This tapping into global environmental discourses could again be analysed in terms of the ‘colonization of consciousness’ notion employed by the Comaroffs (1992) in their analysis of the Christian missionary activities in Africa. They argued that the turning point of the colonization process can be located at the moment when the local people are drawn into conversations with missionaries. Although they do not adopt Christian notions or beliefs, they nevertheless learn to argue their point of view in a way understandable to the missionaries. Although, at the first sight, they argue quite successfully, often bringing Christian notions to the point of ridicule, the Comaroffs claim that the very fact of engaging in an argument structured according to the colonizers’ rules, shows that the processes of colonization of consciousness are well on their way. I do understand the concerns of the ‘Üch E˘mek’ founders and I believe that they deserve all the attention and support they receive. They may be right that tapping into global discourses was the only way, at least in the long term, to prevent at least some territories in the Altai from being included in a global network of protected areas. Still, I think that the opposition they encounter from their fellow Altaians points towards interpretations of this process that go beyond the usual arguments about access to land. They can be symptomatic of the approach that refuses to abandon an ‘embedded in landscape’ point of view for a view from a mountain top or from a GIS satellite, and that refuses to be drawn into the conversation with a significant shift of paradigm. There are other instances where the Altaians treat the Altai as an entity related to the people but ontologically separate from them. This is apparent, for example, when they talk about the recent earthquakes as objective phenomena, which bear no relation to their actions – the earth shakes because there are shifts in its geological structure. Ontological separation is visible also when the earthquakes are interpreted as a result of people’s inappropriate behaviour towards the Altai. Here,

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the Altai is seen as a distinct agent with intentionality, giving just warnings to misbehaving humans. This is clearly reminiscent of Evans-Pritchard’s (1976) discussion on Azande magic and the distinction between how and why questions. The geological mechanism of the earthquake is part of the school curriculum and was also explained to the people by geologists working in the region after the earthquakes started. This provided acceptable answers to the how question. But the answer to the why question is still missing in the scientific explanations. Why did the stone falling from the mountain during the earthquake hit my neighbour’s house, and not mine? Nevertheless, the way in which the Altai is present in the life of the Telengits invites interpretations that extend beyond Evans-Pritchard’s argument. The narratives of impossibility of abandonment of the Altai, awareness that particular people can live happily only on a particular bank of the river or in a particular village point towards an interpretation that the personhood includes the land. More often than not the Altai should be seen as a constitutive part of the person and not as an ontologically separate entity. If this is so, it becomes even clearer why the Altai tagyry ritual evokes such emotions, fear and uncertainty. This ritual is not only about taming the land, but also about a change in the nature of personhood, about how humans are related to the environment within which they live. If the concern with sociality or influence of powers such as institutionalized religions or national ideology requires that the Altai is a stable reference point for social life and an entity separated from humans, the ritual task is a difficult one to undertake. When, as in the case of Altai tagyry, a ritual concerned with stability of social groups is not executed but instead remains an important matter of concern for the people, its (re)introduction can be a real challenge. Humphrey and Laidlaw (1994) claim that the power of ritual actions lies in its objectification. The celebrant has an agent’s awareness of his or her action, but for him/her this ritualized action is like a thing, external and encountered and perceived as if from outside. In Laidlaw and Humphrey’s understanding, ritualized acts are socially prescribed, and present themselves to individual actors as ‘given’ and external to themselves. While in everyday life a person’s act is given meaning by the agent’s intentions, in ritual that act appears almost like an object, which the actor can receive. The peculiar fascination for ritual, according to these authors, lies in the fact that here the actors both are and are not the authors of their acts. But what happens if the meaning and necessity of the ritual is widely known, shared and accepted but there are no socially prescribed actions to enable actual enactment of the ritual? Altai tagyry is definitely not an ‘empty ritual’, with attention focused on form. Quite the contrary, what is undoubtedly present is the meaning; what is missing is the form. There are certainly many other actually executed rituals in the Altai (see Chapters 3, 4 and 5), all of which can be seen as being composed of the same ritualized action elements (sa˘, amzagar, mürgüül, chachylga, ailanar, alkanar). Yet, the actual form of each of these actions is a concern and a matter of discussion among the Telengits. If they are performed within a context of, for example, Chaga bairam, year after year without a break, they come to form a ritual, for which a meaning is given if needed. Today, the concerns

Conclusions 193 of national ideologies have triggered discussions on the meaning of Chaga bairam, which is interpreted differently, depending on the agenda of the people concerned. This would seem a classic example to support Humphrey and Laidlaw’s theory – it is a ceremony that is executed, is composed of clearly separable ritualized action elements, and to which the meaning can be given when a need arises. But the situation with Altai tagyry is different. No one discusses its meaning – this should be a rite of land worship, undertaken for the benefit of the kin or territorial group, which would be achieved through securing the benevolence of the land as a source of group’s stability. What is missing is the practice of the ritual. It cannot be just ‘made’ out of the pre-existing ritualized action elements, because these can be executed in many different ways. There is a need for an authority to establish the ritual as a legitimate and beneficial deed. One solution is offered in the case of the teachers from Telengit-Sortogoi (Chapter 8), who try to (re)establish this ritual in time, seeking the source of ritual authority in its repetition. Another solution is to search for authority of a leader. The leader’s authority is understood here (after Mills 2003) as the ability to formulate statements that are widely accepted as true within a certain social field. The analysis of the practice of contemporary biler kizhi (knowledgeable people, including shamans) in the Altai (Chapter 7) resulted in the conclusion that although being powerful, they do not hold this type of authority. Their practice is not about stability but about negotiation and flexibility. They do not hold any corpus of knowledge that can be referred to and from which one could pick needed information or the answer to a question. Instead, they deal with the changeable worlds of spiritual beings. The spirits themselves do not have stable images, but instead should be understood as indices of the occult – the ultimately unknown and unreachable powers – that come into being at the intersection of this power and the abilities of every individual spiritual specialist (Chapter 6). In order to conduct Altai tagyry successfully (i.e. reach the desired aim of group stability), the shaman would have to become another kind of spiritual specialist, a specialist whose knowledge could be seen as a source of authority. This could be an elder (whose authority rests in continuity in time) or a lama (whose authority is based on his link to a religious institution). In Chapter 7 it was also noted that Telengits and Altaians say that the ‘real’ shamans do not exist anymore. It was pointed out that a temporal or spatial ceding of spiritual power may be an indicator of the shaman’s relations with the worlds of spirits. If the spirits are known as indices, it is always possible that someone else understands and perceives them in different way, depending on their individual abilities. Moreover, it may be argued that a ‘real’ shaman, who would do ‘real’ soul-travelling, could reach the occult and subsequently become the holder of absolute knowledge, which would again turn him into another kind of spiritual specialist. Maurice Bloch (1985) distinguished two main tendencies of looking at cognition, which are present among many disciplines within the humanities and social sciences: the ‘psychological approach’ and the ‘anthropological approach’.

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According to the former, cognitive systems are constructed in some kind of interaction with the environment (including people and phenomena), while in the latter they are viewed as received, and treated by academics in terms of ‘culture’, ‘cosmology’ or ‘collective representation’. Generally, Bloch is inclined towards a ‘psychological approach’. However, he points out several problems with this approach, the most relevant for my work being that while many concepts can be formed through everyday experience, we must also account for learning specific constructed systems, which in some sense are given to the people (Bloch 1985: 32). According to Bloch, both ‘anthropological’ and ‘psychological’ stances will eventually have something important to say in the analysis of cognition. Bloch shows that Pierre Bourdieu’s (1977, 1990) approach to some extent reconciles the classical anthropological view, in which knowledge is received, with a psychological approach, in which knowledge is individually constructed, by showing that the elements (people and things) with which a person interacts are themselves socially constructed. Hence, paraphrasing Bourdieu’s Berber example, although a Telengit child does not receive cognitive schemes ready made and is not simply taught them by adults, he or she nevertheless grows to be a Telengit child because of interaction with Telengit parents within a Telengit household. However, Bloch has another objection to this argument because the interaction with the adults would not provide a child with highly complex ritual or religious schemes. For what Bourdieu calls ‘ideology’, mechanisms other than the process of cognitive development have to be brought into account. Bloch says that what must be acknowledged is a complexity and variety in the nature of knowledge and its irreducibility to one process of acquisition. Bloch makes a distinction between knowledge that is received and learned as a system, and knowledge that is created in a process of interaction. To some extent all knowledge is received in a process of interaction, because learning is a multifaceted process. Still, the distinction is important and interesting, as the Telengits themselves express it in their preferences for certain kinds of knowledge in different contexts. What was contrasted in Chapter 7 in the case of lamas and shamans was not the content of knowledge but different valuations and preferences, depending on context, of what is known (content) and how it is known (process of understanding). While the stable, content-oriented knowledge of lamas could be a basis for group stability, it ceases to be an appropriate means for dealing with the changeable worlds of spirits. In this case, there is a need for a flexible process of understanding – a domain of biler kizhi including shamans. The contemporary attempts of the Altaian ideologists, who explicitly highlight the need for community in terms of unity (of language, culture, ritual, kinship structure or religion), again shift the focus from the process of understanding to the content of knowledge. If we accept that most of the everyday practices in Telengit life are based on the ideas of movement and flexibility, this focus of national ideology on stability and content would support Bloch’s idea that the social establishment of ideology requires ‘a systematic and furious assault on non-ideological cognition’ (Bloch 1985, 1989: 129; as quoted in Humphrey 1996: 142). I am not sure that I would call the influence of national ideology a ‘furious

Conclusions 195 assault’, but it does seem that national ideology is based on a paradigmatic shift. Mobility is to be replaced by stability, the spirits as indices by the clear-cut hierarchy of spiritual beings, and the changeable land by the tamed and subjugated homeland (see Chapter 3). This is by no means a critique of this particular ideology – there is no better or worse in the choice between stability and flexibility. Nevertheless, from an anthropological perspective it is important to realize that the ideological discourse can influence people’s notions of relatedness in a very powerful way. From what has been said earlier it follows that I agree with Roberte Hamayon (1994), who claims that shamanism cannot occupy a dominant position in statelike formations. The very fact that there is not and probably cannot be an agreement among researchers on whether it is justifiable to use the word ‘shamanism’ at all, would also support such a conclusion. In an article published over a decade ago, Jane Monning Atkinson (1992) stated that the category of shamanism had lost its validity for most anthropologists, who now try to avoid this notion altogether. No doubt, it is not easy to write about something that escapes all attempts at unification or classification. Instead, Atkinson writes that ‘much valuable work on shamans is not billed as such but is contained in monographs with titles that give no hint of a shamanic focus’ (p. 308). It seems then that there is something in the data on practice and on notions of shamans that continues to grasp the attention of anthropologists. For me, the attraction of the practice of shamans lies precisely in the impossibility of describing its content. Instead, an analysis of the practice of shamans and of the people who seek their help could serve as a gateway through which important studies on knowledge, authority, personhood and power can be pursued. These studies should focus on the practices and notions employed by shamans and not on ‘shamanism’ as a system. In order to be studied as an ‘–ism’, the practices related to shamans first have to be constructed as such. Let me again refer to Mills (2003), who asserts that it is a mistake to treat local spirit cults and related rituals of spiritual practitioners as of a nature comparable to Buddhism. To extend his argument I would assert also that the practices of shamans should be studied not with a focus on system but rather as ways of gaining insights into cognition, personhood or spirits. Contemporary shamans can nevertheless make attempts, and successful ones, at rephrasing their practices as an ‘–ism’. In Tuva (Tyva), a Republic neighbouring Altai, shamans have become organized into associations with relatively strict rules regarding acceptance of new members, identity cards, hierarchical structure and ritual conduct. The establishment of these organizations was to a large extent an attempt to appear to be of ‘similar nature’ to Buddhism in order to compete with this institutionalized religion within an arena created by the requirements of the contemporary federate nation-state. However, such a co-existence compels a redefinition of the role of shamans in the community, their relation to other spiritual practitioners and, above all, their relationships with the worlds of spirits. The religious tradition, which seeks to be present at the political level within a framework of national statehood, has to oblige with the main objectives of a national ideology, namely its focus on unification and stabilization.

Glossary

This is by no means a full list of terms related to Telengit religious life. I concentrate on the concepts, which appear frequently throughout this book. A brief working description of these concepts is given, in order to provide the reader with the immediate possibility of reference while reading the main text. I do not aim at an anthropological analysis of the terms included. Terms related to an English concept of soul (tyn, jula, kut, üzüt, süne, sür, jel salkyn) are presented in Chapter 6. Agaru Sacred, pure, precious. Agaru Ere Chui – sacred, precious Ere Chui. Agaru kan – precious blood (e.g. used during official commemoration ceremonies for the people killed during the Second World War) Ailanar To go around, to circumambulate. Aldachy Al- means ‘to take, to receive’. All kinds of spiritual beings can act as aldachy, hence it is not a category of spirits but rather a word describing the attitude of the spirit at particular time. Aldachy tries to take a person’s soul and by this cause his/her death. Alkysh Blessing, extolment, eulogy, hymn of praise. Almys According to Radlov [1893, t. II, p. 439] almystar (pl.) are (1) people with hairy bodies, who used to live in Altai, (2) evil spirits, servants of Erlik bii. Telengit hunters say that sometimes almys can be seen in the mountains. Amzagar To taste, to try, for example offered food during a ritual. Arzhan suu Sacred spring with healing properties. Bai An injunction, a rule of behaviour or a ban, which has to be kept in certain situations. Bailu – with a bai that is a place, a person, a phenomenon towards which certain rules of behaviour apply. Biler kizhi (pl. biler ulus) A spiritual specialist, a person with special abilities that allow him/her to understand the spiritual words and their connections to the life of humans. Byian According to Baskakov [1947: 32] it means goodness, love, sympathy. According to Brontoi Bedyurov, a contemporary Altaian writer, byian is a powerful word, encompassing good fortune, care and luck. In the Telengit language ‘thank you’ is expressed by byian bolzyn – let byian be (with you). Chachylga Ritual action, sprinkling: milk, water, tea, milk vodka or other milk products.

Glossary 197 Chök According to Radlov [1893, t. III, p. 2034] it means genuflection, kneeling. Baskakov [1947: 180] describes it as: an exclamation during sprinkling for idols. Presently it is a word used in a ritual context. Eezi (pl. eeler) The master spirit, host of the place, energy in the land, sometimes taking anthropo- or zoomorphic image. Jada Most often, this word is associated with a stone, which, if properly used, can influence the weather [Baskavov 1947]. However, this word has a broader meaning. It denotes a potential for change. For example jadalu kizhi (a person with jada) would not mean a person who has the special stone ( jadachy), but a person whose very presence causes changes in the weather. Jaiachy Antonym of aldachy, a protector. Usually a spirit, who can be seen as a sparkle or a flash of light. One can use the same term for a person whose actions saved another person’s life (e.g. an adult, who noticed that a child was playing dangerously with a knife is a child’s jaiachy). Telengits compare it to the Christian notion of a guardian angel. Jalama Strips of material, usually in light colours, offered to eeler. Among Altai kizhi called kyira. Jarlykchy Among Altai-kizhi this is a term denoting spiritual specialists connected to the Burkhanist movement. In contemporary Telengit language it is either unknown or denotes a respected foreteller. It has recently become known wider through newspaper publications on Burkhanism. Kaichy A throat singer, often at the same time a spiritual specialist (biler kizhi). Kairakan In Mongolian xairxyn means ‘a dear one’, ‘a lovely one’, used in relation to the venerated mountains. In Telengit, this is an expression of tenderness and respect used in blessings, but also in relation to small children (a dear one). Radlov [1893, t. II, p. 22] describes it as a respectful naming of a deity and spirits. Kargysh A curse, usually in a form of words (antonymous to alkysh). Kinchek Translated by the Telengits into Russian as grekh – a sin. Still, the punishment for kinchek is extended to following generations and a deed is judged as kinchek post factum. Körmös Svetlana Tyukhteneva [1999, p. 94] claims that this word, denoting the souls of dead people, comes from körünbes, körünmös, that is ‘invisible’. Körmös can be seen only by people with special abilities (kösmökchy – see Chapter 8). Baskakov and Yaimova (1993) see it as an aspect of the soul. Anokhin [1924 (1994): 21] says that after death the soul of every human being turns into körmös. In this sense it can be seen as an aspect of personhood. In the contemporary Telengit language körmös is most often used to denote a spirit with evil intentions. Kudai A deity. The plural form of this word (kudailar) can be sporadically encountered nowadays. Sometimes it is used in relation to natural objects and phenomena, such as Sun Kudai, Moon Kudai and Mountain Kudai. Nonetheless, presently a monotheistic understanding of this word prevails. In the nineteenth century the Orthodox missionaries adopted this word as an Altaian equivalent of ‘God’ in their translations of the Bible and prayers.

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Glossary

Kurui Exclamation during rituals. According to Radlov [1893, t. II, p. 928], ‘the bread on which a shaman catches the living power coming out of the dying sacrificial animal’. Rarely used in the district of Kosh-Agach. Mürgüül A word of Mongolian origin meaning ‘to bow’. It is a ritual action involving various kinds of bowing accompanied by movements of the hands. People may bow standing up or kneeling. In Telengit districts of Altai, the bowing is accompanied by repetitive movements of open palms from one’s face down. Sa˘ Burning food offered during a ritual. Tagyl A kind of stone altar on which a sa˘ offering is done. Yiyk Sacred, giving protection. In the contemporary Telengit language used in two contexts: (1) with reference to sacred mountains, (2) with reference to an animal, blessed in a special way. Yrym Premonition, prediction, apprehension. Yrys Luck, fortune, also happiness. According to Radlov [1893, t. I, p. 1368]: fortune, well being, luck.

Notes

Introduction 1 My fieldwork in the Altai started in 1993, when I spent two months in the districts of Ulagan and Kosh-Agach. The following fieldwork periods included: June–September 1994, July–August 1996, August 1998–September 1999, June–July 2000, July–August 2003, June–July 2004, May–June 2005. The first three fieldwork trips to the Altai were undertaken with a colleague from the University of Warsaw in Poland, Dr Lukasz Smyrski. He also joined me for three months of fieldwork during my year-long stay in the Altai in 1998–1999. 2 Notable exceptions concerning research in Siberia include studies by Caroline Humphrey and Marjorie Mandelstam Balzer. 3 For example, Anderson 2000; Khazanov 1995; Argounova 1995, 2000; Fryer 1999; Humphrey 1998; Balzer 1999; Nowicka (ed.) 2000; Smith 1998. 1 The Altai, the Altaians and the Telengits 1 An examination of the place of the Altai in the mythology of Turkic-speaking peoples throughout the world is beyond the scope of this work. As far as I know, this theme still awaits its researcher, someone who will meticulously analyse the heroic epics, old chronicles, tales and legends in many Turkic languages. I am frequently approached at conferences and seminars by colleagues from Turkey and Central Asia, who share with me their insights on the importance of the Altai in the imagination of people in their countries. I am particularly grateful for comments made by Dr Lale Yalcin-Heckmann, who urged me to look for confirmation of what I see as Altaian national claims for grandeur in the popular imagination of people in Turkey. If I were to summarize briefly all these comments, which definitely need to be investigated, I would say that the Altai is a place well-known and respected in the Turkic-speaking world either as a mythical place of origin or a place filled with spiritual or cosmic energy. 2 First published in 1999 by Podkova and Dekont ⫹ with a Russian title Entsiklopediya russkoi dushi. I refer to a Polish translation of this book, published in 2003 by Czytelnik. 3 For a recent analysis of the activities of Nicholas Roerich, especially in relation to the Altai and a brief overview of existing literature see McCannon (2002). 4 See for example, http://www.roerich.org (12.10.2005), http://www.roerich.ru (12.10.2005), http://www.roerich.com/ (12.10.2005), http://www.mystic-world.net/ roerich/ (12.10.2005), http://www.roerichsibur.ru/ (12.10.2004), http://rerih2003. narod.ru/ (12.10.2004). 5 Belovod’e (lit. White waters) is a mystical land of wisdom and spiritual balance. As John McCannon (2002: 176) writes, the origin of the tales of Belovod’e was stories from lakeside caravan stops or towns along the Central Asian trade routes. Old

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10 11 12 13 14 15

16 17 18

19 20 21

22 23

Notes

Believers, who after Nikon’s reforms looked for places where they could settle and pursue their religion, were searching for this promised land, which resulted in the establishment of several Old Believers’ communities in various parts of Central and Inner Asia, including the Altai. The tales of Belovod’e have been a part of the Russian oral folk tradition, but they became popularized after publication of Sokrovennoe Skazanie o Belovod’e (The Sacred Tale of the Land of White Waters) in Novaya zarya, a Russian newspaper published in San Francisco in April 1949, which has had numerous reprints. For more information on Kedrograd see (Parfenov 2000). In 1996 the BBC produced an interesting film on the fate of the mummy entitled ‘The Ice Maiden’. Available at http://www.altai-republic.com (12.10.2005). This is the information I received in the Republic of Altai during my fieldwork, directly from the artists. However, the website of the Republic of Altai (www. altai-republic.com, launched in 2001) provides a different interpretation of state/national symbols, with greater emphasis on their connection with the emblems of the Russian Federation. Data taken from the Statistical Department of the Kosh-Agach district. In the Soviet literature, narodnost’ was understood as a stage of evolution which goes from plemya (tribe) to natsia (nation) (Khazanov 1995). Baskakov (as quoted in Potapov 1969) wrote that ‘Altaian dialects are divided into two groups: the Northern one and the Southern one, which differ in phonetics, vocabulary and grammar’. Interview with Vyacheslav Ivanovich Molodin, published at http://www.gornoaltaisk.ru/inform/modules.php?name ⫽News&file⫽print&sid⫽51 (12.10.2005). Published at http://www.gorno-altaisk.ru/inform/modules.php?name⫽News&file⫽ print&sid⫽588 (12.10.2005). Taking into account the hopes which local leaders can have concerning recognition of a given group as a ‘small-numbered indigenous people’ under Russian law, it is possible that existing works on the history and origin of the Tölös might in the future be used to argue for a separate status for this group. Svetlana Tyukhteneva, an Altaian anthropologist, has told me that people from the villages of Balykcha and Kök bash (district of Ulagan) might identify themselves as Tölös not only with regard to their clan membership but also with regard to origin and ethnic identity. This issue, however, remains totally unexplored. Edinyi perehen’ korennykh malochislennylh narodov Rosiiskoi Federatsii. For discussion of the notion of ‘small indigenous peoples’ and their rights see Novikova (2002), Novikova and Tishkov (2000), Sokolovki (2001, n.d.). http://www.perepis2002.ru/ (12.10.2005). For example, Vera D’yakovova claims that at the end of the 1980s in the district of Kosh-Agach there were around 5,600 people who considered themselves to be Telengit (2001: 5). A Telengit leader (aka jaisa˘) from Kosh-Agach Sergei Ochurdiapov estimates the number of the Telengits in the Republic of Altai at 17,000–18,000 (personal communication). Personal communication. See also Modorov 2003. Law: ‘O garantiyakh prav korennykh malochislennykh narodov Rossijskoj Federacii’. ‘Small indigenous peoples’ have to number less than 50,000, but nowhere in the law is it said that each indigenous population below this number must automatically be included in the list. Quite the contrary, the process of inclusion is long and difficult. Moreover, there is no official quota saying that peoples numbering less than 50,000 cannot be titular nations of the administrative units of republican status. This organization had its predecessors, but none of them was really active. This only changed with the inclusion of the Telengits in the list of the ‘small indigenous peoples’. Kydyeva is an Altaian researcher who gathered her data among the Telengits in the district of Kosh-Agach and the Altai kizhi in the district of Ongudai (O˘doi).

Notes 201 24 Altaidy˘ Cholmony is the republican newspaper published exclusively in the Altaian language. It is widely read – I even found this newspaper in remote shepherds’ camps and villages. It nurtures many young Altaian activists and is a forum for important discussions on the political, social and cultural life of the Republic. 25 Aka – the older brother. 26 Both names Tölös and Töölös are in use. While in the academic literature in the Russian language the first one is more popular, the members of a clan association have chosen Töölös as their name. 27 This Kurultai, which is a non-governmental organization of Altaians should not be confused with El Kurultai, which is the name given to the parliament of the Republic of Altai. 28 Twelve jaisa˘dar of clans: Maiman, Saal (Sagal), Tölös, Kergil, Chapty, Irkit, Mundus, To˘zhaan, Jüs, Todosh, Kypchak, Almat and two jaisa˘ of ethnic groups: the Chalkandu and Tuba. 29 Until the time of the II Kurultai only four of the heads of districts were elected. These head of districts are different from the heads of districts as officials within the administrative structure of the Republic of Altai. 30 Prayer, also used as a term for ‘religion’ (Mürgüül ja˘). 31 The world burkhan is a Mongolian word for ‘deity’, also used with reference to Buddha. Although it is presently considered a Mongolian word, it is believed to be of Turkic origin (cf. Fasmer 1964: 249). As the Altaian language is Turkic, at the beginning of the twentieth century this word might have both come from Mongolian and be locally used before. 32 Inorodtsy – a term used in Tsarist Russia for the indigenous peoples of Siberia and Northern Russia. 33 A wooden bow joining the shafts of a cart or sledge to a Russian harness. 34 For example, I remember Sanashin’s serious attacks on Catholicism in 1993 and 1994 and his negative comparisons with Buddhism (I come from Poland, which tends to be perceived as a Catholic country). Still, in 1999 he approached me, with a broad smile, carrying the new Catholic Catechism. He said that he was studying it at the moment and, as a Buddhist, learning a great deal from it. 35 Ole Nydhal is a Danish lama who received his Buddhist training from various Buddhist teachers, mainly from the Karma Kagyu school. He has opened about 300 centres of meditation throughout the world. For more information, see http://www.lama-olenydahl.org/ 36 Apparently, there were recently some disagreements inside the Karma Kagyu school and Ole Nydhal is looking to broaden his sphere of influence to new regions, which would be the reason for opening the monastery in Altai (Dr Hildegard Diemberger – personal communication). 37 She refers to Burkhanism, interpreting its appearance at the beginning of the twentieth century as a conscious decision of the ancestors of the contemporary Altaians to adapt Buddhism for their needs. 38 The II Kurultai of the Altaians held in February 1999. 39 In other words, without one common religion. 40 This is a reference to the correspondence between Altaian intellectuals and the Altaian Orthodox Mission, described earlier. One of the main arguments of the Mission is that the majority of Altaians are already baptized, only they do not know much about the rules of Christianity. Hence, the missionaries explain that the activity of the Mission focuses not on gaining new believers but on work among the existing ones. According to my field research, baptism is indeed popular among some Altaians, especially women. However, in the majority of cases it has not much to do with accepting another religion – it rather is an act of protective magic, providing an additional defence against evil spirits. In the district of Kosh-Agach some shamans advise parents to baptize their seriously ill children. Their argument is that although through baptism they can loose

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the protection of the benevolent spirits, they will also, as people belonging to different ja˘, escape the negative influences of the evil spirits. Still, the register of the Orthodox Church records only the number of baptisms, not the reasons for them. 2 Sacred land and the significance of places 1 Data from the Statistical Department of the Kosh-Agach district. 2 Soio˘ is one of the clans of the Tuvans. In the contemporary Telengit language this term is used to describe all Tuvan people. 3 According to them, Ere Chui would more or less cover the same area as the two chuiskie volosti in pre-Soviet Russia. According to Leonid Potapov, members of the First Chuiskaya volost’ (district) moved along the rivers Chui and Argut, that is, in the territory of the contemporary Kosh-Agach district; members of the Second Chuiskaya volost’ travelled along the rivers Bashkaus, Chulushman and Ulagan, that is, in the territory of the contemporary district of Ulagan (Potapov 1953). 4 Pedersen uses a term Tsaatang to describe this group of people. Still, they call themselves Dukha and consider the term Tsaatang as derogatory (Wheeler 1999: 60). 5 I introduce the Telengit counterpart places called üle in the next chapter. 6 1941 was the year of the Viper according to the Altaian calendar – see Chapter 5. 7 Eje is a term describing a category ‘older sister’ and it is also a term denoting respect. 8 In 2003–2004 there was an attempt to establish a separate administration for Kyzyl Tash, however it was not successful. 9 As I have said in the introduction due to the earthquakes of 2003–2004 Beltyr as described later does not exist any more. 10 During my fieldwork there was one Kazakh family there and two Kazakhs married to Telengits. There were no Russians. 11 Tastarakai is a figure from an Altaian heroic epic. Usually the hero of the epic disguises himself as Tastarakai – a bald, funny fellow, dressed in an old sheepskin coat turned inside out. 12 According to statistical data from 1897, the clan Todosh was not represented in the area of the contemporary district of Kosh-Agach (Potapov 1969). 13 For examples of their activities see Chapter 5. 3 Moving through a powerful landscape 1 Eezi is the genitive form of ee. Eeler is the plural form of ee. Eelü means ‘with ee’. 2 Ee in most Turkic languages of the region, and ejin or ezen in Mongolian languages. 3 Although Altaidy˘ eezi can be either male or female, here we will use the masculine form to avoid clumsy expressions such as s/he, etc. 4 Similar short stories are so popular that examples of them were collected and published in Gorno-Altaisk. See Yamaeva and Shinzhin (1994). 5 Tepse˘ bash – a sacred yiyk mountain close to Beltyr village. 6 The mountain, which is worshipped by a certain clan is also considered sacred by other people. They may call on it in their blessings (alkyshtar), but for members of a particular clan it will occupy a central place. 7 Pereval in Russian means a ‘mountain pass’. 8 Kyira is a name used for stripes of material used as offering among Altai-kizhi; Telengits call such offerings jalama. 9 Marina Mongush (1992) wrote on the cult of such trees in Tuva. According to the author, people in Tuva were making offerings there and tying on strips of fabric. At the same time they tried to avoid such places and it was forbidden to hide under such a tree during rain. In Altai, only the avoidance part of the relationship with such a tree is present. Nevertheless, some people mentioned that in the past shamans ‘were doing something’ (neme etken) next to such trees.

Notes 203 4 Rites of springs 1 Buguzun arzhan suu is situated in-between Tuva (Tyva) and Altai. Tuva (Tyva) people also visit this place. Some elderly Telengits claim that this arzhan is actually a Tuvan one and that according to Tuvan rules one has to give alcohol as an offering. 2 Alkysh – eulogy, hymn of praise if it is spoken by people; the same word is used for a blessing, which is given to people by Altai Kudai or Altaidy˘ eezi. 3 The use of cut willow trees with ribbons tied to them is found in many places in inner Asia (Humphrey 1996). 4 In similar situations older people would say that it is better to say simple words from your heart than to read an elaborate blessing from a piece of paper. Still, I suppose that in this case her role as a schoolteacher, whose knowledge is focused on content, was placed in juxtaposition with a different realm, where knowledge is a function of the way in which it is produced. 5 The cult of fire plays an important role in Telengit spiritual life. Some of its characteristics, for example, the female nature of fire, are widespread in Inner Asia. For discussion on the spirits of fire see (Humphrey 1996). 6 Tör is the place in a felt tent opposite the entrance, devoted to the household’s most precious possessions, and the place where respected guests are asked to sit down. Mother-Tör can mean, in this context, either the fireplace itself or a spiritual guardian of the household. 7 This is the old Telengit way of talking about a person’s age. Sha˘kylu kys – young girl, not married (lit. with sha˘ky – girl’s hair decoration); edektu kizhi – a married woman (lit. with a (skirt) tail); er ulan – a young man; Nowadays, such expressions are used in alkyshtar and while talking about spiritual beings. 5 Chaga bairam 1 The word tagyl is most often associated with a pile of stones erected next to or on a mountain, where a ritual is held. 2 The variations of these stanzas appeared during Chaga bairam ceremony in many households in Kökörü (Marjanovy, Sakhilianovy, Konstatinovy, Paraevy, Erlenbaevy). The variations included, for example, changes of personal pronouns, tense or mode of a verb, replacing the expressions new and old year with the names of the years. Some Chaga bairam alkyshtar have been published (Tolbina 1993), which influences their usage. According to my argument, stanzas that are written down are less attractive to the Telengits. 3 In Mongolian xairxyn is ‘a dear one’, ‘a lovely one’ and is used with regard to the venerated mountains. In Telengit, this is an expression of tenderness and respect used in blessings, but also in relation to small children (a dear one). Radlov (1893: t. II, p. 22) describes it as a respectful naming of a deity and spirits. Chök or chöök according to Radlov (1893: t. III, p. 2034) denotes genuflection, kneeling. Baskakov (1947: 180) describes it as an exclamation during sprinkling of idols. In its current usage it is a word expressing respect in a ritual context. For detailed comments on some words and expressions used in alkyshtar, see the Glossary. 4 Agash-tazhy – literally trees-stones, but used as another respectful name for mountains. 5 Byian – well-being, blessing, luck (see Glossary). 6 One can even say that there are three new years celebrated, as many people gather with their families also to mark the beginning of new year according to Julian calendar. 7 A few years ago the time zone for the Republic of Altai was changed from four hours ahead of Moscow to only three hours ahead. However, the television transmitters have not been changed. Hence, the TV programme is four hours ahead of Moscow while the clocks show only three hours ahead. Nevertheless, it is the TV programme and the speech of the President at midnight, which marks the beginning of a New Year and not the clocks, which, at the moment when the champagne corks pop, show only 11 p.m.

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8 I mention here only the celebrations that involve a sa˘ offering as these are the only ones which are discussed by the people. Apart from these, there were concerts organized in the House of Culture and the kindergarten, but their legitimacy was not an issue as they did not claim any involvement with Altaidy˘ eezi. 9 In most cases, the contemporary leaders of clans are middle-aged men, renowned for their ability to cope with the current difficult economic situation or well known on account of their successful professional career. 10 Otty˘ baiy – rules of behaviour concerning a fire place. Kaiyn – an older relative of a husband belonging to the same söök, especially appointed during the wedding ceremony (for analysis of the behaviour of a daughter-in-law, see Humphrey 1993). Kindik ene – in the past it was a woman who would cut the umbilical cord during the birth of a child. Nowadays, as most of the children are born in hospitals parents choose kindik ene for their child. Kindik ene and the child are involved in a life-long series of gift-exchanges. Sometimes the kindik ene is also the person who gives a name to the child; in other cases it is a responsibility of one of the mother’s brothers. 11 For anthropological analysis of the work of House of Culture, see Grant (1995). 12 Kös körör (lit. a seeing eye) – a person, who can see spiritual beings. 13 The House of Culture is responsible for organizing Chaga bairam. However, cooperation between the three main official bodies in a village is usually high. The village, which organizes the celebration has to accommodate the needs of the official delegates from other villages (food, rooms, etc.) as well as prepare the village to receive several hundred private guests from all over the district. The head of the village administration has to be involved in this process. A communal farm usually provides part of the funds to cover the costs of the celebration (e.g. it can give several sheep and sacks of flour necessary to prepare a meal for official delegations). 14 In many parts of the Soviet state various kinds of local celebrations and traditional gatherings were transformed and politicized into Soviet-type festivals. In Tuva, the traditional summer games (Naadym) of the herders were transformed into Soviet spartakiada. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Naadym became a national celebration of the Tuvans, with traditional sporting games as the main activity. Caroline Humphrey (1983) writes about Buryat archery and other traditional sporting competitions (suur-kharban) that were adapted according to Soviet requirements as early as the 1920s, including systematic replacement of the Buryat games by international ones. 6 Ontology of the spirits 1 In Russian, ol biler would be translated as on znaet, and ol o˘dop jat as on ponimaet. 2 Caroline Humphrey (1976) analyses a case of Buryat belege – signs or omens – and explains the workings of the connection between the event and its meaning. However, I adopt a broader understanding of the uchurlu events of which omens are just one subgroup. 3 Körmös (see later) often show themselves as so-called sok tomchuktu (with a cold nose) animals, most often goats or cows (cf. Humphrey 1996). 4 as often happens among the Buryat, someone experiences the ‘result’ first – perhaps he is ill, or his horse suddenly dies – and he then, possibly with the aid of the diviner, identifies some previous event as having been an omen predicting what has happened. (Humphrey 1976: 35) 5 In their book, Baskakov and Yaimova do not make clear where their material comes from. They seem to combine information coming mainly from Russian and Soviet ethnographic sources such as Verbitskii, Anokhin and Radlov.

Notes 205 6 Vera D’yakonova writes: ‘Turguzu is not a name of any particular image. If asked “what is there on the wall?” the Telengits answer “Turguzu”. One of my informants gave the following explanation: “To put any kind of a protector, this is turguzu” ’ (D’yakonova 2001: 219, fn 396). 7 For example, Svetlana Byrchykovna from Mukhor Tarkhata rejected her shamanic vocation, but she has several helping spirits. It seems, however, that they are not ancestral spirits, but another kind of spiritual beings. 8 The Republic of Buriatya is located in southern Siberia. 9 There is no clan/bone, there is no person. 10 There are also other entities, that I suggest should be understood as indices, for example, almystar – beings which live in the mountains and can be sometimes seen by the hunters. 11 I do not mention smell and taste here. The senses are crucial for analysis of the Telengit ways of understanding. Still, I do not claim that they recognize the same 5 or 6 senses, in the same way as do most of my readers (Classen and Howes 1991). I also think that what I call intuition/apprehension requires more future research and may be divided into sub-categories. With regard to smell and taste, these are not commonly used as ways of understanding, although I have rarely heard about people who can smell unusual fragrances in places where there are spiritual beings (e.g. eeler). 12 In Mongolia em-dom refers to magic healing, where em is a medicine and dom a magic spell (Humphrey 1996). 13 Tyukhteneva (1999) describes emchy-tomchy as ‘healing using words and hands’. 14 See also (Sagalaev and Oktyabr’skaya 1990). 15 A slightly different list of biler kizhi in Altai is given by Svetlana Tyukhteneva (1999), an Altaian researcher. She collected her field material mainly among the Altai kizhi. 7 Lamas and shamans 1 Andrei Sagalaev lists three main periods of Buddhist influence in the Altai: the sixth and seventh centuries; the fifteenth to the beginning of the eighteenth century; and the nineteenth to the beginning of the twentieth century (1984b: 5). He also writes that the inhabitants of the Altai have never accepted Buddhism as their religion. 2 For example, Ablai-khid monastery in the territory of contemporary Kazakhstan (Borodaev and Kontev 1999), or the cave-shrine Ustu-Gimat on the border with Tuva, Altai and Mongolia (Sabin 1980). 3 For a brief summary of the contemporary situation of Buddhism in other regions of the Altai see Chapter 1. 4 Svetlana Tyukhteneva (1999) also confirms that nowadays very few spiritual specialists in Altai would dare to call themselves shamans (kamdar). 5 For my brief argument about the status of the terms ‘shaman’ and ‘Shamanism’ in the Republic of Altai in the light of anthropological discussions on the notion of ‘shamanism’ see Halemba 2003. 6 Only one of them, a young biler kizhi from Kurai refused to talk to me. I did not talk much to a young kam from Kökörü either, who lived far from the village at the herders’ camp. After several attempts to visit him I gave up, following the advice of some Telengit friends, who came to the conclusion that my way to him must have been closed at that time. There are also some people who are known as biler kizhi only in their own villages. 7 Örökön – an elder, a term denoting respect. 8 Aiyldash Tebekov committed suicide in 2001. Aryman Konstantinov died in 2003. 9 I have described Liza’s case in more detail elsewhere (Halemba 2000b). During subsequent visits to the Altai (2003 and 2004) I learned that she became ill and did not manage to attain the status of a shaman.

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Notes

10 In the contemporary Telengit language, the word yiyk is used in two contexts – in relation to sacred mountains (as described in Chapter 3) and in relation to animals, which were blessed in a special way. A yiyk mal (sacred/blessed domestic animal) is selected from the herd according to the wishes of the spirits, which are communicated to a shaman (kam), who blesses the selected animal. The blessed animals are always jiylu tomchuktu (with a warm nose), which means that they are regarded as good and pure in opposition to sok tomchuktu (with a cold nose) animals. A yiyk mal grazes together with other animals and is usually marked with strips of fabric (jalama). The animal belongs to the spirit to which it was offered and should neither be beaten nor be killed. Only a male owner of the herd can ride a yiyk horse. After its natural death, the remains of the animal are removed to a clean place outside the village. In Beltyr the bones, the head and the skin of the yiyk sheep are hung on a tree. In Kökörü, dead yiyk horses are taken to the meadows and left there lying on the ground. 11 Some of these entities are related to the shamans, mostly matrilineally (taailar) but also patrilineally (ejeler, akalar). However, in this context these terms are used primarily as ways of showing respect. 12 The genesis of this device is not clear. Svetlana Tyukhteneva, an Altaian ethnologist, thinks that it appeared as an outcome of combining the Burkhanistic emphasis on purity, symbolized by the white colour of the fabric, with earlier shamanic traditions (personal communication). A few of the Telengits told me that shamans introduced this device after the communists had taken all the drums away. Even if some of the drums remained, they could not be used as the ceremonies had to be carried on in secret and the noise made by the drum would have betrayed the place of the ceremony. It may also be the case that this is originally not an Altaian but a Tuvan device. It is not described in other parts of the Altai. It seems that Kökörü is the source of such a tü˘ür and all the shamans who use it outside this village (such as Aiyldash Tebekov in Beltyr) were directed (as shamans) by older kamdar from Kökörü. Moreover, all the older kamdar of Kökörü had close ancestors coming from Tuva and inherited their shamanic powers and/or were directed as shamans by people who came from there. For possible parallels see Humphrey (1973). 13 Most of the lamas and supporters of Buddhists are inspired by the Gelugpa tradition. 8 Ritual and revival 1 These three names all derive from the word tagyl, which is a stone altar. For example, tagylga means ‘on a tagyl’. Taky- in Mongolian means the bending of a knee. Daur Mongols used the word taki- for respectful rituals (Humphrey 1996: 178). In Altaian, taky- means to repeat. 2 Altai ködürgeni has the literal meaning of ‘uplifting’ or ‘holding up’ Altai. It is a word used also for ‘showing respect’. Altai etkeni literally means ‘making’ Altai. 3 Oboo in Altaian and Mongolian means ‘a pile’. The oboo is a cairn at which a ritual takes place (Sneath 1990). Taiy- is understood in Altaian as a sacrifice, but a similar root is seen in such words as taikyl (to slip, to be mistaken) or taitak (a person with crooked legs) (Baskakov 1947). 4 See, for example, described in the previous chapters shamanic and chiefly modes of experience of landscape and spiritual beings. 5 In Tuva the constructions where oboo ceremonies took place were either cairns of stones or sticks formed into a conical hut (Mongush 1992: 81). 6 Nowadays in Buriatya there are oboo-type ceremonies where the main recipients are the spirits of a lake. In some cases the oboo cairn is built next to the lake; in other cases, the lake itself is seen as the place of offering (Hurelbaatar, personal communication). 7 There are three main types of offerings involving food that can be made at oboo: white offering (milk and corn products), sacrifice (an offering of meat involving killing an

Notes 207

8 9 10 11 12 13

14

15 16 17

18 19 20

animal during the ceremony) and an offering of cooked meat prepared beforehand. This distinction is important in the Telengit context as the type of offering is one of the most hotly discussed and contested parts of the ceremony. This name is used for such ceremonies all over Inner Asia, with only slight variations (see Khangalov 1958; Tugutov 1978). My most recent visit to Altai was in summer 2004. In other parts of Inner Asia there are special oboo ceremonies conducted exclusively by women (Humphrey 1996). A large, wooden mortar and pestle used for pounding grain. A long sleeveless robe for married women. In some of the republics of the Russian Federation (Khakassia, Sakha) the works of nineteenth-century ethnographers and travellers serve nowadays as sources of authority for re-establishing rituals and customs. However, in relation to the rituals held next to sacred mountains in Altai this is not possible. In the nineteenth-century sources on Altai one can find only general statements concerning sacred mountains, but there are no descriptions of rituals or their interpretations (Potapov 1946). The only biler kizhi from Ere Chui who claimed that he would like to conduct the ceremony was kam Aiyldash Tebekov from Beltyr. It is interesting that he stressed the necessity of the participation of the community in the celebration. He told me that he suggested such a celebration to the village administration and asked them to provide a sheep for the offering. The ceremony would be aimed at the well-being of the community through the blessing of their land. However, the ceremony did not take place. Go to the Upper World. Tama – the lowest layer of the Lower World, the place where some souls are sent without the possibility of ever getting out. According to the statistics I received from the administration of the district of KoshAgach over 12.5 per cent of deaths in the district in 1998 were suicides. I believe that apart from the difficult economic situation and psychological pressure, which people usually blame for the high rates of suicide, there are some other features which make Telengits especially vulnerable. This issue will be addressed in a separate work. Ogosh örökön is sometimes referred to as kam (shaman). The oboo-type ceremonies in other parts of Inner Asia, are not especially feared (personal communications: Professor Caroline Humphrey, Hurelbaatar). Rather, they are welcomed occasions for social gatherings, much anticipated and enjoyed. Sport contests after religious celebrations are held all over Inner Asia (KabzinskaStawarz 1987).

Conclusions 1 See for example, http://www.open-world2002.gov/alumni/stories.php?id⫽14&lang⫽ 1&idcat⫽54 (12.10.2004), http://www.isar.org/isar/archive/GT/GT17tengri.html (12.10.2004), http://www.sacredearthnetwork.org/updates/newsletters/2003/spring_p2. cfm (12.10.2005).

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Index

actor-network theory 43–44 aesthetics 104 agency 4, 44, 70, 85, 102–103, 138, 107, 190–192 Agni Yoga 12 ailanar (circumambulation) 99–102, 106, 114–115, 174–175, 192, 196 alastap (to purify with smoke) 148 alcohol 29, 35, 60, 82, 88, 118, 178, 187; araky (milk alcohol) 112, 114, 125, 175; offering as 73, 85, 89, 167 alkanar (to bless) 107, 115, 116, 174–175, 180, 192 alkysh (blessing) 67–68, 93, 102, 112, 116, 121, 128, 130, 148, 175, 178, 196; texts 1, 97, 113–114 Altai: beautiful place 11–14, 55, 187; earthquake 6–7, 85, 191–192; history 15, 24, 30–31, 33–34; image of 3, 11–14; linguistic meaning 64, 134; Mountains 1, 11–12, 20, 66–67, 71; Region (Altaiskii Krai) 20, 22, 124; relation to people 11, 14, 18–20, 40–41, 76, 78, 85–87, 135, 145, 188–191; Republic of 1–2, 11–12, 14–16, 21–22, 25–26, 32–33, 37, 39, 63, 77, 90, 120, 123–124, 132, 150–151, 163–164, 167, 177, 179, 184–186; spiritual significance 1, 13–14, 18–19, 37, 61–67, 71–72, 74–76, 80, 103, 112, 134, 138, 152, 166–167, 171–172, 176, 188–189; tourism 5, 13–14, 190–191; see also Altaians; Altaidy˘ eezi; Altai Kudai; Altai tagylga; ja˘; land; landscape Altaians 16–20; christianisation 33–35; clan composition 22–27; ethnic composition 17–18, 19–20, 22–23;

intellectuals 2, 31–36, 62, 74, 78, 131–132, 164; language 20; names given to 16; national identity 20–21, 27–28, 78, 131–132; relation to Altai 11, 14, 18–20, 76, 78, 85–87, 135, 188–191; relation to Telengits 3, 21–22; religion of 27–32, 35–38, 65, 74, 137, 164, 183; research among 16–18, 92, 137; self-government 26–27; southern and northern division 19–20; statistics 14, 177; see also clans Altaidy˘ eezi see eezi Altai ja˘ see ja˘ Altai kizhi 17, 20–22, 30, 42, 50, 54, 92, 123, 143, 156, 179 Altai Kudai 63–67, 87, 129, 134, 176, 188 Altai tagylga 168, 171–174, 177–186, 187–189, 192–193 amzagar (to try, to taste) 101–102, 106, 114–115, 192, 196 ancestors 21, 23, 38, 41, 52, 56–58, 78, 85, 118, 126, 133, 140, 154, 187 Anokhin Sergiei 66, 136, 145 araky see alcohol archaeology 13, 14, 18–19, 77, 80–81 artysh (mountain juniper) 73, 74, 90, 94, 100–103, 157 arzhan suu 3, 5, 67, 72–73, 77, 79–80, 83, 113, 115, 117, 122, 131, 140, 159, 196; visit to 88–107 arzhany˘ eezi see eezi authorities 6, 13, 29–31, 35, 55–56, 92, 120, 122, 178 authority 29, 195; of clan leaders 25, 121; of religious specialists 4–5, 31, 105–106, 127, 136, 151–154, 160–165, 167, 173, 182–186, 193

218

Index

bai (baiy) 55, 88, 98, 100, 103–104, 122, 196 Beltyr 6, 48, 51, 55–63, 68–69, 80–82, 85, 120, 125–129, 149, 155, 159, 160, 173–175 Bidinov, Krai 40, 92, 178 Bidinova örökön 155–157 biler kizhi (biler ulus) 4–5, 24, 35, 37–38, 51, 68, 73, 81–82, 98, 104, 123, 128–129, 137, 140–145, 147–149, 152, 154–157, 160–163, 172, 176–178, 182, 186, 193–194, 196 blessing 42, 59, 74, 79, 83, 87–88, 95, 99–100, 104, 133, 168, 171–172, 177–180, 184; see also alkysh Bloch, Maurice 166–167, 193–194 body 13, 19, 46–48, 71, 75, 78, 85–88, 97, 104, 144–146, 157 bones 22, 82, 90, 147, 175; see also clans boundary 41–44, 56, 170 Buddhism 4, 11, 27, 29, 31–33, 36–38, 60, 63, 70–71, 76–77, 86, 118, 132–133, 136, 151–154, 160–165, 168–173, 186, 188–190, 195; conflicts with 33, 35, 37, 73–74, 76–77, 123; influences in Altai 4, 17, 31, 60; see also lama (nama) Buriatya (Buriats) 33, 73, 112, 123, 144, 151, 168, 170 Burkhan 30, 38, 118 Burkhanism 29–32, 176 Byrchykovna, Svetlana 155, 157, 159–160, 179 Casey, Edward 41, 90 causality 141–142 chachylga, chachyp (sprinkling) 68, 101–102, 106–107, 113, 115–116, 120–121, 148, 174–175, 192, 196 Chaga bairam 4, 54, 59–60, 99, 111, 161, 166, 174, 192–193; diversity in 116–117, 124–126, 131, 134; family celebrations 112–114, 116–120; in Inner Asia 111–112; part of nationalcultural revival 115–116, 120–124, 127–133, 184–185; ritual actions 115 Chagan Uzun 40, 50–51, 130–131, 178–180 Chalkandu 17, 25 change: in religious life 3–4, 33, 38, 44, 63, 65, 70, 75–79, 107, 121, 135–137, 139, 152–154, 159, 162, 167, 177, 182, 188, 193–195; socio-political 1, 5, 21, 50, 54, 57, 75–76, 111, 133

China 1, 11, 41, 70, 111, 183 Christianity 7, 27, 28, 33–35, 38, 65, 136, 138–139, 159; missionaries 16, 30–31, 34–35, 38, 161, 180, 191; new Christian churches 7, 35, 161; Old Believers 15 clans (söök, sööktör) 3, 4, 17, 21–27, 52, 57–61, 66, 72, 76, 121–124, 126–127, 133, 137–138, 140, 150, 156, 165, 167–170, 176–178, 188; and Russians 19, 135; see also jaisa˘ cleanness 46, 73, 79, 92, 102–103, 111, 125; see also purity cognition 103, 167, 193–195 colour symbolism 15, 28, 30, 46, 68, 73–74, 89–90, 95, 98, 100, 111, 113, 122, 143, 155, 175–177 Comaroff, Jean 6, 189–191 cosmology 66, 135–137, 139, 141, 150, 194 custom 28, 30, 33, 35, 40, 42, 51, 54, 59, 63, 73–74, 86, 91, 101, 103, 105, 116, 122, 137, 164, 179 death (dead, dying) 18, 28, 61, 68, 70, 76, 82, 86, 89, 98, 102, 104, 117, 123, 145, 150, 155–156, 178, 181; funeral 51, 148; statistics 16; tombs 13, 71, 77–78, 80–82, 129, 149 difference see diversity discourse 11, 28, 40, 57, 66, 75, 86, 134, 152, 173, 191, 195 diversity 2, 23, 35, 37, 63, 66, 72, 86, 105–107, 134, 137–138, 143, 151–154, 163, 184, 190; see also Chaga bairam divination 71, 145, 148, 178 dreams 72, 85–86, 89, 98, 104, 147–148, 150, 179, 188 D’yakonova, Vera 16, 111–112, 157 earth 47–48, 64, 68, 75, 87, 169, 176–179, 191 economic transformations 16, 37, 39–41, 50, 53–54, 78, 177 eezi (ee, eeler) 63–64, 70, 148–150, 161, 197; Altaidy˘ eezi 63–67, 77, 79–80, 83, 92, 97, 112, 121–125, 128, 132–134, 173, 176, 181–182, 188–189; arzhany˘ eezi 73, 88–90, 94–95, 98, 100–102, 104 elders 35, 40, 73, 77, 80, 97, 103, 114–115, 124–125, 128, 171–176, 182–183, 186

Index 219 El-oiyn 52, 80, 123, 131–133, 184–185 emotions 18, 23, 58, 75, 86, 103–105, 189, 192 enchantment 91, 139–140 environment 43–44, 56, 62, 86, 125, 187, 192, 194 environmental protection 5–6, 37, 191; in Soviet Union 12–13, 20 Ere Chui 3, 39, 42–48, 52, 59, 61–62, 67, 78–81, 113–114, 116, 124–130, 145, 154–156, 160–161, 170–179, 183–184, 186 Erlik 46 experience 3, 44–46, 56, 62–63, 65–67, 86–88, 103–107, 124–126, 136–140, 142–144, 149–153, 156–157, 162–165, 167, 179, 194 fear 46, 87, 126, 128, 131, 172, 178–185, 192 feeling 3, 18, 24, 72, 75–76, 85–88, 91, 103–105, 117, 146–148, 166, 172, 188 fire (fireplace) 15, 24, 30, 48, 89, 92–99, 112–116, 127, 146, 148, 177 Fortes, Meyer 23, 138 Gell, Alfred 4, 138–139, 144 gender 35, 61, 64–66, 80–81, 99–100, 116–117, 121, 144, 173, 179 geographical directions (symbolism of) 48, 68, 82–83, 95, 99–100, 102, 112, 114, 120, 128–130 Gorno-Altaisk 5, 14, 17, 26, 33, 36, 39–40, 71, 73, 124, 133, 185 healing 24, 34, 48, 78, 114, 146, 148, 157, 172, 178; see also arzhan suu herding 20, 41, 46, 48, 50, 56–58, 62, 175, 191 Holy 138–139 homeland 18, 40–42, 46, 65, 133, 195 House of Culture 37, 50, 51, 55, 61, 115, 121–125, 127–130 Howes, David 91 Humphrey, Caroline 3, 44, 47, 62–67, 68, 70, 79, 85, 102, 106, 131, 137–141, 146, 164, 166–172, 182, 185, 192–193 identity 2, 3, 14, 17–20, 23, 37, 60, 65, 75, 79, 86, 124–125, 133, 167, 198 ideology 166–167, 194; national 3–6, 26, 31, 36, 55, 78, 86, 88, 135, 137, 150, 152, 163, 165, 176, 180, 187

illness 18, 24, 46, 48, 64, 82, 89, 91, 94–95, 101, 104, 146, 157, 159, 171, 175, 179, 181 Ingold, Tim 3, 44, 183, 191 Inner Asia 3–4, 23, 43, 63, 65–66, 70–71, 111–112, 132, 135, 154, 163, 165, 167–171, 175–176, 189 institutionalisation (of religion) 31, 37, 136, 139–140, 150, 163–165 international organisations 6, 13, 190 jada 100–101, 197 jaiachy 64, 197 jaisa˘ 24–27, 30, 34, 36, 76 jalama (kyira) 73, 76–77, 82, 83, 89, 93–95, 97–98, 100–102, 122, 148, 175, 178, 180, 197 ja˘ 28–29, 63, 118, 120, 133, 177; Agaru 36; ak 28–29, 32, 35–36, 38, 133, 164; Altai 28–29, 38, 87, 92, 103, 136, 162; kam 28, 38, 157, 160; kara 28–29 jarlykchy 31, 177, 197 jer see place; earth Jerdi˘ eezi 64, 127, 173 Jerdi˘ Kindigi 47 Jerdi˘ Oozy 47–48 John 6, 189,–191 jula 64, 118, 146, 157, 159–160 kam (shaman) 4–5, 17, 23, 28, 30–31, 36–37, 48, 59, 63–64, 67, 73, 81–83, 89, 116–117, 125, 129, 139, 142–144, 146, 148–150, 151–160, 168–170, 175, 178, 186, 193, 196 Kazakhs 14, 20, 39–42, 50–52, 54, 56, 57, 59–60, 94, 100–101, 135 Kedrograd 12–13 kiiis aiyl (felt tent) 48, 49, 57 kinchek 159–160, 177, 197 kinship 23–26, 57–58, 126, 144–145, 156, 159, 169, 179, 182, 188, 193; see also clans knowledge 22–24, 86, 90, 133, 173, 179, 188, 193–195; modes of 62–63, 71, 131, 135, 140–141, 151–154, 156–157, 161–164, 167–168, 182–183, 186; religious 4–5, 35, 104–107, 116, 136, 137–138, 141–144, 147–150, 154; see also biler kizhi Kökörü 7, 40, 44, 47–48, 50, 52, 55–61, 68, 80, 91–95, 97–98, 101, 114–127, 129, 133, 142, 147, 155–156, 159, 161, 176, 178–179, 181

220

Index

Konstantinov, Aryman 117–118, 122–123, 155, 177 körmös 60, 80–83, 117, 125, 142–145, 148–150, 197 Kosh-Agach 4–7, 11, 15–16, 20–21, 26, 39–42, 46, 50–52, 55–59, 62, 68, 72, 80, 88, 128, 131, 134, 149, 161, 164, 178, 180 kösmechki (kös körör) 81, 130, 142, 145, 148, 149, 154, 172, 179 kubulyp (transform) 65, 70, 189 kudai 30, 65–66, 99, 128, 175, 177, 197; see also Altai Kudai kulak ugar 142, 148, 172 Kumandy 17, 20 Kurai 42–44, 51, 52–56, 57, 59–61, 64, 70, 123, 125–130, 155 kut 146 Laidlaw, James 106, 131, 166, 185, 192–193 lakes 64, 170–171, 149–150, 169; Altyn köl (Teletskoe Lake) 13, 15 lama (nama) 4, 31, 33, 60, 151–154, 160–165, 168–169, 172, 174, 183, 186, 193–195 land: movement through 3, 41, 46, 50, 62–63, 72, 85, 107, 140, 149; personhood and 13–14, 18, 19, 41, 44, 46–47, 61, 65, 75–77, 85–87, 90, 107, 145, 153, 189, 191–192; rights to 7, 22, 40, 189–191; spiritual value of 1, 3, 12, 39, 42–43, 47–48, 56, 58, 60, 62, 78, 104, 135–137, 140, 161, 166, 188–189, 190, 195; taming (subjugation) of 70–71, 77, 154, 161–162, 189, 192; worship 35, 37, 167–171, 176–177, 180, 182–186, 189; see also Altai landscape: chiefly 47, 62–63, 67, 70, 137–138, 140; nomadic 43–44, 56, 62; sedentary 43, 62–63; shamanic 47, 62–63, 67, 137 leaders 47, 122, 190; national 2, 21, 32, 34, 62, 71, 73–74, 77, 88, 132, 133, 164, 167, 176, 180, 185–186; religious 31, 36, 37, 77, 137, 170–173, 175–176, 181–183, 186, 193; see also jaisa˘ legitimacy 4, 26, 41, 58, 95, 105, 107, 115, 120, 127, 136, 173, 182, 184, 193 magic 34, 192 Marusia eje 48, 51, 155, 160, 177

media: Altaidy˘ Cholmony (Altaian newspaper) 25–26, 29, 30, 73, 92, 97, 127, 129; television 26, 33, 37, 46, 115, 123, 129, 132 memory 57, 104–105, 148, 161, 167–168, 171–178, 183 metaphor 3, 47–48, 62–63, 135, 147 Mills, Martin 4, 151–154, 160, 182–183, 193, 195 milk (süt) 68, 71, 73, 93, 95, 97, 99, 101–102, 112–113, 116, 120, 122, 125, 148, 167, 174–175 misfortune 46–48, 83, 98, 123, 125, 128, 130–131, 142, 175, 179, 181, 184 Mongolia (Mongols) 1, 11–12, 24, 39, 41, 43, 46–47, 51, 58–60, 62–63, 79, 101, 103, 111, 118, 133, 145–146, 151, 161, 166, 168–169, 171–172 Mongush, Marina 111, 169, 171 moon (ai) 1, 30, 65, 97, 113, 132; lunar calendar 90, 112, 117–118, 174 Morokhoeva, Zoya 144 mountains: Ak Turu 52, 55–56, 68, 70, 128; Babyrgan 72; flying 70–71, 86, 188; interaction with 14, 18, 43, 46–47, 63, 70, 74–76, 83, 85, 87, 103, 133–134, 145, 157, 168–169, 192; Kök yiyk 70, 114, 174, 176, 179; master of (eezi) 18, 64–67, 70, 161, 169, 179; polluted 55–56, 70; power of 44, 58, 68–70, 75, 85, 128, 188; sacred (yiyk) 43, 50, 55–56, 67–70, 78, 80, 83, 85, 113–114, 140, 171–172, 174, 176, 179, 186, 190; Üch Sümer (Belukha) 13, 14, 71, 78; see also Altai; eezi; land movement 90, 102, 112, 117, 132; and knowledge 3–4, 61–63, 71, 135, 137, 163, 167, 194; through land 3, 41, 43–44, 46, 62, 70, 135, 137, 149; theory 41, 43–44, 46; of üle 77 Mukhor Tarkhata 40, 51, 81–82, 129–131, 155, 157, 179 mürgüül 28, 101–102, 106–107, 114–115, 174–175, 184–185, 192, 198 Muytueva, Valentina 1, 17, 37, 87, 92, 132, 134, 136–137, 140, 177 national celebrations 2, 52, 111, 115–116, 127–134, 167–168, 183–186 national-cultural revival 1–2, 5, 22–23, 25–26, 50–51, 60, 75–76, 91–92, 124, 126–128 national identity 3–4, 17, 19–20, 39, 135

Index 221 national religion 27–28, 32–33, 37–38, 86, 135, 150, 163–165 national unification 14, 17, 21–23, 25–26, 29, 31–32, 37–38, 65–67, 78, 133–134, 152, 176, 192–195 nation-building 18 number symbolism 90–93, 97–101, 115–116, 188 oboo (ovoo) see also üle 43–44, 63, 79, 168–171, 173, 181–182, 186, 189 occult 4, 12, 138–139, 141–142, 145, 147, 149–150, 156, 159, 163–164, 166, 193 offering 30, 44, 66–68, 73, 79–83, 85, 89–90, 93–98, 100, 104, 106, 111–115, 120–125, 128–133, 143, 156, 164, 166, 169–171, 174–176, 181, 185 Olchonova, Kura˘ 128, 130, 155, 177 Ongudai 20, 30, 35–37, 42, 162, 181, 189–190 ontology 3, 18, 62, 75, 80, 85, 106–107, 135–138, 144, 153, 189, 181–192 Ortner, Sherry 4, 106–107, 151 Ortolyk 40, 48, 51, 80–81, 155 Otto, Rudolf, 105, 138–139 pagan (paganism) 29, 74, paradigm 7, 152–154, 162–163, 165, 189, 191, 195 Pedersen, Morten 3, 43–44, 56, 62 perception 3, 11, 68, 86, 90–91, 142, 150, 162–163 personhood 18, 19, 75–76, 85–86, 90–91, 107, 135, 144–147, 150, 153, 159, 191–192, 195 place ( jer): bailu jer 67, 79, 80, 103; energies of 13–14, 62–64, 143; jaan jer 94–95, 100–101, 102; jymzhak jer 65, 83, 171, 188; katu jer 65, 83, 103, 171, 176, 178–179, 185, 188; körmöstü jer 80, 82, 149; significance of 3–4, 22–23, 39, 41–42, 47–48, 54–61, 71, 103–104, 116, 120, 123, 126–130, 156, 173–174, 185, 188; tagylgalu jer 82, 176; theory 41, 43–46, 62–63, 90–91, 102–103; turgaktu jer 81–83, 86, 149; see also Altai; arzhan suu; eezi; mountains; oboo; üle politics: activists 12, 26, 77; borders 11, 44; changes 1–4, 71; ethnic 17–18, 21–22, 67, 167; political structure 14–16, 62–63, 67; religion and 27–28, 31–33, 39, 71, 73, 115, 131–132, 163, 184–186, 195; Soviet 54–55, 86, 187

Potapov, Leonid 16–17, 20, 27, 34, 65–66, 136, 145–146, 167 power 63–64; of places 3, 11–13, 41, 43–44, 64, 67–68, 79, 88, 91, 103, 107, 137–138, 161, 188; of religious specialists 3, 23, 153–154, 156–159, 163, 186, 193; see also occult purity 28, 46, 83, 88, 95, 111, 113, 125, 127–128, 143, 176 ritual 3, 4; abandonment of 35; actions 75–76, 101, 106–107, 111–112, 115–118, 166–168, 175–180; legitimisation 4, 105, 115, 120, 173, 177, 182, 184, 193; mistakes in 83, 86, 130–131; practice 3–4, 31–32, 35, 54, 79, 88, 92, 101–102, 105, 120–126, 136, 151–153, 156, 160, 168–177, 180–184, 189; revival 33, 127–134, 164, 177, 184–186, 192; theory 31, 43, 63, 68, 73, 99, 106–107, 166–171, 192–193 rivers 46–48, 58–60, 64, 65, 73, 80–82, 85, 87, 120, 155, 169, 192; Chui 31, 40, 43–44, 46, 52, 54, 58–60, 116, 127, 129, 133; Katun’ (Kadyn) 13, 15, 42, 72 Roerich, Nicholas 12–13 Russian Federation 11–16, 77, 92, 115, 151, 163, 177, 185, 189; national policy in 21–22 Russians 14–15, 19–20, 23, 30, 34, 50–51, 54, 115, 127, 185 sacrifice 170–171, 177–178 Sagalaev, Andrei 17, 27, 31–32, 34, 66, 136 Samtakova, Klaudia 51, 179–180 Samunov, Chynchai 117–118 Samunov, Jondy˘ 48, 102, 120, 179 Sanashkin, Altaichy 32–33, 74, 123, 160 sa˘ 90, 92–102, 106–107, 111–116, 120–125, 127–130, 133, 174–175, 178, 180–181, 184, 192, 198 school 20, 23, 50–51, 81, 86, 91–92, 120–121, 124, 129, 179–181, 192 senses 58, 91, 103–105, 142–144, 156, 163, 182 shamanism 17, 36–37, 60, 63, 135, 157, 163–164, 195 shamans see kam sky (tengri) 14, 30, 47, 63, 65–66, 72, 97, 139, 166, 169 snake 46

222

Index

soul terminology see jula; sus; sür; süne; kut; tyn Soviet Union: collapse of 54, 187; collective farms (kolkhoz) 6, 11, 20, 50–51, 54, 58; education 2, 27, 86, 92, 124, 173; environment 12–13, 75; politics 11, 15–16, 20–21, 54–56; religion under 4, 31, 34, 59, 86, 92, 111, 116, 125, 127, 134, 167, 171, 173, 176, 180, 187; repression 25, 125; research during 16–18, 27, 136, 144 space 43–44, 52, 57, 61–63, 72, 141, 174, 182 spirits 5, 17–18, 28, 31, 59, 67, 72, 116, 141–146, 151, 155, 156–159, 161–165, 166–170, 172, 178, 180; of clans 22–23; as indices 4, 136–140, 156; körmös 60, 80–83, 117, 125, 142–143, 145, 148–150, 159, 175, 185; relations with 125–126; theory 135–141, 150, 153–154, 182–183, 193–195; see also eezi; occult stars 112, 132 Strathern, Marylin 43, 144–145 sudur 162 Sun (kün) 1, 30, 48, 65, 90, 97, 102, 112–113, 120, 129–130 süne 64, 145 sür 146 sus 146 syimuchy 147 symbols 2, 13–15, 17, 28, 32, 46, 75, 99, 104, 129, 132 tagylgan 82–83, 168, 171–186 taiylgan 168, 170–171, 173, 182, 186 teachers 37, 50–51, 54, 74, 91–92, 95, 97, 120–122, 124, 139, 161, 179–181, 184, 186, 193 Tebekov, Aiyldash 67, 155, 160 Telengit-Sortogoi 50–51, 70, 161, 173, 178–182, 184, 186, 193 Teleut 17, 20 Tibet 12, 60, 70–71, 86, 151, 153, 188

time: and authority 182–183, 184, 186, 193; of day 81–82, 92–94, 98–99, 102, 112–113, 116, 121, 130, 175; of month 81, 90, 112, 117–118; of year 88, 112, 118, 122, 132, 174 Tokarev, Sergiei 16, 22–25, 66, 140, 167 Tölös (Töölös, Teles) 17, 20, 23, 25, 27, 52, 57–58 tös 26–27, 140 tourism 5, 13–14, 55, 74–75, 190–191 tree 1, 22–23, 38, 42–43, 63, 85, 97, 113, 140, 191; kam tyt 82; in rituals 73–76, 82–83, 95–97, 102, 122, 169, 176–178, 181 Tsaatang 43–44 Tuba 17, 25, 73 tuduchy 147, 154 turguzu 59, 83–84, 116, 143 Turner, Victor 99 Tutushev, Sergiei 81–83, 125 tüschi 147–148 Tuva (Tuvans) 15, 37, 42, 47, 56, 59, 111, 118, 133, 156, 169, 195 tyn 47–48, 64, 146 Tyukhteneva, Svetlana 21, 27, 64, 134 uchurlu 46, 141–142, 145, 177 Ükok Plateau 13, 18–19 Ulagan 20–21, 34–35, 42, 52, 54, 93–95, 180 üle 44–46, 67, 73, 76, 79–82, 86–87, 93, 100, 103, 149, 169 unity 3, 14, 21, 23, 26, 32, 41, 66, 90, 122, 133–134, 162–165, 169–170, 176, 186, 194 üzüt 143, 146 Weber, Max 139 witchcraft (tarma) 55, 86, 126 yiyk 67–70, 198; animal 83, 156; mountain 50, 55, 56, 67–70, 83, 113–114, 174, 176, 179, 190 yrymchy 142, 148, 177

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