Asian borderlands: the transformation of Qing China's Yunnan frontier 9780674021716

Table of contents :
Frontmatter
Abbreviations (page xv)
Note on Transliteration (page xvii)
Introduction (page 1)
I Political and Military Transformations
1 A Traveler's Tale (page 17)
2 New Frontier Militarism (page 43)
3 Ambiguity of the "Barbarian" (page 64)
4 Asian Empires (page 97)
II Demographic, Economic, and Cultural Transformations
5 A Motley Throng (page 127)
6 A Song for Tea (page 159)
7 "Barbarians" Still? (page 187)
Conclusion (page 207)
Notes (page 225)
Works Cited (page 281)
Index (page 303)

Citation preview

Asian Borderlands

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Asian Borderlands Yk THE TRANSFORMATION OF QING CHINA’S YUNNAN FRONTIER

C. PATTERSON GIERSCH

HARVARD UNIVERSITY PRESS Cambridge, Massachusetts, and London, England 2006

Copyright © 2006 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Giersch, Charles Patterson. Asian borderlands : the transformation of Qing China’s Yunnan frontier / C. Patterson Giersch.

p- cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-674-02171-1 (alk. paper) 1. Tai (Southeast Asian people)—China— Yunnan Sheng—History.

2. Yunnan Sheng (China)—Ethnic relations—History. I. Title. DS793.Y8G54 2006

951'.35—dc22 2005055028

For Anne

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Acknowledgments

, Many people supported me as I wrote this book. The project first took shape under the expert guidance of two superb teachers, Betsy Bartlett and Jonathan Spence. I am grateful for all they have taught me. Others who contributed generously to my early development include Valerie Hansen and John Mack Faragher, who introduced me to comparative

frontier history. Peter Perdue has provided invaluable feedback and support at several crucial stages; not only is he a model of intellectual creativity and productivity, but also he is a man of remarkable generosity. I thank Philip Kuhn and William Kirby, who welcomed me (a Yalie!) into their Harvard writing seminar, the venue where the earliest versions of this work were presented. Many other friends and colleagues have assisted me. Jay Carter, John Herman, Emma Teng, and Bin Wong read and critiqued all or parts of the manuscript. I am particularly thankful for the intellectual compan-

ionship of Richard Horowitz and Emma Teng; I have learned so much , from them. Various parts of the book were presented at conferences over the years, including at Lund University, UCLA, and the University of California—Irvine. My thanks to all who organized and participated

in these events. I wish to thank Sara Davis for her responses to my work and for inviting me to participate in “Culture at the Crossroads: The Challenge of Preservation and Development in Sipsongpanna, Yunnan,” a conference at Chiang Mai University. This was an important opportunity for me to test conclusions on Tai history before a particularly discerning audience. Geoff Wade also read and critiqued

viii * Acknowledgments

my work on Sipsongpanna. Thanks to the anonymous reviewers of the

manuscript, and my gratitude to Kathleen McDermott and Kathi Drummy, who patiently answered numerous questions and guided me through the editorial process. The research for this book has required extensive archival and library work in China and the United States. In Beijing, Cheng Chongde and Wang Sizhi facilitated my stay at People’s University. I thank them

and the archivists at the Number One Historical Archives for their help. In Taibei, Zhuang Jifa and Wang Jinghong, along with all the librarians of the National Palace Museum Library, made my work there both productive and wonderful. Over the years, I have been welcomed

to Kunming by Lin Chaomin, Shen Haimei, and Tan Leshan. I thank Professor Lin for introducing me to Yunnan University’s History Department, to his students, and to the library. Shen Haimei has taught me a great deal about Yunnan, and she also invited me to her research site in a Tai Lue village. For all of her help, I am extremely grateful. I have also benefited from the expertise of Gao Lishi, who taught me the rudiments of the Lue script and helped me work through several chronicles. In the United States, the research for this project was aided by the librarians at Wellesley College’s Clapp Library, whose interlibrary loan is second to none; Yale’s Sterling Library; the University of Washington’s East Asia Library; and Harvard’s Harvard-Yenching Library; Widener Library, and the Library of the Arnold Arboretum. Material for “A Motley Throng” first appeared in “ ‘A Motley Throng:’

Social Change on Southwest China’s Early Modern Frontier, 1700- | 1880,” The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 60, no. 1 (February 2001): 67-94, and it is reprinted with the permission of the Association for Asian Studies. The maps were produced under the patient guidance of Jim Besancon, my Wellesley colleague and a resident GIS expert. Financial support has come from a number of fellowships. The original dissertation research was supported by the Yale Center for International and Area Studies; by International Security Studies at Yale, which provided both Bradley Foundation and Smith Richardson Foundation Dissertation Research Grants; and by the Yale Council on East Asian Studies, which awarded me a Prize Fellowship to support research and writing. The substantial post-dissertation research was made possible by an American Philosophical Society Research Grant, a generous Dean’s Faculty Enrichment Grant from the University of Puget Sound, and several Wellesley College General Grants for Scholarly Activities. A 2004 Fellowship for College Teachers from the Na-

Acknowledgments ° ix

tional Endowment for the Humanities (FB-38757—03) made it possible

to spend a year on the final research and writing. I am extremely grateful for this support, but any views, errors, or questionable interpretations expressed in this book are mine alone. My parents, Mary Victor and Charles, have always supported me, and on this project they proofread the entire original manuscript draft. At this time I remember, too, my late grandmother, Carolyn W. McFarland Jones, whose grainy slides of faraway places first opened a young boy’s eyes to the world outside New England; in many ways,

she made this work possible. Saved for last are those dearest, for they | have contributed (and sacrificed) the most. They are my boys, Connor

and Lucas, who know only that their dad is a teacher who goes to China sometimes, and Anne, to whom the book is dedicated because the hours spent on it can only be repaid symbolically, with two tiny

words out of a hundred thousand: For Anne. ,

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Contents

Abbreviations xv Note on Transliteration xvii

Introduction 1

I Political and Military Transformations | 1 A Traveler’s Tale 17

2 New Frontier Militarism 43 3 Ambiguity of the “Barbarian” 64

4 Asian Empires 97 II Demographic, Economic, and Cultural Transformations

5 A Motley Throng 127 6 Although the Qing contributed mightily to the trajectories of modern Chinese history, their labors were not a part of an irreversible historical trend toward unification that was destined to produce the “multiethnic nation” that China now claims to be; such a trend exists only in the minds and work of nationalist historians.”® Rather than projecting modern ideas and agendas of sovereignty and

nationalism onto the past, it is important to place political authority in contemporary context. Not until the 1950s was a Chinese government able to remove all local contenders from power, demarcate borderlines, and incorporate most (but not all) of the Crescent as sovereign territory within a modern Chinese national state.?” The Qing relationship with the Crescent’s Tai aristocracy should not be confused with modern territorial sovereignty. Edmund Leach has written of the Sino-

Burmese frontier, “In this region the indigenous political systems... were not separated from one another by frontiers in the modern sense ... The political entities in question had interpenetrating political systems.”?8 Building on Leach’s ideas, Thongchai Winichakul found that the territorial claims of Siam and Burma overlapped. These states could

12 - Introduction

not or did not enforce their exclusive authority over carefully demar-

cated territories neatly abutting each other (a basic component of modern territorial sovereignty). Regional rulers therefore exercised a measure of authority and local autonomy, although they paid tribute to the Burmese or Siamese (or both) kings.2? Many Tai rulers in the Crescent did the same, and the Qing were therefore implicated in this political ambiguity.*°

The Yunnan frontier with Southeast Asia was a particularly sensitive region, and as the Qing committed greater resources to asserting authority there, it produced a voluminous paper trail. But historians who try to follow this apparently well-blazed trail can easily lose their way, misled by either the documents themselves or studies based on them. The misleading paper trail begins in the Ming dynasty, when officials still did not directly rule vast expanses of Southwest China, including the Yunnan frontier. Instead, indigenous rulers who enjoyed varying degrees of autonomy were the authorities in these regions. Despite the tenuous nature of Ming frontier rule, many imperial sources described these regions and their rulers as if they were integral parts of the im-

perial administration, and although there was some truth to these claims, the descriptions are often misleading or inaccurate examples of “textual incorporation.”>! When Qing armies conquered Yunnan in the 1660s, they inherited both the policies of indirect rule and the language of textual incorporation. Although few modern historians are uncritical in their treatment of sources, they too can be swayed by imperial language. When describing relations between indigenous polities and the empire, for example, some might depict imperial offensives against native official regimes as expeditions to “soothe,” “pacify,” or “instruct”

recalcitrant indigenous rulers or “bandits,” who are sometimes described as threatening the unity of China.*? In other words, historians sometimes adopt imperial rhetoric in order to depict frontier indigenes and regimes as subject to Ming or Qing sovereignty in the same way that their descendents are now Chinese citizens. Even basic reference works such as the Historical Atlas of China (Zhongguo lishi dituji) can be misleading in this way. For Yunnan Province in particular, the introduction to the Ming volume states that those native official regimes depicted were actually “under the control of the Ming empire” in 1582,

even though it is relatively straightforward to prove this statement false.*> The Yunnan map itself is drawn in such a way that the borders and coloring of the native official regions are exactly the same as those of standard prefectures, the implication being that there was little dif-

Introduction - 13

ference between the two types of administrative districts.*4 The 1820 | map of Yunnan is even more explicit in its inclusion of border native official regimes within the “national boundary,” which is shown on the

map despite the fact that there were almost no demarcated borders between Yunnan and Southeast Asian states until the 1890s. If some historians and geographers have overestimated the extent of Ming and Qing frontier rule, others have erred in another direction. In his excellent recent works on Sipsongpanna (Ch. Xishuangbanna), one of the Tai polities in the Crescent, Shih-Chung Hsieh argues that this

area was an “independent” or “semi-independent” “kingdom” (duli wangguo or ban duli wangguo), begun in the late twelfth century and continuing uninterrupted until the twentieth century. Hsieh emphasizes the power of the Sipsongpanna royal family and criticizes others for implying that the “kings” did not have full and centralized control. He also calls the Ming-Qing influence in Sipsongpanna an “imaginative authority,” argues that Sipsongpanna was never invaded by China, and claims that Sipsongpanna “had absolute rights in military action, foreign affairs, economic activities, and internal governance, and neither China nor Burma ever signed a treaty for its protection.”3° Although Hsieh is one of the more insightful, passionate, and powerful critics of the nationalistic biases within Chinese scholarship, his focus is on the recent past (ca. 1850 onward), on modern identity formation, and on

political autonomy, and this leads to a tendency to misinterpret the region’s premodern history. “Independence,” treaties of protection, and “absolute rights” were not part of the contemporary political practice or vocabulary. Where Hsieh imagines a relatively stable and unified premodern Sipsongpanna that acted as an independent and ethnically self-aware polity, the documents speak of invasion by the Qing, Burma, Siam, and other Tai polities as well as internal conflict within the Tai aristocracy that weakened the Sipsongpanna ruler’s authority. In fact,

military conflict with a multitude of enemies in the centuries before 1850 forced Sipsongpanna’s ruling elite to make significant changes in their ruling institutions long before the modern period. Too often, we

| imagine a premodern world in which there was little change, and this assumption is unfortunately reinforced by scholarship on the Crescent

because of its tendency to focus on the modern period and modern sources.?”? One goal of this book is to stake claim to a dynamic premodern past for the Crescent and its peoples. The book begins with a political narrative, divided into four chapters. We are first introduced to the Crescent’s land, climate, peoples,

14 + Introduction

and history to 1723 before moving into the savage 1720s and 1730s, a time of aggressive Qing expansion throughout the Southwest. The actions of the local agents of empire and indigenous decision makers, however, suggest that expansion’s outcome in southern Yunnan was more ambiguous than previously thought. The difficulties encountered by Qing officials contributed to new policies of cooperation with indigenous leaders during the period from the 1730s through the 1760s. I not only recount these policies but also reconstruct the Qing and Tai intellectual environments that contributed to them. This entails a discussion of the relationship between Qing policy and concepts of the “barbarian,” for all imperial officials thought of the Tai as barbarians. It also includes a presentation of Tai descriptions of the Chinese, whom they called Haw. The political narrative ends with the vicissitudes and instability of accommodation, from the 1760s through the 1850s. Re-

lying on primary (Qing archives, Tai chronicles) and secondary (histories of Southeast Asia) sources, I recount local and regional military conflicts and their corrosive impact on the long-term viability of fron-

tier Tai regimes. .

The book’s second section shifts the focus from the political to the social realm; its three chapters begin with an exploration of demographic change and urbanization before turning to economic developments, including marketing, long-distance trade, and commercialization. The book concludes with an investigation into the complexities of cultural change in such a diverse region. In these chapters, the main agents of change are Chinese settlers and indigenes. To reveal their stories, I have relied on Qing archives, Tai manuscripts, and local and provincial histories, as well as journals written by Qing and European travelers. These three chapters challenge two simplistic, yet surprisingly durable, ideas about China. The first is the prominent concept of “sin-

icization,” the idea that Chinese or “Sinic” culture converted and absorbed all who came into contact with it. The second is an idea, still common among nationalist scholars, that Chinese political and cultural expansion was a peaceful and progressive “unification” (tongyi) naturally culminating in the present “multiethnic” Chinese nation-state. By challenging these two triumphal narratives, the book acknowledges the humanity and agency of Qing imperial officers and Chinese migrants, as well as Tai aristocrats and commoners. This approach is, I believe, a new way to conceive of the Qing empire’s frontiers, a way that personalizes and particularizes the practice of empire and returns contingency to the study of the Chinese past.

SF PART ONE

Political and Military Transformations

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JE CHAPTER ONE

A Traveler’s Tale , The bottom of the gorge is narrow. One hears only the gurgling of water flowing through the dense forest in the depths below. The gorge is deep; the mountains are lofty and steep. Plants and trees envelop everything. Gibbons and flying squirrels ceaselessly cry.'

Five years before the demise of the Ming dynasty in 1644, Xu Xiake’s

wanderlust drove him to the ends of the crumbling realm to see the marvels of western Yunnan, including the spectacular Salween River gorge. With a day’s images fresh in his mind, Xu jotted terse, personal journal entries, detailing the places he visited and the stories he heard. His keen eye for detail provides a glimpse of the seventeenth-century Yunnan frontier.

By May 14, 1639, Xu was well into his journey. He set out this morning to cross the Gaoligong Mountains, the largest of several ranges separating him from the frontier town of Tengyue (modern Tengchong). He left from a small town southwest of Yongchang, but not before noting the handful of buildings, including a postal station that represented a single link in the provincial government’s chain of communication with its outposts to the west. Although he does not mention it, Xu was following a major trade route, which Chinese mer-

chants traveled to the frontier markets to trade for gems, silver, and jade. The road snaked along the Salween River gorge, and as Xu ascended,

he passed a stele to a mountain deity. As the path ascended into the mountains, Xu may have reflected on the name “Gaoligong,” said to be a Chinese transliteration meaning “Gaoli Clan Mountain” in one of the region’s many indigenous tongues. Certainly there was evidence that this was, in many ways, an occupied land. In several settlements along the way, Xu observed households huddled around breastworks

18 - Asian Borderlands

defending the route. Descending the western side of the range, Xu passed four other small settlements, crossed over a river on an ironchain suspension bridge, and arrived at a somewhat larger settlement consisting of a few dozen households and a Ming imperial customs house. The next day, Xu pushed west and arrived at the district seat of Tengyue, which had a flourishing market outside its south gate. With his arrival in Tengyue, Xu had reached the edge of the empire, a Chinese political and cultural frontier “nestled close to many types of barbarians.”* Xu learned that most of the region’s Chinese residents clustered here, where garrisons and civil bureaucrats reinforced imperial rule. Beyond these areas, the Ming empire began to meld with the territories of various groups along the Sino-Southeast Asian borderlands; those speaking Tai dialects and organized politically under their own aristocratic leaders tended to dominate the river valleys, whereas diverse peoples occupied the highlands. Although Xu Xiake did not venture southwest of Tengyue city into the heart of the frontier region, his writings describe the unsettled po-

litical climate there. Of the “barbarians,” Xu found that only those close to Tengyue cooperated comfortably with imperial officials. In

| contrast, those who lived farther afield seemed far more remote and forbidding. Sipsongpanna leaders, for example, paid tribute to the Ming dynasty, but Xu learned that they and other “barbarians” had concurrent ties to the Burmese kingdom.° Xu has provided a terse record of the Yunnan frontier on the eve of Qing conquest, yet his journal is a point from which to gaze backward and forward, in order to familiarize ourselves with a general history

through the seventeenth century. When combined with the insights of others, Xu’s writing reveals the contours of this Sino—Southeast Asian borderland before the eighteenth century’s events utterly transformed it.

Landscape and Climate Xu Xiake was fascinated by rugged landscape, and in frontier Yunnan’s

topography he had found a worthy subject. Over the centuries, the region’s rivers have furrowed the bedrock into deep gorges, like the one Xu explored before climbing into the Gaoligong. The Salween (Lu, Nu)

and Mekong (Jiulong, Lancang) rivers, for example, emerge from snowmelt on the Tibetan plateau. Where the two rivers flow into north-

western Yunnan, mountains tower up to 15,000 feet, and the waters

A Traveler’s Tale + 19

race through narrow gorges far below. From these high elevations, the rivers rush south. The Salween maintains a relatively straight course, passing east of Tengyue, and then zigs and zags east and west before passing into Burmese territory. The Mekong parallels the Salween before gradually turning eastward near Yongchang and following a lazy reverse S pattern down through Sipsongpanna.

As they flow south, the rivers run fast. When Xu left the Salween River and climbed over the Gaoligong, he ascended from about 2,400 feet in the gorge to over 8,000 feet; the river and surrounding mountains were already much lower than the stunning altitudes in northwest

Yunnan. The Mekong also descends quickly, often through narrow gorges where the currents boil. As it nears Sipsongpanna, the river’s waters have dropped to 2,250 feet; the mountain ranges on either side are about 5,000 feet. From here, the muddy Mekong begins a slower, more majestic journey to the delta in southern Vietnam. Smaller rivers have joined the Salween and Mekong to slowly shape the terrain into a checkerboard of river valleys surrounded by mountains. Xu Xiake crossed several ranges and valleys before his final descent onto the Tengyue plain. If he had gone farther southwest into the

Tai strongholds, he would have followed the river from Tengyue to another valley, then stayed with the river as mountains closed in and the waters accelerated. From this gorge, he would have emerged into the narrow Nandian valley. From Nandian, Xu could have climbed over an eastern range of hills and down onto a plain shared by Zhanda and Ganyai. Farther south, over a range, lay a smaller plain shared by Husa and Lasa. Across yet another range of hills, Xu would have found

the Longchuan valley. By the time he worked his way to the large Muong Mau plain, Xu would have stood in the middle of a contested land—claimed by Burma and China, but ruled locally by the hereditary Tai leader. Rivers and rugged hills also dominate Sipsongpanna in the southern Crescent. Before the second half of the twentieth century, an assortment

of tracks and paths led south from the Pu’er plain. The main route climbed to about 6,300 feet before descending into Simao. Travelers would see the country gradually open as they moved south where the hills were lower and the valleys more level. From Simao, one road led through a series of mountains and valleys before dropping down to the Muong Pang plain. Farther south, across the Buyuan River, were the Tea Hills of Sipsongpanna, ranging from about 4,000 to 5,000 feet in altitude. The Buyuan skirted the Tea Hills on the north side and flowed

20 - Asian Borderlands

to the southwest. As the river bent to the south, one could climb west over a range and down into the small Muong Yang valley. From here

a short climb over a range of hills landed one on the large Chiang Hung plain, the center of Sipsongpanna. The plains (called muong in

Tai, ba in Chinese) represented the rare level ground in southern Yunnan, and they were oases of rich, irrigated fertility amid the rugged hills.

Until the twentieth century, most travelers, like Xu, walked the narrow, unevenly paved roads or dirt paths, their goods on their backs or carried by mules, ponies, or oxen. In rain, the paving stones became slick and dangerous, the dirt paths impassably muddy. One crossed the rivers on bamboo, stone, or chain bridges, which danced slightly in the air, or by ferry; sometimes the only choice was to wade. It was not a topography for rapid progress, and travelers trudged through thick,

tropical forest that enveloped the mountains or followed along the dikes of irrigated rice paddies in the valleys. People and pack animals made relatively good time during the dry winter months, but when the

rains came in May, travel became harder, and most people stayed home.

Climate dictated the rhythms of Crescent life.? Farmers naturally followed the seasons for planting and harvesting, but they were not the only ones to consider the weather. The general climate throughout the region is tropical. A hot, humid rainy season extends from May to October, followed by relatively drier, cooler weather. Within this basic weather pattern, there are differences. Most importantly, regional altitudes are higher toward the north and east, meaning that areas closer to China lie at higher, more temperate altitudes. The lower and hotter areas lie to the west and south, in the frontier zones. Recorded temperatures for the region do not date back to the eigh-

| teenth century, but circumstantial evidence indicates that the relative cool of Tengyue and Simao in contrast to the torrid heat of areas farther west and south was consistent from early times through the nine-

teenth and twentieth centuries. A Chinese traveler during the late Ming dynasty claimed that the western frontier’s streams boiled and the stones shimmered with summer heat. He also noted that Chinese who traveled to frontier areas in Burma or Sipsongpanna were often infected with tropical diseases.®

High temperatures and wet conditions provided ideal breeding grounds for the Anopheles mosquito, the insect responsible for infecting humans with the protozoan parasite that causes malaria. In the

A Traveler’s Tale - 21

low, hot areas of the borderlands, these parasites, along with other tropical diseases, were a serious threat to humans. Before 1897, no one understood the transmission of malaria, but most Chinese were convinced that disease was passed through poisonous vapors (zhang), and they avoided low-lying areas during the rainy season.’ These low-lying areas, however, were home to many Tai, who seemed to have adapted

their lifestyles to more easily avoid malaria and other diseases. Because Tais were less susceptible but Chinese and Manchus were often defenseless, disease strongly influenced Qing frontier policy. Acutely aware that they had to protect officials and troops, imperial policymakers stationed their troops and officials in high, dry locations and, in so doing, allowed the environment to dictate the patterns of Qing power. The higher, cooler areas, such as Tengyue and Simao, attracted Chinese settlers and supported Qing government institutions. In the lower, hotter places like Muong Mau and Sipsongpanna, soldiers and mandarins found it difficult to survive, and local Tai societies often preserved a remarkable measure of autonomy. This was not happenstance or simple environmental determinism. Qing officials adapted their institutions to meet the environmental demands of ruling in malarial areas. At the same time, they could not simply displace or eradicate the highly organized Tai states and their dependents in the highlands.

Peoples of the Borderlands | By the early eighteenth century, a diverse array of peoples inhabited frontier Yunnan. Most groups did not occupy geographically discrete territories, but lived scattered in homogenous villages interspersed among the villages of others, a cultural patchwork of human habitation. How many people were there? It is impossible to know because no one accurately surveyed them. Even when surveys of Chinese settlers

began in the late eighteenth century, officials counted taxpayers, not actual population.!° Chapter 5 will clarify the demographic picture as much as possible, but for now it is important to trace the various communities inhabiting the Crescent.

In the hills and higher elevations lived numerous highlander com- | munities. It is difficult to accurately trace their development, and their complex histories are the subject of ongoing research by anthropologists, historians, and nationalities (minzu) specialists. Most work to date has been done by mainland China’s nationalities specialists, who

22 + Asian Borderlands

believe that the highland peoples mentioned in this book can be accurately divided into eight different groups or “nationalities”: Achang, Bulang (Palaung), Hani (Akha), Jinuo (Kachin), Jingpo, Lahu, Lisu,

and Wa.'! However, their process of classifying and identifying has been criticized for creating rigid categories based more on traditional Chinese perceptions of indigenes than on linguistic and anthropological evidence. This criticism holds true for the eight groups, with the cate-

gory of “Hani” being the most problematic. Not only is there significant linguistic variation among the peoples classified as Hani, but also there are those “Hani” who prefer to be called Akha, and recent research has uncovered significant historical differences between the Hani and Akha.'!” Nevertheless, it is important to describe the great range of regional linguistic and cultural diversity, and the eight nationalities cat-

egories provide a viable framework, as long as it is remembered that these categories were fluid in practice. In the contemporary social and political environment, in fact, people could change their culture, language, and perhaps even identity. Given these caveats, the eight highland groups can be broken down as follows: Achang. During the Qing period, Achang were scattered throughout western Yunnan, with a relatively large population congregating on the plain of Husa and Lasa where they farmed, raised livestock, and sold

handicrafts. Achang were also known as skilled artisans. Modern Husa/Lasa Achang dialect contains elements of Chinese (Mandarin), Tai, and Jingpo, a reflection of these cultures’ close proximity. Achang and Tai shared similar styles of dress as well as a devotion to Theravada Buddhism. Chinese influences also left their imprint on Achang language and practices.!3 Bulang/Palaung. Bulang lived on the intermediate slopes of mountainous areas in Pu’er and Weiyuan, in southwestern Sipsongpanna, in

the west of Gengma, and in what is now northern Burma. Their language belongs to the Mon-Khmer family and is related to Wa. Traditionally, Bulang practiced swidden (slash and burn) agriculture and also traded forest and agricultural products—especially tea—in valley markets. In the eighteenth century, Bulang society experienced important

changes, which are preserved in several oral histories from Sipsongpanna villages. These villagers believe their ancestors migrated into Sipsongpanna in the eighteenth century. At the same time, these and other Bulang villages were gradually losing their independence to Tai suzerains. This was paralleled by Bulang adoption of many Tai practices,

including Buddhism, written language, stilt houses, and dress.'4 This

A Traveler’s Tale - 23

brief explanation of Bulang movement and cultural change merely hints at the social fluidity of this region.

Hani/Akha. Hani and Akha people speaking different TibetoBurman dialects are widespread in the highlands throughout the Yunnan frontier, eastern Burma, as well as northern Thailand, Laos, and Vietnam. In China, they are found in the highlands around Simao, living in villages interspersed among those of the Lahu and Lisu, or in the valleys and towns among the Tai. There are Akha (also called Aini or Woni) in the Pu’er area as well as in Sipsongpanna. By the eighteenth century, Hani pursued a variety of livelihoods: some were sophisticated

farmers planting in terraced fields or producing cloth for the market. Akha in the hills southeast of Simao picked and sold tea to merchants from as far away as Tibet and China. Elsewhere, there were more mobile groups whose women grew swidden crops and harvested herbs to sell and whose men tended livestock and hunted. Akha occupied a low social status in Sipsongpanna where many were under Tai jurisdiction and were apparently called by the derogatory nickname “slaves” (T. xaa, kha), though Akha themselves believe that the term means “people of the middle.”!5 Jinuo. During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, as today, the

Jinuo were a small group living in the mountains south and southeast of Simao. Jinuo dialect belongs to the Tibeto-Burman language family. Like their Akha neighbors, many Jinuo harvested tea for a living. Also like the Akha, the Jinuo were often under Tai jurisdiction.'® Jingpo/Kachin. Jingpo (or Kachin as they are known in Burma) are widespread through the mountains of Burma, Assam, and the western part of Yunnan. They speak a number of Tibeto-Burman languages. In the late 1940s, Edmund Leach studied Kachin near Muong Mau. He found that most Kachin practiced swidden agriculture and produced handicrafts for sale, but some also pursued other economic strategies ~ such as extracting land rent from neighboring Tai states or exacting tolls on caravans crossing the mountains. Traditionally, the Kachin organized village-level egalitarian political groups, but Leach learned that

Kachin villages might combine into larger hierarchical polities based on Tai models. At times, Kachin tribes even took control of Tai or Chinese villages, and they periodically adopted Tai political structures or even assumed Tai identity.!7 Throughout the nineteenth century, most Kachin in Qing territory came under the suzerainty of various Tai aristocrats. Leach’s findings prove that borderlands peoples created complex, changeable political and social landscapes.

24 + Asian Borderlands

Lahu. During the Qing period, Lahu were often referred to as “Luohei.” Their villages were scattered from Weiyuan south to Muong Laem and Chiang Hung. Some Lahu groups lived farther north than

this range and many lived in what are now Burma and Thailand. Lahu’s two main dialects both belong to the Tibeto-Burman family. Often Lahu villages were located deep in the mountain forests (although not isolated from other communities), where men hunted and women planted crops and spun cotton.'® Lisu. Found in Burma and Thailand as well as China, these TibetoBurman speaking highlanders were widespread in western Yunnan during Qing times. Those who lived in the Sino-Southeast Asian borderlands were often closely connected politically to the Kachin, with whom they frequently intermarried.'” Wa. Wa speak a language from the Mon-Khmer family. Spread throughout the frontier, especially in the Muong Laem and Gengma areas, they also extended into the Salween River valley and modern Burma’s Shan State. Nationalities scholars have found that the Wa in modern China comprise three dialect groups: one north of Gengma, one to the south, and one occupying hills ranging from east of Gengma to Muong Laem. In ancient times, Wa were probably more widespread, but during the thirteenth through eighteenth centuries, migrations of Tai, Chinese, and Lahu compressed the Wa south and west into their present locations. Originally a hunting and gathering people, the Wa

required extensive territory even though they gradually turned to swidden agriculture. With the Tai and Chinese occupying the richer agricultural lands in the valleys, the Wa tribes slowly retreated into the mountains.”° Adding to the regional linguistic and cultural diversity were the Chinese, who were among the latest arrivals on the Sino—Southeast Asian

frontier. It was not until the 1380s, when Ming dynasty armies conquered Yunnan, that large numbers of Chinese troops settled in military

colonies around Yongchang and Tengyue. A decade later, the Ming deployed 20,000 troops to attack the powerful Tai state of Muong Mau, and many of these soldiers also stayed to settle. Not all Chinese migrants were soldiers—merchants flocked to seasonal markets southwest of Tengyue—but permanent, military settlements brought many early migrants to western Yunnan. Tens of thousands of troops arrived in the 1440s to fight another war against Muong Mau. After a brief Burmese invasion in the 1580s, Ming officials deployed new waves of military colonists to Tengyue.?!

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Due to trade patterns, climate, and Ming military strategy, disproportionately large numbers of Chinese settled around Tengyue. Thus, Xu Xiake found Tengyue to be a civilized but isolated outpost among “barbarians.” If the Tengyue region attracted Chinese attention from an early date, it was not until the late Ming that merchants and settlers found new destinations farther south. By the 1590s, there were sufficient numbers of settlers in Shunning for the Ming government to overthrow the indigenous rulers and implement direct rule. At this new district’s periphery, economic activity boomed: Chinese caravans passed

through the mountains southwest of Gengma on their way to Burma; local silver mines, under the jurisdiction of Tai leaders, attracted Chinese miners, some of whom were demobilized Ming soldiers.?? Farther

south, in the Pu’er region, Chinese activity was almost nonexistent. Not until the early eighteenth century would Chinese merchants frequent Sipsongpanna’s tea-producing areas. Generally speaking, Chinese migrants were far from a homogenous

group. They came from different provinces, spoke different dialects, and pursued diverse occupations. Soldiers often married locally and settled, but many merchants passed through the frontier seasonally. Some Chinese were considered different because they practiced Islam, lived in exclusive communities, and usually worked in specific trades

such as mining. These were the Muslim-Chinese (Hui), and their mosques were located in major frontier towns. When in Yun District,

in fact, Xu Xiake had visited the local mosque. Although MuslimChinese provided key economic services, and many trade caravans re-

lied on them to drive the pack animals, they were often targets for abuse by other Chinese. This was particularly true in the middle decades of the nineteenth century as Chinese massacres of MuslimChinese exploded into a rebellion that tore Yunnan apart from 1856 to 1873.3 Long before those horrible years, however, by the turn of the eighteenth century, Chinese and Muslim-Chinese were only just beginning to establish themselves in areas beyond Yongchang and Tengyue. Their patterns of livelihood were diverse. Men, or sometimes families, relied on soldiering, trading, mining, or farming. Most lived in Chinese oases poised on the edges of indigenous regions, but some had moved farther

west from the older settlements to mine, farm, or take up military posts; here they often mixed with the vibrant local societies, especially the Tai.

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Tai Domains (Muong) and Peoples The origins of the Tai are unclear. Some believe that they originated in what is now south-central China and, under pressure from the expanding Chinese and Vietnamese empires, began migrating to the southwest, probably in the first century CE. Others argue that Tai have inhabited many of their current lands since ancient times and that those closest to the expanding Chinese empire adopted Chinese culture whereas more distant groups were exposed to both Indian and Chinese customs and eventually drew from both to fashion their distinct ways.24 However one interprets ancient Tai history, it is clear that from the twelfth century on, a unique Tai culture was emerging in the

upland region that straddles the modern territories of northeastern Burma, northern Thailand, northwestern Laos, and China’s Yunnan Province. The Tai of these regions speak dialects that are part of the Southwest

Tai group, which in turn is part of the Kadai language family and is therefore quite distinct from the region’s other major languages of the Miao-Yao, Mon-Khmer, and Sino-Tibetan families. For the purposes of this book, there are two crucial dialects. The first is Tai Yai (or Tai Shan), primarily spoken in the areas southwest of Tengyue, from Ganyai to Bhamo and Muong Mau to Hsenwi. The second is Sipsong-

panna’s Tai Lue, which is closely related to neighboring dialects in Kengtung and Chiangmai.”* Both Tai Yai and Tai Lue could be written, using quite different Pali-based writing systems that were imported in tandem with Theravada Buddhism.?¢ Just as writing and Buddhism were important distinguishing features for the Tai, so too were geography, economy, and politics. Tai tended

to occupy river valleys where they grew rice in irrigated fields. The relatively settled nature of the Tai economy permitted increasingly complex and hierarchical social and political organizations. An individual was a member of a family (buon) living in a village (baan); the village, in turn, was part of a “domain” or muong, a larger political and social

unit composed of all the villages in one valley or plain. In time, aristocratic leaders were able to unite groups of muong into small states.?”

Speaking, writing, religion, and living practices may have distinguished the Tai from other groups, but they were far from unified themselves. Dialect and political traditions united various Tai into distinct groups. Some of these groups, including the Tai Laem of Muong Laem,

the Tai Khun of Kengtung, and the Tai Yuan of Chiangmai, are ad-

| A Traveler’s Tale + 27 dressed later. However, the most important to this story will be the Tai Yai (often called the Shan) of the region centered on Muong Mau and the Tai Lue of Sipsongpanna. Tai Yai. The Tai Yai are often called Tai Nuo (“northern Tai”), but sometimes the Burmese word “Shan” is used to refer to them. Shan is useful as a term because it highlights the links between the Muong Mau region and northern Burma. Those links included political alliances, trade, and frequent intermarriage. Although Shan language and culture were relatively uniform, the people recognized political and geographical differences among themselves.2® This book treats Tai Yai from the

domains of Muong Mau, Zhefang, Husa, Lasa, Zhanda, Ganyai, Longchuan, and Nandian. The Tai of these domains differed from their northern Burmese relatives in another important way: they were more heavily influenced by Chinese politics and culture. Due to trade patterns and a slightly cooler climate in their region, the Tai Yai experienced a long history of interaction with China.

Tai Yai interactions with “China” began when the Mongol Yuan dynasty (1279-1368) sent troops to western Yunnan, but the Ming dynasty made a larger impact. In the 1440s, after decades of conflict and maneuvering, Ming armies destroyed the powerful Tai state centered at Muong Mau (Kausambi, Luchuan), which had extended control over much of western Yunnan.’ After this, the Tai Yai never reunited, remaining fragmented in smaller domains (muong). These Tai Yai domains contained highly stratified societies. At the

apex were aristocratic families who commanded both status and wealth. Their wealth was gathered from commoners who paid grain tax, did labor service, and offered tribute. Each small state had an aristocratic lineage whose male members could inherit the rulership (tsau faa) and other leadership positions. Their authority was exercised through a council of ministers and reached down through the domain level to the village headmen. Tai domains often gained at least nominal political control over highland groups as well. Nevertheless, this was not always a stable governing system because it was highly susceptible to personal ambitions. A powerful leader might expand his territorial reach by incorporating other domains, whereas a weak domain might be forced into a tributary relationship with a stronger neighbor. Ruling families often divided into factions as they disputed and fought over the tsau faa position. Disputes in one domain affected others because lineages often intermarried or married their daughters to Kachin chiefs to seal a military alliance.*° Thus, women played an important political

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role in cementing alliances, and if a tsau faa passed away, one of his wives (tee vi) might rule as regent for an underage son. Intermarriage with Kachin reflected the complex world of the Tai Yai elite. Several ruling families claimed descent from Chinese soldiers,

though they intermarried with other Tai elites and self-identified as Tai! In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, it was advantageous to be Tai in this region. In the twentieth century, however, several of these lineages sought to reclaim their putative Chinese surnames, suggesting that political and social conditions had changed and it was no longer advantageous to be Tai. Tai Lue. Sipsongpanna Tai call themselves either “Tai,” which distinguishes them from highlanders, or Tai Lue (Tai Lti), which distinguishes them from other Tai. The Lue dialect and the Sipsongpanna head of state (tsau phaendin) were important symbols of identity in the twentieth century,” but it is likely that this identification dates to the eighteenth century. Sipsongpanna was one of a number of Tai states in the upper Mekong region that now belong to the Chinese, Burmese,

Laotian, or Thai nation states. Legend ascribes its founding to the twelfth century, although Tai migrants had probably arrived earlier.* As in Tai Yai society, social stratification was highly developed among the Lue. Commoners (subdivided into different status levels) worked

village rice fields and owed tribute, land tax, and labor service, and they paid these levies through village headmen to the aristocratic domain ruler (tsau muong). Domain rulers generally had full authority in their domains, but paid tax to the head of state or “lord of the earth” (tsau phaendin), who theoretically owned the land of his entire polity. The head of state was revered but did not necessarily have strong institutional control of Sipsongpanna. He and his top officials and councilors (who formed the sanaam nai or “inner council”) shared power

with domain rulers, who participated in a crucial central decisionmaking body, the “outer council” (sanaam nawk). Although the head of state did maintain important controls over the Buddhist hierarchy as well as relations with neighboring states, the domain rulers remained a political force. With direct influence over the central government and equipped with local operating bureaucracies for their own territories, domain rulers basically managed “an independent administrative unit” penetrating each village.**

This view of the head of state’s diluted power contradicts mainland Chinese scholarship. Jiang Yingliang claims that the head of state was in “absolute control” of both councils, and he believes that the head

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of state and domain rulers were united by blood in a “feudal clique,” which conveyed the ruling family’s authority to the local level to exploit the common Tai.*> Because Sipsongpanna functioned from the twelfth or thirteenth century through 1956 in ever-changing social and political

environments, there is room for both interpretations. The head of state’s potential weakness is particularly important because it best explains eighteenth- and nineteenth-century events. When, in 1868, the French Mekong expedition’s leader Doudart de Lagrée appeared before the outer council, he noted that it was the domain rulers who allowed him to cross Sipsongpanna and proceed into China. The head of state merely rubber-stamped the decision, confirming that he had little real power.*6

Tai heads of state were not guaranteed direct power throughout Sipsongpanna’s domains, but because of their symbolic status and ritual powers, they were crucial to internal governance and external relations. The head of state was a high-ranking “native official” (tusi) within the

Ming and Qing empires; his title was “Cheli Pacification Commissioner” (Cheli xuanweishi). The Ming and Qing held the pacification commissioner responsible for paying Sipsongpanna’s taxes and for maintaining order, including frontier defense. The ruler held an official seal and charter of investiture from Beijing. At the same time, the Burmese king also conferred a title on the Sipsongpanna head of state.°’ From the sixteenth century until the British invaded upper Burma in

, 1885, Sipsongpanna was a dual tributary to Burma and China; by the early nineteenth century, Sipsongpanna rulers also sent tribute to Siam.

“Yunnan” and China There was no “Yunnan” for most of human history, at least not until the thirteenth century, when Mongol armies first conquered the Dali kingdom (937-1253) and later created the Yunnan Branch Central Secretariat in 1274.38 Thus, this most diverse of China’s administrative regions is, perhaps appropriately, a legacy of one of the conquest dynasties, for it was the Mongols who first linked the lands of Yunnan together, although the governing and even territorial integrity of the Mongol Branch Secretariat were quite different than today’s Yunnan Province. Despite the fact that a cohesive administrative unit called “Yunnan” did not exist before the mid-thirteenth century, the region and its peoples have a much longer history of political, cultural, and trade connections to China, India, and Southeast Asia.

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Dating from the first millennium BCE, the Dian kingdom featured fortified towns and spectacular bronzes that have revealed Yunnan’s links with the Yangzi valley to the east, with Ba and Shu to the north (now Sichuan Province), and with Dongson to the south in what is

now northern Vietnam.?? In the fourth century BCE, the Chu kingdom—looking for a strategic advantage over its rival, Qin—sent , | troops into Yunnan. The Qin, meanwhile, also had designs on the Southwest, attacking Sichuan’s ancient kingdoms in 316, and then, after the creation of the empire under China’s first emperor in 221, building a road into Yunnan.*° The links between “Yunnan” and China were strengthened during the Han period, especially during the reign of Wudi (r. 140-87 BCE). Wudi’s officials, backed by imperial troops, created frontier administrative districts that included parts of modern Yunnan; in the process they destroyed several local political rulers, but also recognized others. Soldiers repaired the old Qin roads into the Southwest, aiding the imperial government’s effort to extend its influence; the roads were also designed to filter northward some of Yunnan’s rich trade with areas now in Southeast Asia, southern China, and India. The occupation of the Southwest, although superficial in most areas, introduced important changes into local societies. The changes ranged from the development of political ideas, including the notion that indigenous rulers might be recognized as imperial officials (an idea that was crucial over the long term), to the introduction of economic practices, including mining and

cultivation techniques.*! :

In the wake of the Han collapse, a successor state, the Shu Han (221263), tried to maintain a hold on the various peoples of the Southwest. When powerful southwestern families tried to assert their autonomy, for example, the Shu Han regime dispatched the famed general Zhuge Liang. Zhuge’s campaign to reassert Shu Han influence in the Southwest, including parts of Yunnan, was successful, but his efforts to es-

tablish a stable political relationship have long been controversial. Zhuge believed that he did not have the manpower to occupy and directly administer the Southwest, and he advocated indirect rule through local elites. This allowed local families to consolidate power, and, during the centuries that followed, these indigenous regimes became increasingly separated from northern and central China.” The Sui (581-618) and then Tang empires (618-907) again tried to assert imperial control over the area that would become Yunnan. By this time, the eastern Cuan clan controlled northeast Yunnan and parts

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of western Guizhou, and the western Cuan clan controlled much of present-day central Yunnan. The Sui state invaded both Cuan territories and even executed the western Cuan ruler, before learning that this

was a complicated region. Preoccupied with building the mammoth Grand Canal, campaigning in Korea, and other pressing matters, the Sui never fully brought Yunnan to heel; at best, they forced the nominal submission of various ruling groups. When the Tang founder usurped Sul power in 618, he returned the Cuan leaders to Yunnan in order to

gain local proxies and sent out diplomatic missions to the peoples across the region. This approach bore more fruit, and the Tang created a frontier prefecture in Yunnan for the first time in 621. Yet, for the

first few decades, the Tang were generally content to use the “loose rein” (jimi) policy of recognizing hereditary indigenous rulers across Yunnan.*3

In the 640s, the Tang aggressively expanded their control over Yunnan. This expansion was justified in part by the claim that the local

“barbarians” needed to be taught a lesson, but also by the desire to control trade with India. By the 670s, Tang armies had campaigned across the northern reaches of modern Yunnan, reaching the Dali area and even Yongchang.** Tang officials may have seen Yunnan as an economic asset, but it quickly took on an added strategic value, for the

Tang were not the only ones interested in the region. In the eighth century, Yunnan became an arena for competition between the Tang; Tibet; and a local regime, the Nanzhao kingdom. The Tang-Tibet rivalry of the eighth century provided opportunities for politically astute

Operators in western Yunnan, and a series of remarkable leaders emerged from Nanzhao. These men combined Tibetan and Chinese administrative and cultural influences to create a dynamic and expansive polity.* From the eighth through early tenth centuries, then, much of Yunnan was the domain of Nanzhao, which extended its control from Dali east to Kunming and south into modern Burma. The Nanzhao regime, and its successor, the Dali kingdom (937-1253), extended into the Crescent, finding the locals to be accomplished warriors who were partic-

ularly effective against the Chinese. The regimes placed parts of southern Yunnan under central government command but also recognized local leaders in areas that the central administration could not reach.*¢

Although the Dali kingdom’s power extended into southern and western “Yunnan,” it did not prevent indigenous societies from devel-

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oping their own complex political and social institutions. This was especially true of Tai throughout the upper Mekong and Salween river valleys. For example, most Sipsongpanna chronicles agree that the first ruler established Muong Lue (the Lue polity, later Sipsongpanna) in the twelfth century. “As for Phajaa Tsuong, he came to be Phajaa Muong Lue in the age of xut tsai, in the calendar of the king, year 542 (1180 CE),” opens one Lue account of the Sipsongpanna past.*” After taking charge, Phajaa Tsuong sent three of his four sons out to rule over other newly emerging upper-Mekong polities.*® Although the founding legends of Sipsongpanna are difficult to verify, a late twelfth-century date fits regional developments. The Dali kingdom had weakened, making it feasible for Sipsongpanna and other Tai polities, located on the edges of the Dali realm, to gain more autonomy at this time. Nevertheless,

fully formed domains, with their intricate administrations, did not spring to life this early. These ancient Tai polities were, for the most part, powerful raiding bands who, in the words of David Wyatt, “moved quickly through the countryside on their ponies and elephants, looting and plundering and taking captives.”*? From the beginning, it was clear that Tai rulers were carving out a political existence in a region pulled by powerful forces from the north

and south. Despite its declining power, the Dali court remained an important force, and all Sipsongpanna chronicles record that Phajaa Tsuong and later his son received recognition from the Dali king.°° At least one chronicle even identifies the Dali sovereign as Tsuong’s “father,” thus employing the important regional metaphor of family to describe the hierarchical relations between Sipsongpanna and Dali. The

Dali king (and later Yuan, Ming, and Qing emperors) were often referred to using titles of respect such as tsau faa vawng, “Lord Sky King.”S! At the same time, the ruling family of Sipsongpanna was clearly part of an upper Mekong world, which would come to include Lanna (Chiangmai), Kengtung, and Luang Prabang as its primary Tai states. The chronicles from each of these places declare that there were close

kinship bonds uniting their various ruling families. Although these claims cannot be verified, they provided important regional legends linking Lue aristocrats to other upper Mekong ruling clans.5* Among the more important legends was one about Phajaa Tsuong’s great-great granddaughter. She was the “pearl in [her father’s] hand” (the apple of

his eye), and he arranged for her to marry the son of a ruler just to

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the south. Always the doting father, he periodically sent servants south to check on his daughter. On one of these missions the most joyous of

news was learned: she was pregnant. Sipsongpanna and Chiangmai sources record that she bore a son, the wondrous Mangrai, who would found the Lanna kingdom of Chiangmai and unite the upper Mekong.°? Though his birth story contains elements of legend, Mangrai was a real figure who, between 1259 and 1317, expanded his power to include much of the northern Mekong basin, including Sipsongpanna.” What is fascinating about the upper Mekong’s premodern past (and, according to Sara Davis, its postmodern future») is that it does not fit neatly into the geographical category of Southeast Asia or East Asia.

Despite the claims of certain schools of history, it was not “China,” and, yet, various China-based empires made a large impact on early Tai history. The rise of the Mongols only increased the level of this northern influence.

Yunnan and the Crescent did not fall easily to the Mongols, and it , required a range of techniques to conquer the region’s vast expanses.

In some areas direct rule was possible. Imperial troops garrisoned | Yongchang, for instance, bringing thousands of Mongol, Central Asian, and Chinese military colonists to the region. These garrisons, in turn,

attracted Chinese merchants, artisans, and settlers. In other areas, where they faced stronger opposition, the Mongols turned to indigenous allies and soldiers, a common policy for indirect rule that was the forerunner of the Ming and Qing native official institution. Despite this combination of direct and indirect approaches to ruling, the Mongol expansion provoked widespread hostility and frequent reversals of fortune, particularly in the southern Crescent. The stiffest opposition came from Sipsongpanna and its powerful

overlord, Chiangmai. Mongol armies first invaded Sipsongpanna as ] early as 1282, but controlling the upper Mekong proved to be too much, even for the mighty Mongols. Sipsongpanna rose numerous times over the next few decades, and Mongol reprisals were countered

by Chiangmai troops under Mangrai, the great Tai leader whose mother allegedly hailed from Chiang Hung. When a 1292 uprising provoked a Mongol attack, Mangrai drove the Mongols out of Sipsongpanna. By 1309, Tai soldiers were raiding northward, apparently pushing the mighty Mongols back. The two sides finally concluded an agreement that ended the chronic conflicts and established the Tai as

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tributaries.5? In the end, the Mongol ascendancy set the pattern for latter regimes: to rule in Yunnan, and especially along the borderlands, one had to be flexible.

The Ming period (1368-1644) brought tremendous change to Yunnan. The great motors of change were migrants, especially the thousands of military migrants who often arrived in Yunnan with their

families.** In the early Ming, these soldiers were concentrated in Kunming and other major towns, including Yongchang in the west. Over time, the government extended its territorial control and deployed troops to more remote frontier areas such as Tengyue and Shunning. Soldiers were also deployed along communication routes, as Xu Xiake discovered in his travels from Yongchang and to Tengyue. Thus, the

military system was an important force for settling parts of western Yunnan, but such settlements did not reach far into the south, which was dominated by the native official, local indigenous leaders who maintained their autonomy but also recognized Ming suzerainty. The Ming consolidated and regularized relations with indigenous leaders by granting native official titles to important local rulers. Each native official was considered to be either a civil or a military official. Civil native officials (sometimes called tuguan) were usually established in areas closer to Ming power centers, and they often had minor Ming officials assigned to work with them. In contrast, the military native officials (tusi) were more autonomous, maintaining their own armies

and often controlling regions well beyond the usual range of Ming military power. Yet they also cooperated with the Ming state, which relied heavily on native troops (tubing) provided by native officials. For Sipsongpanna’s Tai Lue and other frontier peoples, the Ming era was one of important changes. Tai regimes were feared by the Ming

imperial government, which tried to harness their power, and an increasing Ming influence over the Tai Lue was manifested on three occasions during the fifteenth century. On the first occasion, in 1401, the

Sipsongpanna ruler Tau Se Da Xam (Ch. Dao Xianda) launched an attack on Muong Baw (Ch. Weiyuan), a smaller Tai polity to the north. When Yunnan officials asked the Ming court for permission to punish Sipsongpanna, the court urged caution, but agreed that troops would be sent if necessary. In response to the threat, Tau Se Da Xam withdrew his soldiers and sent envoys to the court. The Muong Baw affair occurred just as the Ming began to assert their influence on the frontier, and it was an early example of their increasing reach.5? Although Ming military power was not a constant threat to Sipsongpanna, it was re-

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spected, and tribute to the Ming court and military cooperation with Yunnan officials became standard Sipsongpanna practices. The second and third occasions that demonstrated the new conditions were situations in which Lue soldiers joined Ming assaults on other Tai states. In 1405, Sipsongpanna joined a Ming-led attack on its erstwhile overlord and ally Chiangmai.® Then, in the 1440s, Sip-

songpanna, Bhamo, and others joined the massive Ming armies marching on the powerful Tai state at Muong Mau. Although the Muong Mau defeat in 1448 came to be portrayed in Ming sources as the “elimination” of “bandits,” it was a significant display of Ming power and ability to mobilize Tai polities. Led by ambitious and capable men, Muong Mau had been a powerful and influential state, extending over much of present-day western Yunnan and northern Burma. Its defeat took the better part of two decades and was accomplished only through a coalition of forces skillfully managed by the

Ming. At one point, Ming general Wang Ji claimed to have taken 50,000 heads, a reminder of how large and brutal these battles were.*! If the battles were grisly, it was because the stakes were also high: the

Ming court did not want any powerful polities on its southwestern frontier, and by eliminating Muong Mau, the Ming gained influence throughout the region by promoting a number of smaller, weaker native official domains to replace the great Tai state. The story of this period is not simply one of unchecked Ming ex- | pansion, however. In return for Tai Lue cooperation, the Ming required Southeast Asian tribute embassies to enter Yunnan via Chiang Hung, meaning that Sipsongpanna’s aristocrats received fees and gifts as their lands were transited.*2 Ming influence in Sipsongpanna, moreover, had its limits. Earlier in the fifteenth century, in 1421, the Ming had tried to split Sipsongpanna by taking advantage of internal discord within the Lue aristocracy; the Ming court recognized two separate leaderships, one in southwestern Sipsongpanna and one in the northeast, but the plan failed and Sipsongpanna remained united.® Nor were the Ming the only concern for Chiang Hung rulers. During a succession dispute in the 1450s, Sipsongpanna was thrown into turmoil. One side received military assistance from Chiangmai, and the

other turned to Kengtung. In the end, the Kengtung-backed side emerged victorious, but only a few years later serious conflict erupted between Sipsongpanna and Kengtung.™ From the fifteenth century onward, Sipsongpanna and other Tai polities existed in a complicated world. There was always the potential

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for internal factionalism and external conflicts, whether with the Ming, the Burmese, or other Tai. Although some have portrayed the region’s premodern era as a relatively placid one, these few examples demonstrate that there were no long-term stable relationships with China, nor were there any enduring alliances among Tai regimes.® Instead, the records show that by the early sixteenth century, the Tai Lue and their neighbors lived in a politically unstable world in which alliances constantly shifted. At the same time, there were growing cultural and political connections among all Tai-speaking centers. Giving flesh to these connections were traveling scholars and monks as well as the aristocratic women who married from one ruling house into another. Despite the greater communication, there were also increased competition and

warfare, making it a dynamic but dangerous world indeed.

The Crescent and Burma For about a century, beginning in the 1530s, the danger reached new levels with the emergence of a powerful Burmese Toungoo dynasty. The

armies of one of its great kings, Bayin-naung (r. 1551-1581), transformed the Tai world. In a major coup, they deposed the Chiangmai ruling family, the descendants of Mangrai, and then used the capital as

a staging point for attacking other Tai centers. Burmese soldiers marched north into Kengtung and Sipsongpanna, where they impressed local men into their ranks before assaulting and conquering the mighty Ayudhya (central Thailand).*’ From this time, Sipsongpanna and other Tai regimes sent tribute to

the Toungoo and then to its successor, the Kon-baung (1752-1885), even as they accepted native official titles from the Ming and then the Qing. For the Sipsongpanna Tai aristocracy, the relationship was summed up in a new phrase: haw pin paw, man pin mae, the Haw (Chinese) as father, the Man (Burmese) as mother. Many other Tai domains also maintained ties with both powers. The Burmese conquests placed new burdens on Tai polities, but there were opportunities in the relationship as well. In 1569, a new Sipsong-

panna ruler, Tsau Ain Muong, took the throne and went to Burma to salute Bayin-naung. The king not only recognized Ain Muong’s claim to rule, but also betrothed a Burmese princess to him. Several Sipsongpanna chronicles proudly describe the lavish presents that arrived with the princess in a procession so grand that it aroused the interests of the Haw (Ming) in Muong Sae (Kunming, the Yunnan provincial cap-

A Traveler’s Tale - 37

ital). Perhaps concerned that their influence was waning, the Ming quickly sent “high officials” (T. xun long) to see what was going on. After consultations, the Burmese and Ming officials jointly recognized Tsau Ain Muong as ruler of Sipsongpanna and they both participated in a ceremony of enthronement.® At this same time other Tai polities were also forging relationships with the Burmese court, and this story neatly fits in with the patterns of Bayin-naung’s efforts to gain a purchase over them. Intermarriage was a common tactic, and Bayin-naung also required the Tai to take part in Buddhist rituals, thus promoting the consolidation of Theravada Buddhism in Tai states.’ In Tsau Ain Muong’s case, he accompanied the Burmese envoy (the Ming envoy

was excluded) into a temple and took a special oath before the Buddha’s image.” By the second half of the sixteenth century, then, Burma was a commanding presence throughout the Crescent.”! In the 1590s, the Ming

responded to Burmese aggression by deploying fresh troops and building new fortifications, but they concentrated on the Tengyue frontier, leaving those along the southern Yunnan borderlands basically to themselves.”? Places such as Sipsongpanna were forced to reorient their political and cultural worlds. Yet, this reorganization was still understandable within the framework of contemporary political rhetoric in Southeast Asia, where hierarchical relations between lord and vassal were expressed through the analogy of the family. Like a parent, the overlord might be exacting in terms of requiring loyalty, respect, and even service, but in the end the child was an autonomous person.” Overall, Sipsongpanna did not feel the full force of Bayin-naung’s armies in the same way that others did. To the south, Toungoo armies

laid waste to large areas, and the experiences of hunger, flight, and hardship are preserved in Chiangmai and Kengtung chronicles.” Sipsongpanna chronicles, however, tend to record the interaction with Burma—particularly Ain Muong’s marriage—as positive. Yet, several decades later, in the 1620s, Sipsongpanna’s Tai would experience the

brutal power of the Toungoo. In 1626-1627, the Burmese attacked Sipsongpanna and captured the ruler (Ain Muong’s son) and other aristocrats, along with many commoners.”

Throughout this tragic time, there was no help from the north, for the Ming frontier forces were decaying, much like the other institutions of empire. Chinese soldiers mortgaged their lands or fled their posts, a

trend all too apparent to Xu Xiake. During his travels north of Tengyue, he passed a strategic frontier post that had been abandoned to

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the foxes and rabbits, which romped in the overgrown fields. Military decline made the region more dangerous. When Xu Xiake visited Tengyue in 1639, the frontier government still functioned, but in an uneasy climate. Xu was urged not to travel at night for fear of “barbarians” who frequented the area. In Shunning, Xu became aware of ongoing tensions dating from the Ming conquest in 1597. Several years previously, angry locals had murdered an official. In Yun District, too, similar tensions simmered. Xu became concerned with growing Burmese influence in the area.’ Ironically, the era of Burmese expansion had already passed, and Xu’s fears were groundless. Like the Ming, Burma’s Toungoo dynasty was in decline. The Ming would fall first, in 1644, whereas the Toungoo lingered into the eighteenth century, as did their legacy in the borderlands, for they had left behind Tai polities crippled by the earlier invasions. With a declining Burma and weakened Tai regimes, there were no significant obstacles when China’s new masters, the Qing, entered the Crescent for the first time in 1659.

The Crescent and the Early Qing Whereas Tai had suffered through Burmese invasions in the 1620s, Yunnanese experienced the rise of regional armies and then Qing invasion during the 1640s—1660s. They first saw Sha Dingzhou, a native | official, capture the provincial capital in 1646, drive out the hereditary military governor, and usurp power. Next, they watched Sun Kewang,

| a subordinate of Zhang Xianzhong, and his army march into Yunnan, overthrow Sha, and restore “Ming” order. They then witnessed the Yongli emperor, last of the Ming claimants, arrive in 1656, under the guard of Li Dingguo, another Zhang Xianzhong protégé. For a brief moment, Yunnan’s provincial city became the capital of the fading Ming empire.” It all ended in January 1659, however, when Qing armies arrived. By March, these forces controlled the critical trade routes through Dali to Tengyue as Yongli fled to Burma. In December, the Qing court delegated power to Wu Sangui, a former Ming general turned Qing ally. Over the next few years Wu consolidated his power, including pursuing the Ming pretender into Burma and bringing him back for execution

in Yunnan. Within a few months after the execution, the last major Ming commander, Li Dingguo, died on the Yunnan-Laos frontier, and Wu Sangui reigned supreme.” From 1659 until the collapse of his famously rebellious regime in

A Traveler’s Tale + 39

1681, Wu Sangui and then his grandson controlled Yunnan’s government and military, even appointing officials and minting money. In ad-

dition, he received large stipends from Beijing in order to support his : military machine. Wu and his commanders used these resources to establish a basic governing framework. Although they made relatively few changes to the Ming civil bureaucracy, especially in frontier areas, they radically changed the military. All remaining Ming forces were replaced by Green Standard soldiers, which would be the key imperial military institution in Yunnan for two centuries.” The Green Standards were a centralized force that extended government coercive power deep into rural China. At the central government level, the Green Standards were managed by the Board of War. In each province, most Green Standards came under the provincial commander in chief’s (tidu) purview, although most were assigned to regional commands (zben) under regional commanders (zongbing).®° The regional commands were in turn divided into territorial regiments (xie) under colonels (fujiang) or lieutenant colonels (canjiang); battalions (ying) under majors (youji), captains (dusi), and second captains (shoubei); and patrols (shao) under lieutenants (gianzong) and second lieutenants (bazong). Because Green Standards were responsible for a variety of tasks, including maintaining local order and protecting the imperial courier routes, the soldiers of a regional command dispersed over a wide expanse and often manned small garrisons.*! _ The Yunnan provincial government began establishing Green Standards in 1659. The first of four frontier regional commands appeared

in 1660.*2 Until the 1720s, however, many of the frontier regional com- | mands were located quite far from the actual territorial limits claimed by the Qing. The Yong-Shun regional commander, responsible for the entire Tengyue-Shunning region, was stationed with 2,400 soldiers in Yongchang. The soldiers who actually guarded the passes and trade routes into Burma hailed from the much smaller contingent of troops assigned to the Tengyue Territorial Regiment. In these early years, the strategic priority was central Yunnan whereas frontiers were less important. The Shunning region, for example, received an even smaller commitment of men and resources—only 500 soldiers distributed be-

tween Shunning Prefecture and Yun District. Southern and southeastern Yunnan also had relatively few soldiers covering huge expanses.

Yuanjiang Territorial Regiment had an allotment of 1,000 soldiers to oversee a region roughly 200 square kilometers in size. Guangnan Prefecture, on the border with Vietnam, had only 800 Green Standards

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for the entire area.*? These frontier troop quotas were miniscule com-

pared to the later Qing deployments. So, how did the Qing plan to manage a vast, thickly forested, hilly frontier with so few soldiers? They incorporated native officials and their troops into the Green Standard chain of command. When Qing armies entered Yunnan, native officials controlled huge

tracts of territory that were nominally part of the imperial domain. During the Ming, they had been appointed to rule over areas dominated by indigenes, and, in many cases, this process simply conferred imperial approval on indigenous elites who derived real power and legitimacy from the locale rather than the imperium. Qing officials followed Ming precedents by reestablishing imperial contacts with and claims over native officials, and many of the titles, terms of alliance, and leaders who held the posts remained the same. Like the Ming, Qing officials differentiated between civil native officials and military native officials. The Board of Civil Office supervised the former, and the Board of War managed their military counterparts,

many of whom controlled frontier territories. The overall number of Yunnan military native officials appointed during the Qing outnumbered the civil, 157-116, a reflection of the key defense roles assigned to them.** Each military native official was given responsibilities that paralleled those for Green Standard commanders: they were to preserve

order, guard the frontiers, and join imperial armies in campaigns against domestic and foreign enemies. Because the duties paralleled those of the Green Standards, so did some of the ranks. The highestranking native officials were the pacification commissioners (xuanweishi and xuanfushi), but below them were native second captains (tu shoubei), native lieutenants (tu gianzong), and native second lieutenants (tu bazong), to name some of the ranks; the prefix “tu” (literally “earth”) signaled that these were indigenous officers. The provincial government assigned each native official a quota of troops that he should equip and maintain. Those who performed their duties well received payments and rewards, and those who failed faced increasingly severe punishments as the Qing state extended its influence in later decades.’> As with the Green Standards themselves, the greatest concentration of military native officials was in western Yunnan. In southern and southeastern Yunnan, where Qing influence was weaker and local autonomy greater, a smaller number of native officials oversaw larger territories. Once again, Sipsongpanna might serve as an ex-

ample.

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When Qing armies defeated the vestiges of Ming support in Yunnan,

they found a fairly quiet frontier, but it was a misleading calm. Sipsongpanna had yet to fully recover from 1626-1627, when Burmese soldiers had carried off its rulers and many commoners. The Toungoo, for its part, was in decline, and its influence in the upper Mekong was already diminished. Ayudhya, in central Thailand, was recovering from its sixteenth-century destruction by the Burmese, so it could not project

power into the upper Mekong. As for Chiangmai, it had suffered through endless warfare and bouts of depopulation.** In short, the Qing attempted to take control at an ideal time. At first, the Tai Lue of Sipsongpanna were relatively unaffected by the Qing conquest. Qing documents record that “Cheli” (as Chinese called Sipsongpanna) “surrendered” in 1660; at that time, the Lue ruler received from the Manchu court a marten-fur coat, a bolt of satin, a saddle, a horse, and a seal of office. Only one Lue chronicle records the Qing ascension and the gifts, so the events were probably not considered important locally. Instead, Sipsongpanna rulers simply went about their business of notifying the Man (Burmese) and the Haw when leadership changes took place.®’

If in the chronicles the Tai revealed no inkling that the new Qing rulers of Yunnan were different from their Haw predecessors, there were important decisions made at the centers of Qing power that would ultimately impact the Lue and everyone else in the borderlands. One of those decisions involved the Muong Tsung ruler, a Tai aristocrat to the north of Sipsongpanna who had opposed the Qing invasion. His

territory was invaded and he was replaced with a Qing official and 1,000 soldiers at the new Yuanjiang Territorial Regiment. At the same time, an imperial official and some Green Standards took up residence in Pu’er, called Muong Maen by the Tai.88 Never before had imperial soldiers been permanently deployed so close to Sipsongpanna. A second decision concerned the legal status of native officials. In 1659, the Qing court accepted a proposal for changing the inheritance rules for native official titles. No longer would local custom dictate the .

process; only direct, patrilineal descendants could inherit the titles. Each applicant for a title, moreover, would have to submit his genealogy to certify compliance.*® The policy of male, patrilineal descendants would, for the time being, remain an ideal only, particularly in

Sipsongpanna where intra-lineage competition could be fierce and where local legitimacy and practices reigned supreme. However, the new regulations signaled the Qing desire to more closely regulate their

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indigenous allies, a first step in ensnaring these indigenous polities in a tighter web of bureaucratic control. Such efforts to increase official supervision over peripheral polities continued through the Kangxi reign (1662-1722), but most reforms remained on paper only, and the emperor apparently preferred it that way. Wu Sangui had used his control over Yunnan’s government and military to launch a devastating rebellion (1673-1681). Afterward, the Kangxi emperor brooded over the great suffering caused by this civil war, and he prevented others from building mighty armies for subduing frontier peoples, lest the commanders once again turn those armies on the central state.*° From the Tai point of view, Qing affairs were not as important as internal recovery from the seventeenth-century disasters or relations with other Tai states.?! In 1707, for example, Sipsongpanna soldiers become embroiled in the civil wars that resulted in the creation of two states, one centered at Luang Prabang and the other at Vientiane.” In hindsight, neither economic recovery nor military entanglements in the south was as important as the events to the north, where, in December 1722, a new emperor with different ideas about frontier governance ascended to the throne.

, UU CHAPTER TWO

New Frontier Militarism

When the Kangxi emperor’s fourth son rose to (some say usurped) power in December 1722, he brought a new demeanor to the throne as the Yongzheng emperor (r. 1723-1735). His father, Kangxi, had been a tough-minded and willful empire builder, who tolerated and even glorified in the diversity and complexity of his realm. Curious and

flexible, Kangxi employed Jesuits at court, and from them learned many skills, including the surveying techniques that he practiced on Manchu-style hunts in his beloved steppe. A practical man, he sought a truce with the Chinese literati, especially those skeptical of the stillyoung and foreign Qing dynasty, and successfully integrated Confucian learning into his family. Kangxi even celebrated his complicated, mul- tifaceted role as Mongol-style khan, Tibetan Buddhist bodhisattva, and Chinese emperor in the variegated landscape of the Chengde (Rehe) retreat.! Yongzheng, in contrast, apparently never went to Chengde and he tightened restrictions on Jesuit activities.2 Although these actions do not prove a fundamental opposition to his father, they do symbolize that Yongzheng was of a different ilk, a man less willing to embrace the diverse practices his father had used to rule the vast realm. Yong-

zheng did not hunt or lead men into battle, as his father had done; instead, he campaigned to increase central government power. This was the hallmark of the Yongzheng reign.* His devotion to effective government led to innovations in communications and to reforms in fiscal practices, which had become corrupted during his father’s later years.

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In the process, Yongzheng faced a challenge that confronted each of his predecessors: finding reliable men to implement his will throughout the realm. To meet this challenge, he carefully cultivated relations with select provincial officials, using intensely personal communications to stroke or upbraid them. He also developed a core group of officials who could be deployed to the provinces to implement controversial reforms.*

This Yongzheng agenda had a profound impact on the frontier. The emperor deployed some of his handpicked men to frontier regions to extend fiscal and administrative control. To increase central government control, these officials often reversed earlier approaches that had promoted indigenous economic and political authority. On Taiwan, for example, Kangxi had preferred a light, inexpensive government presence, and he sought to avoid costly conflicts between Taiwan aborigines and Chinese settlers by protecting aboriginal land rights and controlling the flow of Chinese migration. Yongzheng reversed this approach and introduced “pro-colonization policies” that embraced a larger government presence supported by a growing Chinese settler population. Chinese migration was encouraged even though land-hungry settlers often stole aboriginal lands.‘ In Southwest China, a similar reversal occurred. Kangxi had opposed large-scale political reform designed to undermine indigenous leaders (“native officials,” or tusi) and occupy their lands. This approach did not stem from altruism but was based on lessons learned in the great civil war against the southwestern satrap, Wu Sangui. Wu had used the threat of native officials as an excuse to demand huge military subsidies from Beijing, and the Qing central coffers had basically underwritten Wu’s military buildup prior to his rebellion (1673-1681). As a result, Kangxi so much preferred native officials to funding another potential dynastic competitor that he severely punished the general who defeated Wu’s rebel regime because the man supported the removal of native officials.© In contrast, Yongzheng heeded his provincial officials, who proposed aggressive plans for colonizing the Southwest, and he allowed his handpicked men to lead imperial armies in violent wars of conquest.’ Although Yongzheng’s concerns and ruling style led him to reverse his father’s frontier policies, these were not his only considerations. Late in his father’s reign, as the Qing desperately fought Western Mongols for control of Inner Asia, they learned a decisive strategic secret:

in order to control Mongols, one had to control their religious

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leaders—the Tibetan Buddhist lamas, including the Dalai Lama. This realization eventually led the Qing into Tibet, an eighteenth-century strategic decision that still reverberates today. The importance of this strategic decision lies not only in its consequences for Tibet, however. There are few good routes to Tibet, but one lies through Yunnan. If

the Qing were to secure this route for their armies, then the entire Southwest had to be transformed into a strategic base. Yongzheng officials felt that administrative reforms, including the removal of native

officials and the extension of direct rule into indigenous territories, were a key part of securing the Southwest. Removing native officials was rarely peaceful, however, and this approach led to a brutal period of new frontier militarism in Guizhou, Sichuan, and Yunnan. The Yongzheng period is often misunderstood as the beginning of Qing China’s uninterrupted absorption of autonomous indigenous polities. The concept that these violent policies (of removing native off-

cials) continued as standard Qing practice well after the emperor’s death conflicts with the reality that native officials governed many areas

well into the twentieth century, long after the Qing itself had fallen.? Rather than initiating a long-term process of continuous political centralization, the Yongzheng conquests represented a specific era when extreme violence was used to destroy indigenous control over some regions. Many officials opposed such naked aggression, however, and they considered the emperor’s favorites to be “reckless opportunists.” In other frontier regions, later policymakers actually reversed Yongzheng’s pro-colonization policies.!° It is clear now that Qing officials debated and even reversed frontier policies, and that should give pause for thought. Why were the aggressive Yongzheng policies challenged in the Southwest? Were they ever reversed? What was the long-term impact? In order to reassess the Yongzheng era’s new frontier militarism, it is important to first understand those who implemented it, in this case

the “new men” recruited by the emperor to manage Yunnan at its highest levels.'! Then one must evaluate the actions of the local agents of empire, the Yunnan commanders trying to carry out the plans sent down from above. Finally, one must turn to indigenous decision makers and actors, because Qing aggression was never a one-sided affair. Following the story into the period after Yongzheng’s death in 1735 reveals the outcome in southern Yunnan (and probably elsewhere as well) to be more ambiguous and less successful than previously thought. In fact, policymakers serving Yongzheng’s son, the new Qianlong emperor

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(r. 1736-1795), actually reversed earlier decisions and withdrew Qing troops from select native official territories.

Salt Wars Qing officials often described acts of war against frontier peoples as “pacification.” In southern Yunnan, pacification was part of the larger processes of empirewide administrative reform and the Southwest strategic initiative.’2 To oversee these programs in Yunnan, the emperor dispatched Li Wei, one of his new men who was entrusted to reform the Green Standard military garrisons and chaotic salt industry. In addition, the emperor calculated that Li’s presence would intimidate Yunnan-Guizhou Governor General Gao Qizhuo, a man whose earlier work had been inadequate. On his arrival, Li concentrated on reviving the declining Green Stan-

dard garrisons and extending central government control over Yunnan’s numerous salt wells.!? Both issues reflected the emperor’s con- | cern for administrative and fiscal reform, but they were also closely related to frontier developments. Li concluded that there was a lack of competent soldiers in southern Yunnan, and locals often took security matters into their own hands. At the same time, two southern Crescent indigenous leaders managed salt wells that annually produced several million pounds of untaxed salt. Li and Gao sought to solve both problems by recruiting competent troops to occupy the salt-producing areas so that Qing officials could take over production and divert this new revenue to military reforms.'4 The only question was when to begin implementing these radical changes, and an answer soon presented itself.

In 1723, Gao Qizhuo deployed imperial troops to apprehend several

magnates who had been entrusted with local political power since Kangxi times. Their power epitomized the flexible arrangements of the previous reign, but in the new era these men were labeled murderers (a distinct possibility) and rebels. As a result, Gao was eager to pursue them, and the emperor urged him on. Several rebels then fled into the Tai domains of Muong Baw and Sipsongpanna, and the local indigenous leaders were ordered to apprehend them. When they did not, Gao

plotted to remove the hereditary leader of Muong Baw, a plan that received an immediate endorsement from the emperor.'* The following year, Qing troops marched on Muong Baw, captured its ruler, and exiled him to eastern China’s Jiangxi Province. Gao then reorganized the

New Frontier Militarism + 47

area as Weiyuan District, complete with a Chinese magistrate whose full title was “Weiyuan Sub-Prefect Responsible for Pacifying Barbarians and Providing Correct Accounts” (fuyi gingxiang tongzhi).'° Although Gao used frontier security and insubordination to justify the invasion of Muong Baw, it is suspicious that the outcome neatly solved several problems at once. Local magnates and a native official were replaced by imperial officials and Green Standard soldiers, and Qing officials took charge of a new district that was literally well worth

its salt. From Baomu and Anban wells in Weiyuan and neighboring Zhenyuan, brine was drawn and processed into some 1,741 tons of salt each year, most of it sold throughout southern Yunnan. Before 1724, such sales violated imperial law, but once Gao claimed the wells, he immediately organized a cadre of officials to oversee production and taxation. The importance of the salt revenue was highlighted when the new sub-prefect, Weiyuan’s top imperial official, took up office not at

the old native official’s town, but at Baomu, the center for salt production. The Weiyuan salt wells soon provided nearly 29,500 ounces of silver annually (approximately 22,684 taels) to government coffers, far exceeding the 520 ounces (400 taels) contributed annually by the deposed Tai ruler.'” Lest one read too much into this link between salt revenue and imperial expansion, it is clear that Qing imperialism did not depend entirely on fiscal considerations. There was no doctrine similar to Euro-

pean mercantilism, making the Qing empire quite different from its Western counterparts. In fact, the Qing often transferred resources to the peripheries, and Yunnan, like other frontier provinces and territories, was a net loss for Beijing. Therefore, fiscal considerations were not paramount, but they did matter, and the revenue potential of frontier areas affected policy decisions.'* After all, imperial soldiers had to be fed, equipped, and paid, and Yunnan officials were concerned that provincial grain taxes were insufficient to sustain provincial troops—a situation that they sometimes blamed on indigenous farmers’ inability to produce enough!!? Throughout Southwest China, expansion brought serious fiscal burdens, including the vexing problem of supplying and paying soldiers stationed in remote areas. With the conquest of Weiyuan, Gao Qizhuo extended the imperial reach farther south, but he was only able to do so by moving 1,200 soldiers into Zhenyuan, Weiyuan, Pu’er, and the hills east of Simao. Combined with the existing Yuanjiang garrison of

1,000, these new soldiers more than doubled the troop strength in

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south-central Yunnan, but a provisioning problem loomed. The salt revenues, paid in silver, were therefore invaluable for paying salaries, and new land taxes were collected and used to feed the new garrisons. The salt revenues were also important because the Qing effectively di- verted them from the coffers of indigenous elites. These revenues were so important, in fact, that the Zhenyuan native official tried to reassert his family’s control over the Anban well complex, but Gao’s successor sent in troops, removed the native official from office, and transformed Zhenyuan into a prefecture under direct Qing control. Local agricul-

tural taxes were then implemented, eventually netting an additional 1,902 ounces of silver (approximately 1,463 taels) and over 100,000 quarts of grain annually. Yongzheng-era officials not only expanded the empire through invasion, but they also harnessed important eco-

nomic resources, including salt and agricultural surpluses, to bolster | imperial might and undermine indigenous elites.*° In other words, they significantly altered the politics and economics of frontier communities.

To transform the frontier, Gao Qizhuo and his successor, E’ertai, who arrived in 1726, applied force indiscriminately, and like other new men in the Southwest, they were apparently unconcerned with the consequences of the violence they unleashed.?! Unsurprisingly, their paci-

fication campaigns—better described as radical redistributions of power and resources—frequently provoked resistance. In the southern Crescent, the backlash came in February 1727, when hundreds of hill people and Tai attacked Qing installations at Zhenyuan and Weiyuan. The most severe attacks were at Zhenyuan, where Qing opponents set fire to the new salt trade buildings, government offices, and army barracks. They also killed Liu Hongdu, the acting Zhenyuan prefect and Weiyuan sub-prefect, and according to one account, they ate Liu’s heart and liver and burned his guardsmen’s bodies. Only one Chinese survived, a cook who was respected by local Tai.” Liu Hongdu’s death is important because it provides insight into indigenous motivations. The attackers chose many targets, yet were not indiscriminate (as the Chinese cook’s survival demonstrates). They

burned the buildings associated with Qing oppression and brutally killed Liu, who was reported to be corrupt and physically abusive. As one anonymous indigenous voice, speaking through the report of a

Qing military officer, noted, “When Zhenyuan Prefecture... was changed from indigenous rule to command by a Qing official, the people heartily showed their support. Unexpectedly, the servants of Old Gentleman Liu (Liu daye) beat the people and extorted money.”” Al-

New Frontier Militarism - 49

though this local informant explained the backlash in personal terms,

highlanders and Tai obviously targeted Qing installations and personnel, including the salt buildings and guardsmen. According to Qing reports, they also “stole” salt revenues and the salt itself, suggesting

that resentment was directed at Liu’s personal corruption and the broader issue of Qing control of economic resources. Though Qing officials accused indigenous elites of orchestrating the attacks to regain

control over the salt wells, their reports actually reveal that a wide range of indigenes, representing different communities, had banded together. The attackers included Hani, Lahu, and Tai, and the target was not just Zhenyuan but Weiyuan as well, suggesting that opposition to the Qing was not limited to a small and privileged elite.24

F’ertai dutifully reported the accusations about Liu, but also defended him. The emperor was initially skeptical of this defense, for Yongzheng was well aware that corrupt men filled his official ranks. In his first comment on the incident, he suggested that, “Liu Hongdu certainly brought about his own death.”25 Considering the context of the attack, the emperor’s initial skepticism was clearly warranted. Despite all signs, including southern Yunnan commanders’ reports, pointing to

Qing aggression and Liu Hongdu’s corruption as the source for the attack, E’ertai steadfastly defended Liu. In the process, he was also defending his own colonial policies. In defense of Liu, E’ertai portrayed the conflict in simplistic and emotional terms, equating the struggle as one of civilization versus barbarism. The hill people involved in the attack represented the antithesis of civilized ideals, he argued, whereas Liu was a hardworking official seeking to bring order to the frontier. While struggling to win the court over to his interpretation, E’ertai mobilized pejorative stereotypes to characterize the indigenous people of the Crescent. Those who led the attack were the deposed leader’s clan members, officials, and “yamen grubs” (yadu), evil underlings to the former native official. In E’ertai’s words, these people were “uncivilized rebels” (yezei) and “aboriginal ruffians” (tugun) who had profited from the salt wells and worked for the corrupt indigenous regime. Liu Hongdu had removed them from power, restored to the public coffers the salt revenues, and conscientiously enforced imperial law. The concept of the corrupt, exploitative native official and his followers was one that E’ertai, other new men,

| and even the Yongzheng emperor were championing by the 1720s.?6 F’ertai neatly fit this incident’s alleged leaders into the contemporary language and stereotypes associated with frontier peoples.

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As for the hill people who followed these leaders into battle, they were characterized as uncivilized because they were hunter-gatherers who had no permanent homes or agricultural fields. “Frontier barbarians plunder and kill for a living. If unchecked, they form gangs in a flash; if pursued, they vanish and hide,” concluded E’ertai. E’ertai successfully established these stereotypes, which the emperor gradually came to accept. Once the opposition was defined as “barbarians,” moreover, the Qing troops treated them as such. Soldiers ruthlessly suppressed the opposition, killing almost 1,000 people. The salt wells were saved, as was Liu Hongdu’s reputation, and he came to be remembered as a dedicated civil servant, uncompromisingly enforcing imperial law in a barbaric region; he even received posthumous honors from the emperor.?’

By 1727, much had changed in Weiyuan and Zhenyuan. The salt wells were now the property of the Qing, and the opposition had been ruthlessly suppressed. Chinese merchants now frequented the Anban and Baomu wells, legally purchasing salt for distribution in approved areas. E’ertai had secured his first major victory in the southern Crescent, but this was only the beginning of his effort to implement a new frontier vision. Tea Wars

When E’ertai came to Yunnan as a 46-year-old, he was already an imperial favorite, one of Yongzheng’s new men recruited from outside the standard bureaucratic feeder system.?® His predecessors, especially Gao Qizhuo and Li Wei, had already begun to change Yunnan. Gao engineered the conquest of Weiyuan, and Li Wei tried to improve military discipline and increase salt revenues. While serving in Southwest

China from 1726-1731 (he eventually became governor general of Yunnan, Guizhou, and Guangxi), E’ertai significantly altered the region

by occupying indigenous areas in northeast and southern Yunnan as well as western Guizhou. Scholars have assessed these feats in uncompromising language. Kent Smith describes E’ertai’s policies as “radical,” and John Herman claims that E’ertai and his contemporaries were trying to “systematically destroy any trace of traditional integrity the indigenous frontier societies might have possessed.”?° These assess-

ments are accurate, but E’ertai’s plans for conquest were limited by self-imposed restrictions and, as discussed later, by frontier people and the environment as well.

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F’ertai’s plans for the Crescent included native officials, some of whom he considered necessary for an orderly and civilized frontier. Order would be achieved by carving frontier space into three zones: | “the interior” (neidi) directly administered by imperial officials and garrisoned by Green Standard soldiers, the “hedges” (fanli) under native officials and their native militias but subject to imperial oversight, and foreign states beyond Qing control. E’ertai desired to simplify a

complex political and military landscape where native officials and their militias controlled large territories. In areas that he considered to be the interior, such as Zhenyuan, E’ertai engineered the overthrow of native officials, replacing them with imperial officials and Green Standard garrisons. In the hedges, he sought to extend Qing control over native officials without replacing them. This concept of interior and

hedge applied to all of Yunnan, although the focus here is on the southern Crescent.*° To achieve this strategic vision, E’ertai had to reshape Yunnan’s (and the entire Southwest’s) actual territorial authority by launching vicious wars of conquest against native officials ensconced in the interior and strengthening institutional control over native offcials in the hedges. Regulations governing native officials were modified, and in 1726, the southwestern provinces implemented E’ertat’s recommendation to hold frontier native officials to standards of conduct required of regular Qing officials.*! Yet, this process was never as easy as E’ertai had hoped. Conquest proved costly, and elements within the government were opposed. Nevertheless the successes in Weiyuan and Zhenyuan encouraged E’ertai to look farther south to Sipsongpanna. The Sipsongpanna Tai did not record their reaction to Qing conquests in Weiyuan and Zhenyuan, but these changes must have been a shock, particularly because the former Weiyuan (Muong Baw) ruling family was related through marriage to the Sipsongpanna ruler.*? The greatest shock was yet to come, however;

from Muong Baw and other forward positions, the Qing staged two invasions of Sipsongpanna, one in 1727 and another in 1732—the first such invasions by a China-based empire since the turn of the fourteenth century. The Qing invaded Sipsongpanna to quell conflicts between Chinese migrants and indigenes. The sources and explanations of those conflicts vary, however. One Tai chronicle claims that the Sipsongpanna ruler Tsau Paeng Muong fell under the spell of a religious group, the “White Heads” (T. lau hoo xau), and the group’s prophecy that good fortune

would come to those who opposed “the Chinese” (Haw). The Qing

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thought otherwise, sent in troops, and executed Paeng Muong. Many Tai commoners fled the resulting destruction. Although this account is both sketchy and suspect, it is possible.*? In Southeast Asia, it was common for a local holy man to become the fulcrum for rebellion, and at approximately the same time, in 1727, the Chiangmai region witnessed an outbreak of religious fervor, centered on a holy man who claimed supernatural powers. This individual attracted crowds, defied the Burmese governor of Chiangmai and then assassinated him, ruled Chiangmai for a month, but was in the end defeated by the Burmese.*4 Qing accounts confirm religious unrest in Sipsongpanna. E’ertai passed

along local reports that a Buddhist monk was leading rebellious Tai and hill people, and this fervor continued into the 1730s, when Qing officials reported the appearance of an “immortal” Tai who further _ fomented opposition.* Religion may have provided an organizing focus for the dissatisfied, but the sparks that ignited the conflict were probably the more secular provocations of sex and money. In the highland villages southeast of Simao, the “Pu’er” tea industry was big business. Akha and Jinuo high-

landers harvested tea leaves, which were sold to Chinese merchants who had begun to flock to this region, known as the “Six Great Tea Hills.” The tea was then processed and exported to China, Tibet, and

even Southeast Asia. Some of the finer teas, such as maojian and Maiden tea (nu’er), allegedly picked by girls trying to earn money for their bridal trousseaux, were sent as tribute to Beijing and could be found in the houses of Beijing’s elite.3¢

The Pu’er tea industry had developed over hundreds of years with reliable evidence that tea was produced in the region as early as the Tang dynasty (618-907), well before Yunnan was fully integrated into

any China-based empire. By the Yuan period (1279-1368), when Chinggis Khan’s descendents first created a “Yunnan” administrative region, tea had become an important export. This continues today as stores throughout China carry many teas under the Pu’er label. Because of its nationwide market and long history, Wang Yizhi portrays Pu’er tea as a unifying commodity or even “culture” that the Yunnan minorities have contributed to modern China’s diverse repertoire.*” In the 1720s, however, Pu’er tea was at the center of violence that divided indigenous producers from Chinese migrant merchants. Each group sought to control the production and sale of tea, just as indigenes and Qing had fought over Weiyuan’s salt. In 1727, Chinese tea merchants from Yunnan, Jiangxi, and Hunan

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came to the tea hills as usual, but their relations with locals were unusually strained. The source of this strain is not entirely certain, but one local history claims that a Chinese merchant engaged in illicit sexual relations with a highlander woman.** Because they were under Tai authority, local Akha and Jinuo expressed their concerns through Kin Pau, the new Sipsongpanna ruler and son of the late Paeng Muong. They complained that the tea merchants and migrants practiced usury and exploitation.*? By May, their frustration could no longer be contained as both highlanders and Tai felt tremendous anger toward Chinese migrants and the Qing government. In late May, a hill person stabbed to death a Chinese merchant, then rallied others. The mob went a killing spree, murdering at least fifteen Chinese in the vicinity of Simao. Because the murders occurred in Sipsongpanna, the Qing turned to

Kin Pau, expecting him to apprehend the murderers. Although the young ruler had just assumed his father’s position, Qing reliance on Kin Pau was not surprising; as pacification commissioner, he was considered a native official subject to the military chain of command. Yet

this overlap of the Qing military hierarchy with Sipsongpanna’s internal structures did not function as neatly as Yunnan officials believed.

Kin Pau had no direct control over the tea hills, which belonged to Muong Ham, a domain (muong) under the direct supervision of a relative. The Qing imagined that Sipsongpanna was hierarchically and bureaucratically organized, but Sipsongpanna’s Tai government was only loosely centralized under the ruler, who did not have a hand in day-to-day governance. Domain rulers often had more power over their own regions than did the Sipsongpanna ruler. The Muong Ham ruler initially agreed to intervene on behalf of the Qing, but it soon became clear that he harbored conflicting feelings.

As the ruler (tsau muong) of Muong Ham, he was a powerful Tai aristocrat who was rumored to desire Kin Pau’s position. Because intralineage power struggles were common within Tai states, it is possible that this was true. Reports out of Southeast Asia suggested that the Muong Ham ruler was in contact with a certain foreign power, perhaps Burma. It was later discovered that he had communicated with one of the opposition leaders in Zhenyuan.* Although all of this information comes from Qing reports and should be treated skeptically (Qing officers being biased and sometimes ill informed), it was also common

for Sipsongpanna aristocrats to seek support from Southeast Asian states during power struggles. The evidence suggests that the Muong

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Ham ruler was mobilizing support, though it is unclear whether his goals included a coup in Sipsongpanna. It is clear that he wanted the Qing out of his realm, however, and rather than help the Qing as initially agreed, the Muong Ham ruler sent 500 men to eliminate a Qing patrol.*!

F’ertai responded quickly, calling the attacks hideous depredations

by “barbarians” and singling out the hill people in particular as “human in form” but “brutish in nature.” He deployed 3,300 soldiers to invade eastern Sipsongpanna, although it quickly became apparent that the terrain was challenging. As the troops pursued the Tai and highlander warriors into the mountains, they encountered deep pits with embedded bamboo stakes designed to impale unsuspecting imperial soldiers. In retaliation, Qing soldiers destroyed several hill villages, a move applauded by the emperor.” In 1728, Qing troops cap-

tured the opposition leaders, but the uprising surged onward, even though thousands of Qing soldiers marched into Sipsongpanna. It was at this time that E’ertai lobbied the throne for permission to conquer all Tai territory to the east of the Mekong River. Barring this, he argued, the opposition would constantly attack and then disappear across the Mekong beyond imperial jurisdiction. E’ertai was proposing to extend Qing responsibilities even deeper into the Sino—Southeast Asian borderlands, which was a risky and expensive undertaking. Why should this be done? Practical arguments about security were insuffcient, so E’ertai placed his proposal in historical perspective by noting that the previous dynasty had prosecuted several unsuccessful Yunnan frontier wars. “Each time I behold the Ming handling of [Yunnan frontier] affairs, I abruptly sigh,” he wrote.*? The control of the Yunnan frontier, he implied, was linked to imperial reputation. To the ineffectiveness of Ming rule, E’ertai proposed an alternative. Troops and officials would occupy eastern Sipsongpanna, effectively turning this region into the interior. Across the river, Kin Pau would continue to govern, but under the strict supervision demanded by recent changes to native official statutes. E’ertai overcame the emperor’s initial skepticism by arguing that one could draw revenues from Sip-

songpanna’s rich farmlands, bountiful tea orchards, numerous salt wells, and silver mines. E’ertai then proposed an ambitious plan for stationing imperial forces in two Tai towns, Simao and Muong Ham (Ch. Ganlanba). This presence would anchor a new prefecture carved out of the frontier region and centered at the Tai town of Muong Maen, which the Qing called Pu’er.*4

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Continued fighting prevented E’ertai from immediately pursuing these plans. His Green Standard soldiers faced thousands of Tai and highland soldiers armed with crossbows, swords, and muskets. They were probably just as well armed as the Green Standards, who were usually poorly equipped, despite Li Wei’s reforms. Moreover, indigenous leaders were mobilizing popular support by widely proclaiming that the invasion would mean death to all. Not all indigenes opposed the Qing, however. Among the more than 7,000 imperial soldiers mobilized for invasion, at least a thousand were indigenous troops from the newly conquered Weiyuan region.** Meanwhile, very few Sipsongpanna aristocrats joined the resistance. Despite debilitating diseases and difficult terrain, the Qing military

slaughtered and burned the determined opposition into submission. Local resistance fighters were tenacious, but they simply could not overcome the sheer numbers of imperial soldiers. In 1729, E’ertai moved to establish institutions that would ensure long-term imperial rule. He proposed incorporating the southern Crescent, including Sipsongpanna’s eastern half, into a new prefecture. Noting that the Tai and hill peoples “are deceitful, tough, and intrepid,” E’ertai claimed that only “strong armies of suppression” could “transform the hearts” of Sipsongpanna’s “barbarians.” The muscle behind E’ertai’s plans was an expanded garrison at Pu’er. The emperor’s skepticism dissolved as he contemplated such an extension to his realm: “This is very much in

accordance with my ideas.”4¢ Thus, E’ertai established a Regional Command (zhen) at Pu’er and increased southern Yunnan’s total troop quota. Some of these soldiers occupied forts deep in eastern Sipsongpanna.

F’ertai planned for Pu’er Prefecture to envelope the Tai sites of Muong Maen, Simao, and Muong Ham, thus securing the southern Crescent. This plan represented a substantial extension southward and was part of the grand strategy for transforming Southwest China into a military stronghold to support efforts in Tibet.4”7 Because the military buildup was part of a larger strategy, the imperial government did not require that it be cost effective or even revenue neutral. Nevertheless, frontier officials tried to increase revenue streams in conquered areas, as the occupation of Weiyuan’s salt wells proves. E’ertai had initially

proposed that the new Pu’er Prefecture contribute revenue from its silver mines, salt wells, and bountiful harvests. By increasing local revenue streams, he clearly desired that the region pay for its new administrative and military infrastructure.*® Was this a reasonable goal?

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The southern Crescent did have several important commodities, most

notably salt and tea. The new Weiyuan-Zhenyuan salt revenue provided approximately 26,000 ounces of silver annually, and this was used to pay the ever-increasing number of military personnel deployed

throughout the region.* (After the creation of Pu’er Regional Command there were approximately 3,200 Green Standard soldiers and 33 officers in the area.) The provincial government also began to collect salt revenues from several Sipsongpanna wells; this brought in approximately 3072.5 ounces (2,363.53 taels) of silver annually.*° In addition, E’ertai took control of the Pu’er tea industry, requiring that all transactions take place in Simao’s new government-managed General Tea Market (zong [cha] dian). This plan was supposed to prevent conflict

between indigenous tea producers and Chinese merchants while simultaneously netting the government approximately 2,730 ounces (about 2,100 taels) of silver annually.*! Some of the best tea, however, was not taxed locally; instead it was sent to Beijing and Kunming as “tribute tea” (gongcha) for the imperial household and “official tea” (guancha) for the provincial government.*? Adding the salt and tea revenues together, the annual totals do not approach the approximately

69,542.2 ounces (53,494 taels) needed for regional military salaries alone.®? There were efforts to increase land tax revenue as the imperial

government surveyed some lands that had never before been part of the imperial tax system. For his part, E’ertai also directed land reclamation projects, but many areas in Sipsongpanna and elsewhere remained untaxed.** Overall, southern Yunnan’s bureaucracy could not have been self-supporting. Although not self-supporting, the new Qing forces did affect local politics. In Weiyuan and Zhenyuan, they replaced upper-echelon Tai aristocrats, but did not remove lower-level ones. In Sipsongpanna, their

impact is harder to evaluate. Did the Qing undermine traditional Tai ways of doing things? Or were they unable to penetrate the daily routines and entrenched power configurations of this ancient Tai stronghold? Each interpretation has its adherents, but no one has reached beyond the concepts of persistence or destruction.** Local power politics were never simply contests over control that pitted two sides and two traditions against each other. Since the twelfth century, Sipsongpanna had been subject to external influences and had suffered internal schisms. In such an environment, adaptation and change were constants. The real question, then, is how this new set of circumstances— Qing expansion—influenced local political institutions.

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The Qing invasion was a watershed for much of Sipsongpanna. The Tai aristocracy was forced to work more closely with Qing officials, but this presented opportunities as well as drawbacks. For the ruling clan, from whose members the head of state was chosen, the drawbacks were numerous. They emerged from the years of conflict with less influence, land, and access to economic resources than their forbears had enjoyed. Income was lost as imperial officials began to tax some agricultural lands and took over salt wells and tea production. But not all Tai aristocrats experienced such a decline. Several Tai chronicles record that at this time the Muong Tsae ruler (tsau muong), an important aristocrat within the decentralized Sipsongpanna government, assumed responsibility for all the domains west of the Mekong. His gains included some lands previously under the Sipsongpanna ruler’s control; the revenues generated in these areas now went to Muong Tsae instead of Chiang Hung. It was at this time that Muong Tsae gained the moniker “40,000 rice fields” (sii muen naa muong tsae), meaning that it consisted of a vast number of productive lands.** The new term for the area also became the title for the

increasingly powerful domain ruler, so that he was called Tau Siimuennaa in Tai and, in Chinese, Dao Ximenna.

Qing officials supported Tau Siimtennaa’s growing control over lands to the west of the Mekong, and they recognized his power by appointing him regent to the allegedly underaged Tau Sau Vuen, who had become Sipsongpanna ruler after his older brother’s death.‘” Although the Qing considered Tau Sau Vuen to be underaged (meaning he had not yet reached 15), Sipsongpanna chronicles record that Sau Vuen had assisted during his brother’s reign, and he most likely was old enough to assume rule. In other words, Tau Siimuennaa’s regency may have been a reflection of his increasing local power rather than Sau Vuen’s youth, and the Qing were adjusting to this development by recognizing his special status. This suggests that the Qing may have extended their influence into Sipsongpanna, but they still had to cooperate and cultivate local agents from among the aristocracy. In 1731, E’ertai returned to Beijing after only five years in the Southwest, but these were years of astounding change throughout the region,

especially in the southern Crescent. Before his tenure, only one Qing

official sat in Pu’er; now a Qing prefect and regional commander shared the city. Simao had been transformed from a Tai stronghold into an imperial town with a Qing garrison. Qing officials resided in another Sipsongpanna domain, Muong Han, protected by several hun-

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dred of the 3,200 Green Standard soldiers now responsible for southern

Yunnan. It is tempting to proclaim this the end of era, but in fact the battle for the region was not over.

A Limited Retreat Early in the summer of 1732, a Tai leader mustered troops from among his Tai and highlander peasants and besieged Simao town and its gar-

rison of 200 Green Standards. Unable to breach the town wall, the attackers moved north to the prefectural capital at Pu’er. Here they cut Qing supply lines, effectively isolating all of Pu’er’s garrisons, including

Simao and another remote outpost in central Sipsongpanna. Unrest spread along with the news of this bold attack, and Qing officials once again faced a series of uprisings sweeping across the rugged, densely forested mountains of the southern Crescent. The furor that provoked this uprising arose from unresolved tensions between empire and indigene over issues of exploitation and changing economic power. One incident in particular reveals these tensions. In

1732, the Pu’er prefect summoned a local Tai aristocrat to demand higher tax payments, but the aristocrat explained that finances were stretched to the limit. The Tai aristocracy had already reorganized Sip-

songpanna’s administration (including the redistribution of land to Muong Tsae) and agreed to pay tribute tax to the Qing in silver rather than grain.5? A high percentage of the local tea crop was being taken by the imperial government; there was no excess revenue to squeeze from Tai and highlander farmers. The Pu’er prefect clearly did not care about such hardships, and he upbraided and insulted his visitor, who then left with a keen desire for revenge. Several years later, the Yunnan

governor general would confirm that extortion was a problem in eastern Sipsongpanna, but his efforts to police this corruption came too late.*?

Opposition leaders again capitalized on religious fervor to mobilize a popular following. They identified an alleged immortal, a man with auspiciously long ear lobes, and used him to mobilize hill people and Tai. Even though Qing officials considered the so-called immortal to be a fraud, a Theravada Buddhist monk with devious intentions, he became a powerful figure. At one point, he exhorted his followers into

so murderous a frenzy that they captured a hapless Qing trooper, cleaved him in half, and threw his body in the river.©° The combustible

combination of religious fervor and tax protest spread quickly and is

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perhaps best characterized by a popular chant from nearby Yuanjiang. Resistance leaders hailed the Buddha and then exhorted the people that they “need not pay taxes. They could plow for themselves and eat their own produce.”*! By July 1732, such leaders and the “immortal” had organized a mixed Tai-mountaineer army large enough to besiege the

Qing garrison at Simao. The Qing responded with overwhelming force, sending 5,000 soldiers to relieve the siege on Pu’er; when these reinforcements arrived, the city’s inhabitants let out an earthshaking shout. The army then went

on to rescue Simao, which was besieged for ninety days.*? Moving farther south, however, the Qing had less success as they faced an increasingly decentralized opposition. Sipsongpanna had no strong central control, and some Tai aristocrats fought tenaciously against the Qing whereas others held back, perhaps content to see how things might go.** To address these problems, the field commanders decided to seek closer alliances with uncommitted Tai aristocrats. Important

leaders, such as Tau Siimuennaa, finally sided with the Qing at this time. It was a significant decision that would reward them control over

much of postwar Sipsongpanna. |

In the campaigns that followed, Tau Siimuennaa took a commanding

role, including providing the majority of troops for the assault of Muong Ham, a key opposition stronghold.®© In the winter of 17321733, as Tai militia eliminated “rebels,” more aristocrats chose to ally with the Qing. Beijing formalized these alliances by granting native official titles to most of the domain rulers (tsau muong), many of whom had never before held such a position. It was a typical Qing maneuver to try and create direct links to and hopefully some measure of control over a wider constituency of indigenous elites. Before 1725, the Qing recognized only the pacification commissioner or Sipsongpanna ruler (tsau phaendin), but after 1732, they recognized nine domain rulers as well. The ranks granted to the domain rulers mirrored the lower-level Green Standard ranks; Tau Siimuennaa, for example, received a native second captainship, making him second in rank behind the pacification commissioner, whereas others received first and second lieutenant positions. Accepting such a rank was a potentially lucrative proposition,

and Tau Siimuennaa was showered with rewards. To seal the agreements with all ten Tai aristocrats, the provincial commander in chief, Yunnan Province’s third-ranking official, traveled south to Simao to personally preside over a ceremony of allegiance. They assembled in a Buddhist temple, sacred ground for the Tai, where

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each man pledged to the Yongzheng emperor in a ceremony that imitated Sipsongpanna’s ceremonies of allegiance to Burma.®’ Even as Tai aristocrats consigned themselves to working with the Qing, Yunnan’s top officials were adjusting to the political rituals of the Sino—Southeast Asian borderlands. Tai militias and Qing soldiers worked together to quell the Sipsong-

panna uprising, a task completed in spring 1734 when the selfproclaimed immortal monk was captured.** As peace descended, Yunnan officials considered methods for preventing future uprisings in a region at war since Gao Qizhuo sent soldiers after a murderous gang

in 1723. The man charged with reconstruction was Yinjishan, a talented Manchu scholar from a revered clan who boasted impeccable connections, not only to the emperor but also to E’ertai, whose niece he had married. Yinjishan was more than a well-connected Manchu noble, however; he was known for taking bold positions against even the most important new men, including Li Wei.® This may well be why he was sent to Yunnan.

Yinjishan, together with Governor Zhang Yunsui and Provincial Commander in Chief Cai Chenggui, certainly exhibited boldness. They presided over the final year of the war, learning firsthand the difficulties of establishing peace. In 1733, Cai had twice warned the throne about

the excruciating complications of fighting an enemy at home in the steamy, malarial, bamboo-covered mountains. He had personally visited Sipsongpanna and had come to believe that “the well was deep and the rope was too short,” meaning the Qing army (the rope) had its limits in the southern Crescent (the well).”° His insights influenced

Yinjishan, who came to think of the Crescent as fundamentally different from China’s interior, an outlook that differed profoundly from F’ertai’s conception.”! In 1734, Yinjishan promised that he and his advisors would rethink frontier strategy. For almost two years, Yinjishan’s promise went unfulfilled, and it is not clear why this was. Perhaps he found the alliance with Tai aristocrats such as Tau Siimuennaa acceptable. In fact, Yinjishan strengthened Qing ties with Tai aristocrats by instituting a program of annual review and rewards.” Or perhaps Yinjishan did not fulfill his promise because he was busy with other things. In hindsight, however, it seems likely that the promise was unfulfilled for so long because his tenure in Yunnan was still too short to suggest the plan he was contemplating. When Yinjishan did submit a plan, it was a radical reversal of E’ertai’s earlier expansion. Yinjishan proposed to abandon all the garrisons in

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Sipsongpanna, except for Simao. Supporters at the Board of War in Beijing eventually endorsed the plan, but not until November 1735, after Yongzheng’s untimely death. As supervisor of the Board of War,

F’ertai initially questioned the plan, but he finally accepted it in the end.” As Yinjishan implemented his proposals, he effectively withdrew Qing forces from any day-to-day role in Sipsongpanna and returned to a strategy of relying on native officials and troops for important frontier security tasks. Yinjishan also convinced Beijing to forgo its claim to Sipsongpanna salt wells, returning an important resource to Tai control.”4 As he implemented his proposals, he effectively withdrew Qing

forces from direct administration and occupation of Sipsongpanna. However, it did not signal full disengagement from the region. Yinjishan, like E’ertai before him, still considered the Tai Lue to be under Qing jurisdiction, but he felt that the only viable alternative was to give indigenous leaders more autonomy, as long as they continued to protect Qing interests.

The Qing approach to frontier Yunnan, and indeed the entire Southwest, changed dramatically during the Yongzheng reign. Throughout the first eighty years of the dynasty, the Qing, like their Ming predecessors, largely left the Yunnan frontier to itself. In the 1720s, a new cadre of reform-minded officials gained control under the fastidious -~Yongzheng, and new men such as Li Wei, Gao Qizhuo, and E’ertai extended control into indigenous regions throughout Southwest China and the Sino-Southeast Asian borderlands. Their efforts were part of the larger Yongzheng goal of centralizing power through bureaucratic and fiscal reform. To some degree, Qing officials tried to force frontier military, political, and spatial realities to fit their ideal conceptions. They identified territorial space with the binary opposites of “inner” and “outer.” The interior (neidi) was administered by imperial officials and occupied by “subjects” (min), usually Chinese. Beyond the interior were two types of outer (wai) territories. The native official lands were outer territories occupied by “barbarian subjects” (yimin) and subject to the empire. Beyond them were outer lands belonging to foreign states. As the Qing tried to govern the southern Crescent, they found that their preconceived notions of territory and authority did not correspond to reality. In 1724, Gao Qizhuo described Weiyuan and Zhenyuan as “outer” territory, meaning that they were borderlands that the

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Qing ruled indirectly through native officials. When criminals fled to Weiyuan, Gao fully expected the native official to arrest them as ordered. The native official’s refusal to do so revealed the gulf between Gao’s conception of a native official’s duty as an imperial representative

and this leader’s actual status as a Tai ruler; it also revealed Gao’s mistaken assumptions about Qing authority in this particular outer territory. When E’ertai assumed power, he instituted two important changes.

He created Pu’er Prefecture and formulated a new role for native official territories. By creating a new prefecture and Regional Command based in Pu’er, and a new district in Simao, E’ertai expanded Qing authority farther south, changing the balance of power in the region. Imperial officials would directly govern parts of Sipsongpanna. E’ertai did not discard the binary concepts of territorial authority, but he did use a Slightly different interpretation. The indigenous lands abutting foreign (outer) territory were termed “buffers” (fanli). In other words, these places protected the interior, which extended farther south for F’ertai than it had for Gao Qizhuo. F’ertai’s concepts of territory and his language used to describe frontier places should not be confused with actual territorial authority. His

plans to turn Qing outer lands into buffers and to extend the interior farther south were too ambitious, and he overextended imperial forces. He thought that direct rule would extend to the east bank of the Mekong, making indirect rule through indigenous leaders necessary only on the west side of the river. The 1732 uprising proved him wrong, and his desires for intensive control over Sipsongpanna could not be realized without more troops and resources than the Qing wished to devote.

Yinjishan recognized that Qing control had to be different in this frontier where demographics, climate, and topography conspired against imperial penetration. He concentrated his military resources in Simao, but withdrew soldiers and officials from eastern Sipsongpanna, leaving the area to Tai leaders and militias whom he cultivated as allies. In short, Yinjishan overturned E’ertai’s plans for tight, direct control over eastern Sipsongpanna, which no longer would be the interior. After the withdrawal, the region did not return to its pre-1720s ter-

ritorial authority in conception or practice. The Qing had removed autonomous Tai rulers from Weiyuan, Zhenyuan, and even Simao— although they still relied on lower-level Tai officials to manage local affairs in many of these places. The Qing also removed important eco-

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nomic resources from local elite control, including salt wells, agricultural surpluses, and tea orchards. There would be future challenges in

these areas, but the interior, both real and imagined, now extended into what once had been northern Sipsongpanna. The Tai areas of central and southern Sipsongpanna no longer enjoyed a physical separation from the empire that Weiyuan and Zhenyuan had once provided. Qing officials and Tai aristocrats understood the necessity to deal with each other, because neither group maintained exclusive control over Sipsongpanna’s political destiny. The concept of cooperating with indigenous leaders was by no means new; it underpinned the native official policy that even E’ertai had endorsed. Throughout the campaigns against Weiyuan, Zhenyuan, and Sipsongpanna, moreover, native officials and troops were critical components of the Qing invasion. But these relationships had to be constantly negotiated and maintained from year to year and generation to

generation. This was because the patterns of Tai aristocratic inheritance, not Qing law, usually determined who became powerful, and Qing titles went to those who were recognized as leaders by local traditions. Although the imperial state often chose to cultivate its primary alliances with the most powerful and prestigious Tai rulers, it was often advantageous for Tai rulers to seek Qing support. Tau Siimuennaa was the most important Tai aristocrat in the 1730s, and the Qing were aware of this before approaching him as a strategic partner, but he also benefited from this relationship. How would this partnership evolve? In 1735, the Pu’er regional commander, responsible for defending the province’s southern flank, described the shape of his region as “a semicircular jade pendant [hanging at] the far south of Yunnan.”’5 His comment seems appropriate for a strategic region, green with crops and forests, that protected the empire from Burma, Siam, and other Tai polities of the Sino-Southeast Asian borderlands. Still unclear, however, was whether southern Yunnan was the precious stone in Yunnan’s pendant or an expensive weight dragging the Qing headfirst into a complicated and dangerous frontier.

Je CHAPTER THREE

Ambiguity of the “Barbarian”

Yongzheng and his “new men” unleashed their armies in indigenous lands, any conquests justified in their eyes because imperial security and administrative reform took precedence over the concerns of “barbarians.” Whereas Kangxi preferred native official rule in Southwest China, Yongzheng and E’ertai vilified the indigenous elite and sought to remove or dominate them. In the years after Yongzheng’s death, however, cooperation and accommodation were again embraced, and Yinjishan rebuilt alliances with native officials. These policy shifts cannot be attributed solely to the personalities of the individuals involved, for each decision was influenced by the political, economic, and intellectual conditions of the time. The previous chapter explained the changing political and material conditions facing Qing and indigenous

, decision makers, but it did not explore the ideas and ideologies that directed their thinking. Until recently, few historians believed that Qing empire builders had unique ideas or ideologies, because they were considered to be simply another “Chinese” dynasty drawing on a centuries-old, immutable Chinese worldview, despite the fact that the emperors were not Chinese but Manchus who embraced their Inner Asian heritage. Due in large part to unique ideas and approaches, however, the Qing conquered and ruled a vast domain that was two times greater and significantly more diverse than that of their predecessors, the Ming. New investigations are only beginning to explore Qing ruling techniques, and there is much to be done before the Qing empire is understood in the same depth as

Ambiguity of the “Barbarian” + 65

_ its contemporaries, such as the early modern European empires.’ As a result, borrowing techniques and modes of analysis from European

history can prove valuable. | For decades, scholars have studied the links between intellectual ideas and European imperialism. These links are particularly strong in

| the fields of natural history and ethnography, which, beginning with the 1735 publication of Systema Naturae by Carl von Linné, profoundly influenced how Europeans thought of themselves and the world. Europeans learned to classify the earth’s myriad creatures, so that “one by one the planet’s life forms were to be drawn out of the tangled threads of their life surroundings and rewoven into European_ based patterns of global unity and order.”?2 Omitting no creature from

| their classification schemes, literati studied and labeled human beings as well. Eighteenth-century Europeans hypothesized the unity of man-

kind as a species, and von Linné classified these complex beings as Homo sapiens. The concept of a unified human species raised a thorny question, however. Why was there so much diversity within the species? Von Linné accounted for this diversity by dividing humans into five basic categories, American, European, Asiatic, African, and “Wild,” arguing that each category manifested unique appearance, disposition, and social organization. Homo sapiens Americanus, for example, was

“Copper-colored ... Hair black, straight, thick ... face harsh; beard scanty; obstinate, content, free... Regulated by customs.” His European counterpart was “Fair... Hair yellow, brown, flowing .. . eyes blue; gentle, acute, inventive ... Governed by laws.” Later intellectual trends—environmentalism, scientific racism, cultural pluralism—would continue to transform European perceptions of

colonized peoples because ideas were dynamically interrelated with im- . perial expansion. Exploration and the description of other peoples fundamentally shaped European worldviews and also influenced scientific disciplines as well as European concepts of self. Most importantly, perhaps, is how intellectual developments influenced European policies toward colonial peoples. Robert Berkhofer explains this dynamic in terms of Euro-American treatment of Native Americans. Reduced to its fundamental principle, policy is a matter of what policy makers want versus what they think they can get. What . . . Indian policy makers wanted derived from the major values and political objectives prevailing in European and American societies. What they thought they could get hinged upon their image of the Indian. What they actually got in the end depended upon the differing natures of Native American societies. In

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this view of policy making, the idea of the Indian performs the role of intermediary between the desired and the actual outcomes of policy.’

Euro-American colonial officials learned basic concepts about indigenous groups under their rule and then based their action on these concepts. Intellectual climate and policy—ideas and actions—were intimately related. Trained to consider learning and action as inseparable, the men who managed the southwestern sectors of the Qing empire often perceived the world through the lens of their formal study. They were not products of the Enlightenment, of course, but heirs to magisterial Chinese traditions of explaining nature and man’s place in it. As early as the © Han dynasty (202 BCE-220 CE), scholars argued for the superiority of humankind because, of all creatures, they alone had been endowed with heavenly attributes, including the potential to act humanely and morally. Like their European counterparts, Chinese also recognized the profound differences among human groups. Literati often defined these differences in terms of the civilized, or those who had inherited the sages’ learning, versus the “barbarian,” or those who had not. Yet a major question remained for generations of thinkers. Do “barbarians” share our human nature?

In the Qing era, the debate on human nature was far more than pedantry—it was a politically sensitive topic that reflected on the royal clan’s legitimacy. At this time, two competing arguments circulated.

The first argument, supported by Kangxi and Yongzheng, could be traced back at least as far as Mencius and Xunzi, both of whom argued that heaven-endowed human nature (xing) was universal, although one had to cultivate or learn civilized behavior. In this view, “barbarians” were no different than Chinese, as long as they adhered to the fundamental values of civilization.’ This concept of universal human nature was critical for the Qing emperors, who themselves were Manchu, not

Chinese, and who in fact traced their forbears back to places once considered outside civilization’s boundaries. For the Qing emperors, human nature simply had to be universal or else they could never be legitimate rulers of China.* Conversely, if human nature were not uni-

versal and the boundaries between Chinese and “barbarians” were fixed, then logic dictated that the imperial clan were unfit rulers. These were the implications of a second theory on human nature, which was

supported by a number of influential men who were traumatized by the Qing conquest, including the esteemed Gu Yanwu (1613-1682).

, Ambiguity of the “Barbarian” + 67 They believed that nothing could civilize the “barbarian.” Similar to some European contemporaries, supporters of this theory anchored their arguments in an environmental determinism that conceived of Chinese as a product of China’s unique climate and geography. Because

“barbarians” were products of different environments, their habits were different and they should remain separate from the Chinese. Be- _ cause this thinking was considered anti-Manchu and seditious, the Qing emperors tried to suppress it, but these ideas remained influential as did human universalism.’ These two concepts were especially pertinent to frontier administrators, because they governed lands where actual “barbarians” met civilized folk. Many seventeenth-century Taiwan officials believed in environmentally determined differences, and some went so far as to view Taiwan indigenes as nonhuman. Over time however, this point of view

faded, in part because of court pressure. By the 1720s, Qing writers were emphasizing that Taiwan indigenous customs and practices might

be strange, but that the people themselves shared with Chinese a common human nature. Even those who favored aggressive policies of - colonization and forced assimilation assumed a universal human nature, and this led them to believe that “barbarians” could be civilized through exposure to imperial culture.’ The concept that a person might become civilized became increasingly sacrosanct within Qing official circles under Yongzheng; not only did this emperor emphasize the universality of human nature, but he also claimed frontier indigenes as his subjects, something that Kangxi had never done.’ In order to effectively

civilize and rule “barbarian” subjects, however, one needed to learn about them.

Investigating “Barbarians” To learn about “barbarian” subjects, officials often turned to “ethno-

graphic” accounts. Such accounts were typically found in travel writing, gazetteers, and illustrated albums that were concerned not just with frontier peoples but more generally with imperial geography, his-

tory, and administration. Because they were linked to imperial rule, ethnographic writings shared basic themes, but each genre was also shaped by the different conventions governing its production. Travel accounts were written by individuals and influenced by a unique travel culture that emerged in the seventeenth century. Elite travelers understood their frontier journeys to be heroic, intrepid un-

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dertakings designed to collect new knowledge, particularly empirical knowledge that would correct older misconceptions about imperial geography, whether natural or human. Despite their emphasis on producing eyewitness accounts, travel writers did copy or summarize ear-

lier texts, just as their own findings were cited for generations to come.!°

Gazetteers were sometimes written by individuals but more often compiled as part of government initiatives to produce multivolume works dedicated to an administrative region’s geography, civil and military government, economy, and society. Because late imperial China was a diverse polity and its officials were outsiders deployed to unfamiliar administrative regions, the gazetteer could be a governing tool. In frontier regions, the management of indigenous peoples was a significant chore, and all local gazetteers included sections devoted to the history, governance, and customs of local non-Chinese people.'! To assemble this information, gazetteer compilers drew from many sources, including older gazetteers, travel accounts, and reports from officials who toured frontier areas. Albums, which have been carefully studied by Laura Hostetler, were illustrated manuscripts that varied in scope and nature.!2 One type were

“Miao Albums,” which were originally produced as administrative aids, but later evolved into collectors items, in demand among literati far outside the frontier regions. These albums contained ethnographic information about and illustrations of “Miao” or non-Chinese peoples from the southern and southwestern territories. The ethnographic information was, in part, derived from gazetteers, and the illustrations were painted by unknown artists who may or may not have directly observed their subjects. A second type of illustrated manuscript or album was the Oing Imperial Illustrations of Tributaries (Huang Qing zhigong tu). Commissioned in 1751 by the Qianlong emperor, the Imperial Illustrations were driven by the emperor’s desire to arrange and classify all the diverse peoples under his rule as well as those who presented tribute to him. As part of this project, the emperor required

his frontier officials to collect information about the empire’s “barbarian” subjects; the information was to include illustrations.’ Eighteenth-century imperial expansion brought would-be ethnographers into closer proximity to non-Chinese communities. Contemporary travelers and officials began to emphasize the collection of empirical information through direct observation of frontier peoples. Does this mean that Qing ethnography was becoming more accurate?!‘ Al-

Ambiguity of the “Barbarian” - 69

though there is no doubt that eighteenth-century ethnographers valued empiricism and direct observation, Emma Teng has convincingly argued that direct observation, in fact, was not the only accepted method of investigation.'* Many ethnographers were influenced by the impor-

tant intellectual trends associated with evidential scholarship | (kaozheng). Evidential scholars were influenced by European science, taught to them by Jesuits, and this encounter helped direct Chinese scholars toward a methodology that included the collection and analysis of evidence (empiricism), but they maintained a devotion to classical studies and history, as well.'° Thus, Qing “empiricism” valued direct observation as well as the collection and study of texts from the past.

When it came to methodology, then, the scholar who investigated “barbarians” had at least two options. He might engage in direct observation, but it was more likely that he would collect previous accounts and republish them.'’ As a result, Qing ethnographies represent what might be termed “codified cumulative knowledge,” meaning that

they did reflect knowledge gained during personal contacts with southern frontier peoples, and the knowledge was recorded with the hopes of better understanding, managing, or conquering indigenes. However, firsthand knowledge was often combined with descriptions from earlier or even ancient accounts, and the ethnographer did not necessarily prioritize the information based on accuracy or timeliness. In some cases, too, writers or artists turned to imagination or convention, and their sketches were influenced by artistic traditions. Many figures in ethnographic depictions, for example, were grotesquely shaped and clothed in animal skins, much like the ghosts that haunted the Chinese imagination.'8 By combining direct observation and textual mastery, Qing ethnography created a general intellectual framework for evaluating indigenes and formulating frontier policy. But what was this intellectual framework and how did it influence decision making? This is a crucial question because Berkhofer’s (slightly modified) insights on frontier policymaking apply to Qing China as well as North America: What Qing “barbarian” policymakers wanted derived from the major values and political objectives prevailing in Qing society. What Qing officials thought they could get hinged upon their image of the “barbarian.” What they actually got in the end depended upon the differing conditions of southwestern indigenous societies.

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Images of “Barbarians” Over the centuries, the Chinese concept of “barbarians” was influenced

by theories of a universal human nature and environmental determinism as well as frontier experiences. By Qing times, it was clear that not all “barbarians” were created equal. Wild, uncivilized humans existed together with the nearly civilized. In between was a spectrum of peoples. Civilization was defined by elite Chinese standards for material culture, customs, morality, and literacy, and, as in the case of European depictions of Native Americans, description by deficiency often became the main mode of ethnographic depiction.!® Dress (or lack of it) was a crucial determinant for emphasizing the differences between barbarians and civilized subjects (min), and ethnographers (all male) were especially fascinated by revealing female outfits.2° Apart from apparel, civilization was defined by the common technologies that shaped Chinese life—irrigation, smelting, weaving, and writing Chinese characters, to name a few—and the rites that characterized Chinese ethics, especially proper marriage and burial rites as well as ancestor sacrifice.21 The farther a people lived from the imperial center, moreover,

the more barbaric they were considered to be; it was an outlook as rooted in unfamiliarity as it was in an environmental determinism that viewed remote (from the Central Plains of China) locations as producers of unbalanced or inferior beings.” Qing officials used these categories to create taxonomies of Yunnan “barbarians.” Rather than explaining indigenous societies from the inside out, these categories more accurately reflected the backgrounds, outlooks, and ideologies of the Qing themselves. They also reflected changes wrought by Qing expansion. As the Qing empire expanded, imperial officials carefully “mapped” indigenous peoples, locating them within imperial territory and demonstrating a rhetorical—if not political—domination over them.?? The descriptions of these peoples were often compiled in local and provincial gazetteers. The compilers of the 1574 Yunnan province gazetteer discussed fron-

, tier indigenes in at least three sections of the publication: maps, government institutions, and, finally, in the “loose rein” (jimi) section, a volume devoted entirely to “barbarians.” In the provincial map, the cartographers included many civil native official (tuguan) jurisdictions but excluded most military native official (tusi) jurisdictions; missing from the map, for example, was Sipsongpanna (“Cheli”). The Sipsongpanna pacification commissioner and other military native officials

Ambiguity of the “Barbarian” - 71

were also treated differently by those editing the section on government

- institutions. Whereas civil native officials were included in the main part of this volume, the Sipsongpanna native official was relegated to an addendum, where editors also listed the Burma, Chiangmai, and other “Southeast Asian” native officials.24 The treatment of Sipsongpanna and other military native officials suggests that these areas were considered to be remote and not entirely under regular Ming jurisdiction.

The men who compiled the 1736 provincial gazetteer were much clearer about Qing jurisdiction over frontiers. Their provincial map was more precise as to the extent of imperial jurisdiction, even providing dotted lines to separate Qing-claimed native official regions from adjacent foreign territories, and they placed Sipsongpanna firmly within

those dotted lines—a visual demonstration of imperial control. The compilers also claimed imperial authority over native officials by locating each within a prefecture and (unlike the Ming edition) allowing none to fall outside the rhetorical reach of the administration. This included Sipsongpanna, which was now located in Pu’er Prefecture. It now appeared as if all native officials were neatly contained within the empire, and the compilers even boasted that Qing rule in Yunnan had attained a higher Ievel of integration, order, and reach than any other

previous dynasty.?° | This rhetoric of domination reached a higher level in the 1835 provincial gazetteer. The compilers explained how the mighty Tang, as well as the Yuan and Ming, unsuccessfully broadcast imperial civilization

into the Yunnan borderlands, whereas the Qing had reached into the most remote corners and influenced indigenous communities.?© The gazetteer’s organization itself reflected this vision of order and influ| ence. It included six volumes on native officials, included in the section on bureaucratic ranks (zhiguan zhi), which begins with the highest provincial official—the governor general—and details each lower ranking official down to the native officials.2”7 Upon arrival in Yunnan, new bureaucratic appointees read the gazetteer and learned to view native officials as subordinates. Official sources rarely mentioned that most native officials gained their legitimacy locally or that many native officials, especially the Tai, had political connections to Southeast Asian regimes. Instead, gazetteer rhetoric preached that the Qing reach into

frontier Yunnan was greater than any dynasty before them. | As the Qing expanded into remote frontier locations, imperial officials were stationed in outposts never before garrisoned. This expan-

72 + Asian Borderlands

sion led to greater contact with frontier peoples, and information about them was included in ethnographic sources. But what types of information did they include? Consider the “Boyi” as an example. An official using the 1574 and 1736 provincial gazetteers to learn about the Boyi (also called Baiyi) would notice a difference in organization. The 1574 gazetteer devoted a volume (juan) to frontier peoples, but it contained an eclectic (by later standards) collection of information on taxes, tribute routes, customs, and the histories of several indigenous states.”8 In the section on Boyi customs, there was information about other groups besides the Boyi. The 1736 edition also devoted an entire volume to indigenous peoples, but it was more focused in content and more elaborate in classification scheme. It analyzed native officials and their historical relations to China before providing an individual

description for each of the 61 different peoples (zhongren) found in Yunnan.” Despite the extensive reorganization, the first half of the 1736 Boyi entry reproduced almost verbatim the 1574 entry, and Qing officials reported the same things that their Ming predecessors had: The Boyi lived west of the Red River, inhabiting low, damp areas where brambles

grow (hence their name, which is literally “bramble-people barbarians”), and their “nature” (xing) allowed them to endure extreme heat.

| Ignored was the fact that these people called themselves Tai, although the account did have some accurate insights into political and military organization, including the following general information: “It is their custom to call the pacification commissioner (Ch. xuanwei) ‘Zhao’ (T. tsau) ... [and] his subordinates are the Dao Meng (T. tsau muong).”3° Although the 1736 gazetteer reproduced this information from a 160year-old source, the information itself was even more ancient. The 1574 Boyi entry was largely reproduced from the “Account of the Bai Barbarians” (Baiyi zhuan), a 1390s report written by Ming envoys to Muong Mau.?! By 1574, the report already had been republished at least once, in the mid-fifteenth century, and it seems to be this version that was included in the 1574 and 1736 Yunnan gazetteers.*2 Although the descriptions were probably extremely helpful for understanding fourteenth-century Tai Yai society, they were no longer sufficient for the eighteenth-century Tai Yai, much less other Tai communities. The 1736 gazetteer did include newer descriptions of the Boyi, but only after presenting the centuries-old information. In other words, the gazetteer presented “codified cumulative knowledge.” The updates described how the Boyi were distributed among Qing administrative ju-

Ambiguity of the “Barbarian” + 73

risdictions and explained the basics of Boyi material and ritual culture,

economy, and “nature.” For example, Boyi men from certain areas were known to wear black hats and narrow sleeved white gowns, and the women wore tube-shaped skirts. These descriptions included judgments about Boyi habits, sometimes labeling them as wasteful or im-

| moral. Also included were snippets of tall tales, generated by Chinese fears of the unknown. One tale related that the Boyi of Yuanjiang— an area of relatively recent Chinese settlement—could disguise themselves as animals standing along the side of the road and then afflict the unwitting passerby with a goblin that entered the midsection and ate his vitals.** Clearly ethnographers did not always feel it imperative to systematically differentiate between new, outdated, and fabricated information. With the publication of the 1835 Yunnan province gazetteer, new levels of organization and informational depth were achieved. Whereas the 1736 edition dedicated one volume to native officials and indigenous peoples, the 1835 edition devoted six volumes to native officials and 19 separate volumes, entitled “Records of the Southern Barbarians” (Nanman zhi), to Yunnan’s indigenous peoples. The six volumes on native officials relied heavily on historical sources, from Sima Qian’s Shiji to the Yuan and Ming dynastic histories, which the compilers used

to create a narrative that integrated the native official territories into imperial history from ancient times. The compilers also paid homage to the concept of direct observation, and a key source was the Imperial Illustrations of Tributaries (Huang Qing zhigong tu), which are quoted character for character.*4 The compilers of the 1835 provincial gazetteer not only quoted the

Imperial Illustrations but also consciously imitated the format by including sketches of “barbarian” men and women; nevertheless, the gazetteer was different in content and purpose. It only listed people found

in Yunnan and its environs, and, although the Imperial Illustrations were to be compiled by officials who allegedly traveled in “barbarian” areas, the 1835 gazetteer compilers combined firsthand observations from frontier officials with older, written evidence. The gazetteer also documented people who did not give tribute to the court, thus listing many more Yunnan “types” than the Imperial Illustrations. With six volumes devoted to drawings and descriptions of 142 peoples (compared to the 1736 gazetteer’s 61), the 1835 provincial gazetteer’s identification and categorization of “Southern Barbarians” were unmatched by any earlier text.

74 + Asian Borderlands

Compilers preserved the contents of earlier texts, however, by citing them at length. For example, the Boyi entry consisted of citations from the Imperial Illustrations, the 1736 provincial gazetteer, and information gathered from local gazetteers and officials. As a result, it provided an eclectic mix of outdated, conflicting, and accurate information. The outdated data included lengthy passages originating from the “Account of the Bai Barbarians.” The accurate information tended to come from the local gazetteers and officials. (One entry noted that the Boyi words for “father” and “mother” were bo and mie, transliterations of the Tai paw and mae.**) Despite occasional accuracy, eighteenth- and nineteenth-century ethnographies were more representative of Chinese notions about “barbarians” than they were empirical investigations of indigenous communities. Both the Imperial Illustrations and the 1835 gazetteer reveal how ethnographers judged indigenous peoples according to Chinese norms, but also how the images of “barbarians” might be interpreted differently, depending on audience. An artist sketching Boyi images for the Imperial Illustrations drew well-proportioned bodies, benign faces, and well-shod feet (Figures 3a and 3b). The accompanying text was

probably written to please the emperor; it asserted that even though the Boyi lived near Burma, they were firmly under Qing jurisdiction, paid taxes, and were industrious enough to trade at markets.** The — 1835 provincial gazetteer provided a crude copy of the Boyi sketches from the Imperial Illustrations, but the female image was slightly altered so that she sports large, bare feet (Figure 4). Considering that footbinding was nearly universal among Chinese females by the nineteenth century, this illustration underscored the Boyi’s deviation from Chinese norms. The accompanying text also conveys a different message than the pleasing passage in the Imperial Illustrations. The Boyi traded with foreign lands, wrote with a “Burmese script,” and had a penchant for immoral behavior such as premarital sex, which undermined Confucian concepts of chastity.3”

Whereas the Imperial Illustrations depicted the Boyi as good subjects, the 1835 gazetteer recorded traits that were strange and even potentially dangerous to the imperial order. These differences arose from the different purposes and sources of the texts. The Imperial IIlustrations satisfied the emperor’s desire to depict his empire as diverse but orderly.** The gazetteer reflected the codified cumulative knowledge of generations of Yunnan officials—especially their awareness of the potential for violence and autonomy among indigenous people. However,

Ambiguity of the “Barbarian” + 75

the conflicting Boyi descriptions also demonstrate that there was am-

biguity in Qing interpretations of individual indigenous groups. In other words, there was room for choice in how a particular ethnographer depicted his subject or how a policymaker interpreted the data on a given “barbarian” group.

, This ambiguity could be conveyed in a single drawing, such as the illustration of the “Water Baiyi” in the 1835 gazetteer (Figure 5). The illustration is quite detailed, suggesting it was of particular interest to

the artist, who provided a river as a background (most illustrations _had no background). Two figures stand on the riverbank, clothed but bare-footed. The woman carries a basket of produce and the man wields a hoe. Qing viewers would note with approval that these people

were productive farmers. In the river, however, another man and woman are bathing, and the artist has lightly outlined the woman’s left breast. This image of the bathing Baiyi first appeared 150 years earlier, but was now illustrated, and it sent an ambiguous message. Were these people barbaric (but titillating) in their public nakedness or respectable, hardworking farmers? The accompanying text also contained mixed

messages, mentioning the Baiyi’s worship in “Burmese Buddhist” (Theravada) temples as well as their proper approaches to farming.*? Like many conquerors, the Qing also portrayed indigenous groups in ways that legitimized its conquest. Just as early modern Europeans created the savage North American “Indian” and the exotic “Orient,”

so too did Chinese and Manchus expand on a tradition that created the inferior “barbarians” of south and southwestern China. In both European and Qing empires, indigenous women were represented as symbols of sexual conquest whereas indigenous men were portrayed as weak and feminine.*? This practice was clear in the case of the Water

Baiyi, who were actually the Tai Lue. They were described as fond of : the water (thus, the name “Water” Baiyi). “Men and women—both sexes—love water. They bathe in rivers all year long,” claimed an early

Qing source.*! Later sources, including the 1835 sketch and even a recent Beijing airport mural, have continued to focus on Baiyi/Tai nudity and bathing, with a particular focus on females.*? Writers and readers would have made the implicit connections between water as a sign of yin and yielding, female nudity, and weakness (in the face of Chinese/Manchu strength), and the Water Baiyi could not escape their association with femininity and weakness. “The Water Baiyi are soft and weak; they live close to the water,” states the 1835 Yunnan province gazetteer. At the same time, the images of public nudity were also

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By the end of the seventeenth century, cowry money was on its way out of circulation, but, in the Crescent, eighteenth- and nineteenth-century traders continued weighing their silver according to Burmese practices, even as Qing copper cash and the Chinese silver tael came into frequent use.*© Currency use and marketing schedules demonstrate how the

Qing frontier shared a culture of marketing influenced by Southeast Asian as well as Chinese practices. It also demonstrates how Qingclaimed areas were integrated into trans-frontier marketing systems. The eighteenth and nineteenth centuries witnessed a transformation of the local frontier economy. Part of this transformation was related to Qing expansion. In times of war, the imperial armies paid cash to

hire people, ponies, and oxen to transport supplies; thousands of ounces of silver were allocated to purchase grain rations from “native officials.”3” In times of peace, soldiers were paid in silver, which they spent locally. Furthermore, as soldiers and their families became settled, they integrated themselves into the regional economy by buying land

168 - Asian Borderlands

to rent, producing handicrafts, or trading.?8 The eighteenth century also

brought a large influx of merchant migrants who established themselves in areas never before frequented by Chinese. Although these merchants became notorious because of their sharp business practices and usurious loans, their presence also induced indigenes to develop skills for producing marketable goods. In general, then, this was a period of

tremendous change that was reinforced by the elaboration of longdistance trade networks.

Caravan Trade In the spring of 1746, Yunnan Governor General Zhang Yunsui was accused of neglecting his duties and had to answer to the Board of War’s investigation into a controversial issue—the tremendous number of Chinese migrants seeking employment in borderland silver mines. Were these men violating Qing policies that prohibited subjects from entering frontier areas to mine?*?

Zhang wrote a lengthy reply that described an entire frontier economy employing hundreds of thousands. Chinese men migrated to the mining areas, bringing excavation and smelting skills that could not be duplicated locally. Increased mine output was integral to overall economic growth because the most important frontier mines—Munai, Maolong, and Bawdwin (Ch. Bolong)—produced silver, which was used as currency in Qing China, Burma, and Siam. Opened in the seventeenth century or perhaps even earlier, Munai and Maolong peaked in the mid-eighteenth century when they were supplying silver to the local region and to the Qing government.*? (This was the era when Maolong’s notorious Wu Shangxian presided over thousands of miners, who referred to him as “uncle” or daye.) When the great Yunnan historian Fang Guoyu visited Maolong in 1935, he found huge piles of slag, including an estimated million plus tons at one location and an-

other 500,000 tons at Huguang Village, a site probably worked by Hunan migrants. This suggests that Maolong’s output must have been truly awesome. Bawdwin was an even older mine which never came under Qing jurisdiction; however, with Chinese miners in charge, it produced an average of 3,000 kilograms of silver annually from the fifteenth through eighteenth centuries.*!

Mining was only part of the regional economic web, for it was deeply intertwined with long-distance trade, agriculture, artisanship, and indigenous economies. Miners purchased their grains and livestock

A Song for Tea - 169

from local indigenes, who also learned to make charcoal for the smelting furnaces. Other needs were supplied by merchants who frequented the booming mine markets, importing necessities such as cotton from Hsenwi, which rapidly became such a large cotton producer that poor Chinese migrated there seasonally for the harvests. As Zhang recounted the way the mines had become hubs of trade, he explained that the same long-distance trade networks that served the mines also extended into Yunnan, providing the province with muchneeded basics (cotton and sea salt) as well as luxuries. Overall, so many

merchants and peddlers relied on trading in “barbarian regions” that it had become a crucial sector within the provincial economy.” Zhang Yunsui argued that the court should allow relatively free access to the trade routes and mines, and they did, at least for a few more years until Zhang’s death and a major policy shift in the 1750s and 1760s.** Zhang’s general sympathy with people who made their living at the crossroads of East and Southeast Asia was relatively remarkable for a high-level Qing official. In fact, officials from the great powers more often tried to manipulate or prevent the long-distance trade in the region. Nevertheless, by the mid-eighteenth century, the SinoSoutheast Asian caravan trade already had a long history, even as the

| most flourishing period lay ahead. By the third century BCE, and perhaps even earlier, the northern Crescent had trade routes to Burma and India, and there were “Burmese” and “Indian” merchants living in Yongchang. Much later, merchants from the Nanzhao and Dali kingdoms led pony caravans from Dali across the Gaoligong range to the Tengyue area and then on into Burma. The contours of long-distance trade become clearer when surveying the thirteenth through seventeenth centuries. At this time, Tai throughout the upper Irrawaddy and upper Mekong areas maintained trade and political ties among themselves.*4 As Southeast Asia and China underwent commercialization in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, large numbers of Chinese began to be involved for the first time. Private merchants and Ming dynasty officials purchased rubies, jade,

and amber as Chinese silver flowed into Tengyue’s “Eight Gem Market” Street. By the sixteenth century, the Irrawaddy port of Katha had a “Great Ming Market” where Chinese merchants and craftsmen gathered. At this time, there were Chinese even in Chiangmai, at least according to Ralph Fitch, a peripatetic Londoner who somehow made his way there in the 1580s!* When it came to variety and volume of goods, as well as number of

170 - Asian Borderlands

caravan routes, these earlier periods did not match the eighteenth and

nineteenth centuries. As commercialization reached into East and Southeast Asian communities, traders pioneered new routes. By the mid-nineteenth century, Yunnan-based caravans traveled far and wide, regularly leaving major towns (Kunming, Dali, Yongchang, Tengyue,

Simao, Jingdong) for Western or Southern Corridor trade marts. “Western Corridor” destinations included Bhamo, Kaungton, Katha,

Mogaung, Hsenwi, Bawdwin Mine, Ava, and Amarapura. Most “Southern Corridor” markets were in Burma’s or Siam’s sovereign and suzerain territories—Kengtung, Chiangmai, Nan, Phrae, and, eventually, even Uttaradit and Moulmein—although caravanners also went to Luang Prabang and other areas of modern Laos. In addition to the

Western and Southern Corridors, some Yunnan caravans also plied routes to the frontiers of Tibet and even into Assam. Later routes would take Yunnan caravans into northern Vietnam.*

Although many peddlers carried goods on their backs, the major long-distance traders organized caravans, called “horse gangs” (ma bang) by Chinese, but perhaps most appropriately labeled using the nineteenth-century American terms “mule team” or “mule train,” because the mules outnumbered the packhorses.*” Thus far, most of this

knowledge of caravan organization and operation comes from latenineteenth- and twentieth-century sources.*® Like McLeod’s translator, many caravanners were Chinese or Muslim-Chinese from the Dali or

Kunming areas. The caravan teams were organized by guilds, and a merchant who wanted to hire one would negotiate with the guild leader or perhaps a local mullah. In the 1870s, according to a British traveler, it was also possible that high-ranking Yunnan officials owned large mule teams.*? Once on the trail, the caravan team had one leader and as many muleteers as necessary to mind the animals. They covered 20

to 30 miles per day, camped in the open unless they could stay in hostels or caravanserai, inns designed specifically so that the mules and ponies could be protected within enclosures. As time went on, the car-

avan infrastructure became more elaborate. In Dali, the number of businesses, warehouses, and shops associated with the caravan trade increased dramatically from the 1840s to the 1870s. Along the routes, the number of businesses devoted to servicing caravans also increased. In late-Qing Ganyai, for instance, there were seven inns with enough rooms to house 2,000 people and their pack animals. Contemporary Manyun Market had five inns and four temples, which could accom-

modate up to 5,000 people! In a Lijiang town, there came to be 17

A Song for Tea - 171

inns that catered to the tea caravans, and one Chinese innkeeper had his son study Tibetan so they could attract more business; another inn was run by a woman who spoke Tibetan, Bai (a local dialect), and

Chinese.*° |

In the 1880s and 1890s, the caravans going from Simao to

Chiangmai ranged in size from 15 to 100 pack animals, with an annual total of perhaps 700 to 1,000 animals making the round trip. In comparison, merchants in the Western Corridor traveled in larger caravans

of 500 to 1,000 animals, primarily for safety reasons.*! Along the Southern Corridor, the range of goods traded increased over the latter half of the nineteenth century, signaling an ever-greater elaboration of the trade, but the major Chinese exports were opium and tea, the major import cotton. Cotton importation was so important to Yunnan that Chiranan Prasertkul has argued that it was a key element signaling the

inclusion of “Lower Yunnan” in a “cross-boundaries” economic system that included parts of Burma, Siam, Laos, and Vietnam, rather than the region’s inclusion in G. William Skinner’s Yun-Gui “macroregion.” *?

The work on modern Yunnan caravans provides a flavor for the trade’s organization and infrastructure, but it describes long-distance trade networks in a world radically different than the one of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.® First, the Panthay Rebellion

(1856-1873) disrupted large-scale trade with Burma, and then the British and French invasions of Upper Burma and Indochina significantly altered the economic landscape. In China, the organization of merchants as well as the general infrastructure of the trade became more elaborate in the post-Panthay era.‘4 To understand the earlier caravans, it is necessary to draw on information from sources that predate 1870, rather than using data from later sources and projecting

it into the past. Up until the end of the Panthay Rebellion, careful observers, including French and English travelers, could still learn about the caravan trade as it existed before modern times.

Merchandise Before the eighteenth century, the variety of long-distance trade goods remained limited. In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, Western Cor-

ridor traders imported to China rubies, jade, and amber. By the seventeenth century, a new import began to flow—this was cotton, but it still did not rival precious stones, which remained the most important

172 - Asian Borderlands

import item. Export goods were also limited, consisting of precious metals (mostly silver) and high valued-added goods, primarily silk and metal implements. Chinese artisans also migrated to upper Irrawaddy marts where their skills were in demand.*> What is known about the Southern Corridor trade comes from Ralph Fitch who observed Chi-

nese bringing to 1580s Chiangmai a “great store of Muske, Gold, Silver, and many other things of China worke.”** In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Chinese merchants continued to carry traditional Western Corridor luxuries, the imported ru-

bies and amber from Mongmit and the jade from Mogaung (some chunks were so large that three men were required to lift them).*” Silks,

copperware, and ironware were still among the most lucrative exports.°* And mobile artisans, especially metalsmiths from the HusaLasa area, still found work in Bhamo and beyond.°? From 1700 to 1765, however, the variety and volume of goods began to increase; trade was then interrupted by warfare and the Qing trade embargo, but after 1790 it flourished as never before, at least until the outbreak of the Panthay Rebellion in 1856. The most important merchandise was cotton. In the eighteenth century, imported cotton became king, although most of it was destined to clothe the growing number of Yunnan commoners. Responding to increasing demand, Chinese merchants imported tremendous amounts of raw cotton, kapok, and cotton textiles in the 1740s. In the Western

Corridor, merchants purchased cotton at large markets in Ava, Kaungton (Ch. Laoguantun), Bhamo (Ch. Xinjie or Xingai) and Manmu (up the Tapeng River from Bhamo) as well as in Hsenwi, which was such a large producer that one Yunnan governor general suggested invading it to capture its prodigious production. In the Southern Corridor, the cotton markets included Muong Nai. During the years of the embargo, the demand for imported cotton did not subside, but the supply was slowed. With Qing troops blocking the large caravans, the market for smuggled cotton became so lucrative that some dared to slip mule loads of bulky cotton through the hills. After the lifting of the trade embargo in 1790, the cotton trade rebounded and then increased, with more emerging markets than ever. This was especially true of the Southern Corridor. By the 1830s, Chiangmai and Kengtung exported large amounts of cotton to Jingdong and Simao. The profits on cotton were large enough that Chinese traders took the time to go into highland areas surrounding Kengtung, seeking to purchase raw cotton as well as cloth. Caravans also went

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to Luang Prabang, Nan, and Phrae to purchase cotton. Along the Western Corridor, the old markets were reactivated and were as vibrant as ever: Chinese merchants established “several cotton godowns” in Bhamo and used Manmu as a transshipment site. The Bhamo cotton

: markets were the largest, but Chinese merchants also trekked farther south to a large market just north of Ava.°! Although the growth in cotton trade represented the most important development in long-distance commerce, it was not the only one. From 1700 to 1765, Western Corridor imports and exports expanded to include an array of new goods. Traders bought sea salt at Kaungton and

sold it in the northern Crescent’s Tai areas. Salted fish, presumably caught in the Irrawaddy or its tributaries, was brought to Yunnan. The range of luxury goods expanded to include ivory, kingfisher feathers, and specialty lumber. The number of exports also continued to grow,

and came to include tobacco, tea, porcelain, felt, thread, steel needles, | cloth shoes, paper, and walnuts. In the period after 1790, imports and exports through the Western Corridor included still more items—a dizzying variety of the mundane and exotic. New imports included bird nests, rhino and deer horns, some English textiles, and shark fins. Exports newly available in Ava or the upper Irrawaddy included Chinese carpets, rhubarb, honey, liquor, dried fruits, candied oranges, lichees, apples, gold leaf, umbrellas, fans, opium, and hemp. The largest export at this time was raw

| silk, which Burmese had learned to spin and weave. All the more remarkable, perhaps, were the Yunnan hams (they must have been cured before export) that Henry Burney purchased and enjoyed during his stay in Ava in the early 1830s.°

| It is more difficult to chart the changes in goods (excluding cotton) in the Southern Corridor. During the trade embargo, Sipsongpanna militia arrested Chinese for smuggling ivory, peacock feathers, rhinoceros horns, deer antlers, and other valuable goods into Yunnan from Luang Prabang, but it is not clear that this was a regular trade. Yunnan imported sandalwood and frankincense from Chiangmai, Luang Pra-

bang, and Annam in the era before 1790. However, a Qing official responsible for overseeing trade immediately after the embargo believed

that the Southern Corridor did not have major caravan networks. Given the lack of Qing information on these trade routes, especially when compared to the careful official investigations into eighteenthcentury Western Corridor trade, it is almost certain that there was little trade between southern Yunnan and Southeast Asia, at least in the

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eighteenth century; in the nineteenth century this changed dramatically.

By the 1830s, imports included ivory, rhino and deer horns, dried shrimp, bird feathers, and tea. Exports were copperware and ironware, gold thread used in Chiangmai for embroidering dresses and pillows, silk, quicksilver, lead, walnuts, straw hats, honey, carpets, fur jackets, and salt.6° Within the span of a few decades, the Southern Corridor developed important cross-frontier trading networks.

From 1700 to the mid-nineteenth century, the range of goods and the number of trade routes increased. It would seem that the sheer number of caravans and traders also increased, but there are few statistics to prove this. It is known, however, that caravanners began making multiple long-distance trips each year, especially in the Southern Corridor. All of these factors suggest an overall increase in long-distance trading, a conclusion confirmed by the few available statistics on trade volume. Some extremely large caravans operated in the Western Corridor before 1765. It is most likely that these were operated by Jiangxi, Hunan, or Tengyue merchants, who were all known for being deeply involved in trade between the Burmese capital and Yunnan. The Burmese court chronicles note the arrival in 1765 of two large Yunnan caravans, numbering 300-400 oxen (headed to Bhamo) and 2,000 ponies (headed to Kaungton) respectively.* Although some have suggested that these two examples were characteristic of all Yunnan caravans to Burma, in reality the size of “caravans” varied greatly. Large-scale merchants, who

engaged these huge caravans, plied the same routes as petty traders leading just a few mules or oxen. The details of the small-scale trading life are revealed in a Qing investigation into smuggling during the trade embargo. Several years be-

fore the Qing-Burma wars broke out, a Bhamo merchant sold some goods on credit to two Husa men, a Chinese and an Achang. When hostilities broke out in 1765, the debts remained outstanding. Six years later, in 1771, Boli, son of the now-deceased Bhamo merchant, hired

an assistant, loaded two oxen with salted fish, and headed for Qing territory to reclaim his money and do some business.*®’ Along the way, he and his hired man acquired companions—a merchant and his hire-

ling who had purchased some cloth at one of the Irrawaddy markets; a young man carrying two roles of cloth, a copper bowl, thread, and two mouth organs; and a Manmu merchant headed to the Husa markets with 40 taels of silver in his pocket, hoping to purchase goods for sale back in Bhamo. These men carried very little, yet they were savvy.

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Boli came from a trading community that understood the Yunnan markets and trade culture. He had heard the older Tai at home complain about the Qing embargo, and he and the others changed their hairstyles and clothing to match the styles of Husa, so they would blend in. Once in Husa, they stayed with Boli’s family connections, including an artisan who had often worked in Bhamo before the wars and who lived near the Husa market. Boli himself was able to collect his debts, the first one being 5.5 taels (a little more than 7 ounces of silver) from the Chinese Huang Guobin,

who had used the credit to purchase one mule load of salted fish as well as ingredients for medicine. Next was Bomen, an Achang merchant who had bought three mule loads of salted fish from Boli’s father

for a grand total of 14 taels, 8 of which he still owed. After Bomen returned 6.5 taels, Boli considered the debt wiped clean and he must have been feeling good—at least until the next day when he and all the others, including Bomen and Huang, were arrested by Qing troops for breaking the embargo. Everything about these men suggests that they were small-time yet experienced merchants—not first-timers or previously big-time merchants reduced to smuggling small loads. They all knew how to sell goods at Husa’s periodic market, despite the fact that it was far from their homes. They needed no interpreters or go-betweens. Even before

the war, Boli’s father had dealt in small quantities and small debts. Huang and Bomen had purchased only a few mule loads of goods, and their debts were relatively tiny. Yet, the debts were large enough for

Boli to make a special journey to collect them. It is likely that these men represented an important side of the Western Corridor trading life, where small-scale peddlers traveled medium distances, and large-scale merchants who could hire 100-animal caravans handled medium and long distances. During the embargo years, moreover, the small-scale traders were

the only ones who could operate between Yunnan and Burma. The main caravan routes were guarded by Qing soldiers, and major merchants simply stopped leading large caravans along these roads, a fact that was reflected in a precipitous drop in Qing commerce revenue in Western Yunnan. Smugglers took to the smaller paths through the hills, bringing in cotton, salt, and other products. Naturally, this cut down

on the size of shipments, as is apparent in the smuggling cases that were uncovered. In 1772, the Zhanda ruler captured three smugglers leading one mule laden with salt, two mules laden with cotton, and

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one mule and seven oxen without any goods at all. In a separate incident that same year, Qing troops captured a man leading three mules,

two of them loaded with salt. Apparently he was a most inept, or at least slow-footed, smuggler, because his traveling companions had already fled, leaving behind 16 mules, 10 loaded with salt, two loaded with cotton, and one loaded with salted fish wrapped in reeds.® Despite the embargo and the best efforts of the Qing military (who really did seem to enforce the law), a few goods did get through. Officials suspected that Tai and other frontier natives who were sent on official spying missions by the imperial government used their offices to smuggle jade back through the blockades. At the same time, coastal Chinese merchants may have increased their imports of Burmese cotton into Guangdong ports. Other evidence suggests that Tengyue natives were still working in Burmese territory, albeit on a smaller scale. In

1776, the abbot of Zhongtian Temple in Tengyue decided to solicit money for renovations. Locally, he was able to drum up 80 taels silver, but his real bonanza came when he traveled to Bhamo, Ava, and some of the frontier mines where he collected a total of 612 taels, presumably from Tengyue natives. But the curious thing is that the embargo was

in effect in 1776. After the embargo was lifted, trade quickly rebounded. By 1795 at the latest, merchants were engaged in an extensive trade between the Burmese capital and Yunnan. Raw silk from Yunnan supplied Burmese looms (Burmese of all classes wore silk), and Chinese merchants were buying cotton at Bhamo. The Yunnan provincial government and the Bhamo governor, moreover, seemed committed to maintaining strong

trade ties.7? By the 1830s, Chinese caravans frequented the major market north of Amarapura from December through March. According to one observer, there were many small caravans of 50-200 men, each leading 15-20 mules or ponies, as well as a great caravan, which arrived in February and had 1,000 men and perhaps 15,000 to 20,000 animals! If this was an exaggerated figure (and probably it was), the caravans could still be quite large. When Burney visited a market upstream from Ava in the 1830s (and purchased his hams), he spoke with a caravan leader who had 1,000 mules and horses in his charge.”! A more accurate estimate for the Tengyue-Ava route, at least

for the mid-nineteenth century, was probably that of Alexander Bowers, who spent seven weeks in Tengyue investigating trade. After talking with older locals about the caravans before the Panthay Rebellion, Bowers estimated that 10,000 loaded mules traveled annually

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between Tengyue and Ava. This estimate does not include the caravans

that traveled elsewhere in the Western Corridor. There are no good estimates for the number of pack animals arriving in Bhamo, for example, but unlike the Ava trade, which was an annual event for any given caravan, Chinese traders visited Bhamo numerous times each year, so that there was a “steady and constant flow” of goods between

| Bhamo and Tengyue. As for Mogaung, a British officer visited it in April 1836 and learned that 480 Chinese and Tai from the Crescent had already been there to buy jade that year.” All of these numbers suggest that Western Corridor trade was big, but just how big? The only estimates available are for Chinese raw silk

| exports and cotton imports, ca. 1827 and 1854. In the 1820s, based on Chinese merchant estimates collected by John Crawfurd, total raw silk exports from China to Burma totaled approximately 27,000 bundles annually (a bundle weighed about 6 pounds), worth an estimated £81,000. Cotton imports to China from Burma ranged from about 7 million to almost 21 million pounds annually, at an estimated average value of £228,000.7? Almost 30 years later, when Henry Yule visited the Burmese capital (Amarapura) in 1855, Yunnan’s cotton imports had remained remarkably stable, but the silk exports to Burma had

grown by more than one-third. Yunnan was importing annually an estimated 14.6 million pounds of central Burmese cotton, valued at £225,000. Silk exports had risen to 40,000 bundles (about 242,360 pounds), valued at approximately £120,000. In addition, Yule estimated that Burma’s suzerain Tai areas (Hsenwi, Bhamo, etc.) were exporting an additional 547,000 pounds of cotton annually to Yunnan. Yule estimated the total Burma-Yunnan trade at £422,500.” Trade volume along the Southern Corridor is even more difficult to estimate, though there are some figures from the 1830s. The Southern Corridor mule trains tended to be smaller than those in the west. While

traveling in January through March (the dry season), McLeod witnessed vibrant and dense trading networks throughout the Southern Corridor, and he encountered three Chinese mule trains on the way to

| or in Chiangmai; they averaged 153 mules each. At that time, caravanners were making multiple trips, suggesting that the caravan trade was a full-time winter occupation for many. Chinese caravans destined for Kengtung, for example, made three or four trips per season whereas those going to Muong Nai made two trips per season. The total numbers of mules depended on the place, but, in general, these numbers compare favorably with the Western Corridor. Muong Wu, which was

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on a relatively minor route to Nan, had an estimated 1,200 to 3,000 mules per year passing through. Considering that Ava had about 10,000 Yunnan-based pack animals arrive each year, Muong Wu’s totals are impressive. Chiang Hung, which was in a more advantageous geographical position, averaged about 5,000 mules per year. Many of these mules carried cotton. At one point, McLeod arrived in Daluo, a

major stage on the Kengtung-Simao route, and there he saw mules “grazing in all directions.” He could identify muleteer campsites scattered all across the basin, because each one was marked by large white bundles of wrapped cotton guarded by fierce dogs.”> Cotton imports had grown so rapidly that they rivaled the volume of tea exports, which

had made southern Yunnan famous. Even as the cotton trade grew, however, many merchants and muleteers still answered the call of the “Pu’er tea” trade. As with the cotton trade, the tea trade predated the eighteenth century; however, it was in the eighteenth century that Yunnan tea—particularly Pu’er tea from Sipsongpanna—became big business. As Qing troops pushed their way into northern Sipsongpanna in the 1720s, they set up in the Tea Hills southeast of Simao.” In hindsight, it is easy to see why: the lure of riches to be gained from tea leaves. But the lure of tea was a siren song for many. When the soldiers arrived, there were already Chinese merchants in the Tea Hills, purchasing from indige-

nous producers. The merchants had come from numerous places— Jiangxi, Hunan, Sichuan, and the Yunnan towns of Dali, Shiping, and Jingdong. As the troops moved in, however, tensions increased over the

behavior of merchants, who made usurious loans to highlander producers, and officials, who sent military laborers into the Tea Hills in the second and third lunar months to pick tea, thus driving down prices and providing cheap tea for resale.””7 Unless one had money or power, like the merchants and officials, he did not become rich from tea.

These tensions resulted in the tea war of the 1720s, when E’ertai invaded Sipsongpanna, created Pu’er Prefecture, and instituted government oversight of the tea industry. After E’ertai left Yunnan, officials in Pu’er, Simao, and the Tea Hills continued to oversee tea processing, sales, and taxation. They lightly taxed tea, but required merchants to purchase tea permits (chayin) for every 100 jin (about 130 pounds) of tea they bought. The permits cost .32 taels (less than one-half ounce of silver). Beginning in 1735, the Qing issued 3,000 tea permits, but as demand increased, the number of permits was raised to 5,000 and eventually 10,000 (with the cost of each raised to .45 taels) by the turn of the nineteenth century.”

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The increase in permit sales reflected a growth in the industry as a whole. Over the course of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, cultivators expanded the acreage devoted to tea bushes. In the early years, most tea bushes were located near Yibang and Muong Han, but cultivation spread to Yiwu in the later eighteenth century and eventually into Muong Hai as well. The planting and cultivation of tea bushes became more organized, as tea was transformed from the product of wild bushes to that of cultivated orchards.” As production increased, so too did the number of merchants and infrastructure of commerce. An eighteenth-century observer noted that several tens of thousands were involved in the Pu’er tea trade, and tea caravans choked the routes into the Tea Hills.8° Caravanners included merchants who brought the tea north to Tibet for resale in frontier markets. This route became so well traveled by the 1740s that the Qing government began selling tea permits in Lijiang to facilitate the Tibet trade.*! The trade routes were upgraded. In the 1840s, local elites and tea merchants invested in the Tea-Horse Post Road from the Tea Hills to Simao, a 225-kilometer route across rugged country. The major donors erected monuments to their own generosity, including a stele at a bridge along the route; those listed first were the Simao magistrate and the Sipsongpanna ruler, but it was the Shiping tea merchants, most of who were listed last, who provided the most money for this bridge— their total contributions were nearly triple those of the officials.*? The Panthay Rebellion temporarily destroyed the tea trade, but it rebounded in the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries. G. W. Clarke, a resident of Dali in the 1880s, estimated that 3,000 horse loads of tea came north each year, with several hundred of those headed to Tibet. The overall output of Pu’er tea by the late nineteenth century may have been as many as 15,000 mule loads, more than twice the amount estimated by officials in the early eighteenth century, when it was thought

that the Tea Hills were exporting 6,000 to 7,000 mule loads, or over a million pounds annually.*?

As the tea trade developed in the nineteenth century, Chinese merchants controlled processing, wholesaling, and transportation in the older tea areas, such as Yibang. In this region (the Tea Hills), Tai nobles and village headmen acted as middlemen connecting the merchants to

highlanders and Tai who grew the tea. In the newer production areas west of the Mekong (in Muong Hai and Muong Long), however, Chinese did not have as much power. For example, the Muong Hai ruler implemented his own tax on every purchase made by Chinese merchants.** In the long run, however, although indigenes participated in

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the tea trade, Chinese merchants and caravanners still tended to dom-

| inate, as they did throughout the Western and Southern Corridor trade networks, leading one to wonder what were the secrets of their success.

Commercial Organization Chinese merchants and muleteers faced competition in the Sino—Southeast Asian borderlands. Burmese merchants plied the routes from Ava to Kengtung, bringing English textiles into the Crescent. Tai caravans frequented the Burmese capital and other Southeast Asian trade cities, thus linking rural upper Mekong areas into the larger commercial cul-

, ture.85 Within Qing-controlled areas, moreover, the local indigenous elites were often deeply enmeshed in long-distance and local trade. They collected tolls from caravans, charged traders to keep them safe from bandits, and issued licenses that allowed them to reap profits from

Chinese merchants. They also charged fees for the markets in their territories, and received a cut of profits from the mines.*®

Some indigenous elites even managed thriving long-distance trade concerns. In the 1860s, the Husa ruler traveled with a British expedition to Tengyue, bringing with him several dozen mules loaded with cotton, all of it destined for the Tengyue market. Both John Anderson and Alexander Bowers were fascinated by this character, who Anderson

described as “one of the largest traders between Bhamo and [Tengyue].” Bowers found him to be “unscrupulous,” though extremely bright (he was literate in Tai and Chinese) and well-connected: he got on well with everyone, including the Panthay regime in Tengyue, the Chinese resistance, and the Burmese. While in Tengyue conducting business, he was the guest in the home of an important Chinese merchant.” In many ways, this character from Husa reflected a trend toward local Tai rulers dabbling in trade.*® Still, he was an exception to the general rule that Yunnan-based Chinese merchants and caravans dominated the long-distance trade routes. As an explanation for this dominance, one might be tempted to point to a long history of Chinese trading in these regions, but this is a weak argument at best. Although Chinese did have a long history of trading between Yunnan and Southeast Asia, this trade was neither continuous nor constant.®? Trade routes could be blocked by soldiers, sometimes for decades. Merchants pioneered new routes and goods, thereby transforming the overall nature of commerce, and new competitors consistently appeared. In short, change was a crucial part of the commercial scene, and historical longevity is actually no explanation at all.

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A second and more substantial argument notes that Chinese and Muslim-Chinese were more familiar with Chinese markets and demands; this gave them an edge when purchasing goods in Southeast Asia, because they knew the markets back home.® Chinese merchants probably did have an advantage in understanding Chinese markets, but

should not the reverse be true for Southeast Asian merchants? They would have known Southeast Asian markets better, and, if so, they

_ should have been able to use this advantage in the China export market. Why were they unable to dominate exports from Tengyue to Ava or Simao to Chiangmai? This question is particularly interesting when one realizes that foreign merchants did go to Yunnan towns. After the end of the embargo in 1790, when Qing officials began planning for Burma-Yunnan trade to resume, they discussed methods for accommodating foreign merchants in Tengyue, because foreign merchants had frequented the town in the past.?! One reason for Chinese success may have been political. Chinese and other foreign merchants were often welcomed by Southeast Asian re-

gimes. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the Burmese court patronized foreign merchants, providing them with monopoly contracts on valuable goods including cotton. This was in keeping with a longer trend that saw foreign merchants—from India, Persia, Portugal, and China—playing integral roles in the development of Burma’s early modern commerce.”? Some have even argued that Southeast Asian leaders preferred to grant market access and monopoly rights to foreigners, rather than risk providing their own subjects with a chance to make money and wield power.?? However, this does not explain why the Burmese court granted monopoly contracts to Burmese traders, too, and one must look elsewhere for insights into Chinese dominance. What really set Chinese traders apart were their trade and social institutions as well as their culture of movement and resettlement. By the sixteenth century, Chinese resided in key trading towns, a practice that continued during the eighteenth through mid-nineteenth centuries, with major Chinese settlements in Ava or Amarapura (depending on which was the Burmese capital) and Bhamo, as well as minor settlements in many other towns. The sheer number of Chinese in the larger :

settlements was impressive: by 1855 there were an estimated 2,000 . Chinese families in Amarapura’s Chinatown and surrounding villages.” The willingness of overland traders to resettle gave them a tremendous advantage, but mere settlement alone was insufficient. The institutions and communications that they maintained also helped them dominate the numerous borderland industries.

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Throughout the borderlands, Chinese commercial organization followed a number of familiar patterns. People often created family-run businesses, much like the ill-fated Guos, who traded in Chinese Goldthread (but also allegedly cheated their indigenous suppliers). Others

gathered in sworn brotherhoods whose secret rituals of obedience bound them together. This was the case in 1848-1849, when southern Crescent indigenes and Chinese from numerous provinces (Yunnan, Guizhou, Sichuan, Hunan) gathered in an abandoned temple, swore oaths of allegiance to their leader, and then collected weapons to defend their commercial endeavor—illegal mining northeast of Pu’er.?5 Although family and sworn brotherhood might be important relationships that bound people to a common economic endeavor, a particularly useful connection was native place, the same bond that facilitated Chinese migration to the frontier and served as a focal point for

social organization in the changing towns. Native place was by no means the only common bond among merchants and muleteers, miners

and smugglers; nor was it an insurmountable barrier to cooperation with others from different backgrounds, but it was a powerful channel for economic cooperation. When gathering in a new place, Chinese from the same hometown

or region often pooled resources to purchase land, erect a lodging house, and build a temple, which usually housed an important and distinctive deity from the home region. These were the native place associations (huiguan) that had helped change the face of the Crescent’s

towns. An association was not simply a social organization, but an economic one, too. They aided members’ businesses by managing prices and providing storage facilities and other services. Although most people associate native place associations with the thriving East China economy, they flourished throughout the areas conquered or consolidated in Qing times, including Southwest China, Tatwan, and Inner Asia. They also flourished in foreign lands, where they often managed Chinese immigrant affairs, acted as go-betweens with the for-

eign government, provided capital for members, and acted as community centers for socializing and worship.” Native place associations not only provided support in a locale but

| also served as networks linking trade areas together. Migrant merchants brought their native place associations to the Yunnan capital, Kunming, in the late seventeenth century, when Jiangxi and Hunan merchants built their Wanshou and Shoufo Temples. These were the same institutions that Jiangxi and Hunan merchants established in

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frontier towns such as Simao. As the geographical range of merchants expanded, so too did their networks of associations. The network could then be used to manage long-distance trade; the Jiangxi association on Tuodong Road in Kunming, for example, was deeply involved in the _eighteenth-century cotton trade.” Within Southeast Asia, Chinese merchants settled together in wellorganized communities that created similar networks to manage longdistance trade. In the eighteenth century, Ava already had a permanent “Chinatown,” and Chinese continued to occupy it—or its equivalent

in Amarapura, when the capital was moved—throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. By the third decade of the nineteenth

century, Chinese had created flourishing communities in Bhamo, Chiangmai, Mogaung, and Kengtung. In each of these settlements, merchants dominated the expatriate community. The Chinese communities in Ava and Bhamo built temples, much like the native place association

temples in China. When Henry Yule was in Amarapura in 1855, he met with the chief Chinese merchants at a central Chinese temple, which served “not merely as a place of worship, but as a house of resort or club.”?8 These “clubs” brought together agents representing merchant houses

based in Yunnan; their job was to facilitate the purchase and sale of merchandise. The permanent Chinese agents in Kengtung, for example, purchased and prepared cotton in advance for the arrival of the caravans, thus speeding the turnaround time.?? The agents in Amarapura received consignments of imports to sell and used the proceeds to pur-

chase cotton or other goods for export to China. Five or six of these “agency-houses” worked on a large scale, doing business worth well over £20,000 annually, whereas an estimated 25 other houses did business amounting to about 10 percent of that. Other Chinese in Amarapura were linked to the agency houses; the Chinese shopkeepers sold imports purchased on credit from the major agency-houses and then

paid off the loans with the profits.'” The merchant-agents in Southeast Asia maintained close contacts with their superiors in Yunnan through networks of merchants settled in the towns along the trade routes. As John Anderson noted, Bhamo was commercially linked to Yunnan by “a chain of Chinese merchants who have settled in it, and in the [Tai] towns of Man[yun], [Zhanda], and [Ganyai],” who were, in turn, in close communication with Tengyue and Yongchang.! Although the merchant-agents in Southeast Asia remained in close contact with Yunnan, even traveling back to square

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accounts every few years, they were changed by their experiences abroad; the Amarapura Chinese merchants did not necessarily plan to remain in Burma, but often did anyway, after marrying local Burmese

or Chinese women.' Chinese merchant organization was the key to their domination of the caravan trade. They never displaced all other traders; for instance, there are records of Tai leading large caravans, some totaling 100 or more head of bullocks.1°? However, there is no evidence that Tai, Burmese, or other merchants created and maintained institutions of trade as powerful as those emanating from Yunnan. This conclusion does not mean that Chinese were alone in benefiting from the trade, for the Southeast Asian courts and local Tai leaders throughout the borderlands were involved—issuing monopoly contracts or permits, collecting tolls, and making a profit on goods. Nevertheless, it was Chinese merchants and muleteers who moved most of the merchandise. There was a remarkable growth in commerce in frontier Yunnan during

the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. This growth was not simply an elaboration of the caravan trade in luxuries that had existed for centuries. Instead, it represented two important developments: the growth of local marketing that drew frontier people into larger marketing regions and the integration of the Sino—Southeast Asian borderlands into a more elaborate long-distance trade network. These changes were directly related to frontier population growth and urbanization. Some border settlements, such as the mines and garrisons, became important trading hubs for the first time; others expanded from small towns into large and vibrant cities. As Chinese migrants moved in, they set up shops and either helped establish new marketing networks or transformed existing ones. The growing towns also served as bases for well-organized Chinese merchants involved in

the trans-frontier caravan trade, and their activities proved to have wide-ranging influence. Southeast Asian cities developed vibrant Chinese neighborhoods where many Yunnan-based merchants operated. Yunnan cities, including Xiaguan just south of Dali, also felt the impact of the caravan trade as migrant merchants constructed warehouses and stores.!°

The frontier landscape and indigenous livelihoods were forever changed as commercialization pushed many into unfamiliar relationships with the land and market. Older economic pursuits such as

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hunting, swidden agriculture, and barter between highlands and lowlands never disappeared, but new forms of agriculture and handicraft production spread. In many ways, this process included negative developments. Usury was the scourge of the Yunnan frontier, just as it was in Guizhou, Taiwan, and Inner Asia.'°5 In the eighteenth century, this practice threatened to alienate indigenes from the land, or at least to undermine the indigenous elite upon whom the Qing relied. Over the long run, however, indigenous elites were not displaced, but their relative monopoly on economic power declined as resources came to be controlled by others. Still, the flexible adapted. Sipsongpanna rulers began charging tolls on cotton caravans, and the Husa ruler developed his own cotton trading business. Kachins along the frontier grew cash crops and charged caravan teams for crossing their lands. This is not to say that opportunity blessed all in the same amounts, nor to say

that the strong did not oppress the weak, the rich the poor. Fierce economic competition entrenched itself at this time, especially as land and other resources became scarcer in the nineteenth century. In this period before the great Panthay Rebellion, the dividing lines in conflicts were not always between indigenes and Chinese, however.'°° Usury, land grabs, and resource monopoly—these practices were common in the relationship between Chinese and indigenes, but in other cases it was economic interests that divided people. Thus, highland cotton farmers and Chinese cotton merchants might join together to kill Chinese grain merchants. Nor were indigenes always the weaker side in a given conflict. In 1837, Pu’er officials had to intervene to prevent the Yiwu ruler from continuing to take advantage of Chinese tea merchants; after they won their case, the merchants feared that they might be victimized again, so they erected a stele clearly delimiting the

ruler’s rights to labor service and taxes.'°”? In the early 1840s, the brother of the Nandian Tai ruler pressed his Chinese tenants for higher

rents. When they refused, he gathered over 1,000 followers, some armed with fowling pieces, and drove the tenants from his land. In the inquest that followed, it was discovered that one source of his power was his friendly relationship with a local Qing military officer.1° The period of change ca. 1700-1856 was a momentous one. The era before 1700 was one in which long-distance trade consisted of a limited number of luxury and high value-added items. Local commercialization was not well developed. By the late nineteenth century, local marketing systems were relatively dense and the caravan trade infrastructure and

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enterprises were developed enough to provide some tentative links to international markets that distributed European and Japanese goods to the Sino-Southeast Asian borderlands.'® In between, there lived many generations, so little studied, but so important to transforming the way they and their descendents survived.

US CHAPTER SEVEN | “Barbarians” Still? There are subjects who have gone to barbarian areas to plow and plant. There are also barbarians who are very similar to Chinese and come to the interior to trade and live. In the past, they have united in marriage; their clothing and headwear styles have become mixed up, and they learn each other’s languages. In a little while, it becomes impossible to distinguish the barbarians from the Chinese. —-YONGBAO AND WUDAJING, ADDENDUM TO A PALACE

MEMORIAL, 1803

In the winter of 1935-1936, the eminent historian Fang Guoyu spent five months along the Sino-Burmese border. At one point, he met a local headman near Gengma who was a descendent of a Wa “king” incorporated under the Qing in the 1740s. In the mid-eighteenth century, there had been a strong local Tai influence as the king was subject to Gengma, and his hierarchical administration relied on a network of relatives that may have emulated the Tai aristocracy. However, the king

| also possessed a seal of office that was incised with Burmese and Chinese scripts, even though the Qing had no record of ever issuing such a seal. The twentieth-century descendent whom Fang met was likewise a highland leader who flaunted his Chinese connections. His was the

only family in the area with a Chinese surname, which had been granted by the Qing in 1891 and passed down through several generations. Despite his surname, he could barely speak let alone read Chinese, but he could read and speak Tai, skills he learned as a novice in a Theravada monastery. The family also claimed descent from a female Tai ancestor.!

In 1930, the British interviewed a Kachin who lived near Muong Mau. This man noted that his grandfather was a Kachin leader who allied himself with the Muong Mau ruler, taking on the Tai ruler’s aristocratic surname in the process. “After that we became [Tai] and Buddhists and prospered greatly,” he declared.?

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These two highland elites from distinct areas of the Crescent attest to the cultural complexity and ambiguity that were a common heritage in the borderlands. Beginning in the early eighteenth century, the region was subject to growing Chinese influence, but it was also connected to the Southeast Asian world. As a result, political power was exercised and expressed through institutions or symbols adopted from a number of different cultures, including Chinese, Burmese, Siamese, and Tai. As

Edmund Leach’s pioneering research demonstrated, many Kachin leaders were influenced by the Tai, from whom they adopted hierarchical social organizations, aristocratic surnames and titles, Theravada Buddhism, and even political terminology.’ Such cultural borrowings represented a process of acculturation—the creative and selective adaptation of another society’s practices, rather than the wholesale imi-

tation of another’s full cultural repertoire. In fact, Kachin rulers did not borrow exclusively from the Tai, nor did they repudiate all of their own practices. Like the Wa family mentioned above, they also turned to imperial Chinese symbols to express their power even as they maintained certain Kachin ways.‘ These examples can only suggest how the political, social, and economic upheavals of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries provided the historical conditions for rapid and widespread cultural change in the Crescent. Qing expansion and Chinese migration were among the most important trends sparking such change, and many indigenes at this time adopted Chinese practices. This change was frequently dictated by patterns of acculturation rather than assimilation (coming to identify with and be absorbed by another group). In time acculturation might lead to assimilation, but in the Crescent and on other Qing fron-

tiers such a transition often took many generations, if it occurred at all.» Today’s China has many communities and millions of individuals

who are living proof that acculturation but not assimilation (often called “sinicization” in the Chinese case) was the dominant form of social transformation in the areas conquered or consolidated by the Qing and settled by millions of Chinese. This raises the question of why many indigenous communities accepted certain Chinese ways while simultaneously adopting practices from other cultures, much as the Wa headman had his Chinese surname and his Tai education. A process as complicated as cultural change rarely emanates from a single cause, but many frontier environments harbored diverse communities where patterns of acculturation were influenced by unequal relations of power and prestige. On the eighteenth-century Taiwan

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frontier, for example, Chinese migrants came to dominate the political and economic hierarchies, and plains aborigines selectively adopted things Chinese that would help them compete or bring them prestige;

such borrowings included language and education. Other aspects of Chinese culture were rejected, however. For example, footbinding was

never adopted by many aborigines. As a result, cultural change for many Taiwan aborigines meant accepting some but not all Chinese ways.® An investigation into political and social hierarchies is therefore

one method for unraveling the intricacies of cultural transformation. This method is particularly attractive because it emphasizes historical context and acknowledges indigenous agency without overlooking fundamental social and political inequalities. It is also advantageous when

it comes to places where prestige and power hierarchies were not clearly defined. In the case of the Crescent, it can be used to explain why many indigenes accepted some Chinese practices but simultaneously borrowed from other cultures as well.

Patterns of Cultural Change

Before the eighteenth century, Chinese may have dominated the Yunnan core, but their influence reached only a few isolated frontier outposts. The bloody 1720s changed this as Qing soldiers and Chinese pioneers moved farther into the borderlands bringing with them a wide range of imperial and Chinese ways, including languages, gods, architectural styles, ethics, and business practices.’ They entered areas where many diverse groups lived interspersed with others. This demographic

trend provided the conditions for rapid cultural change. One vehicle for change was intermarriage, which was relatively common between members of various communities. It was frequent enough between Chinese and indigenes, for example, that it drew the attention of the Qing, who learned that many eighteenth-century Chinese migrants married Tai or highlander women.? Their unions might have different effects on those involved. For Shi Shangxian, for example, intermarriage meant severing ties with his Chinese past; he left his Chinese family never to return and died supporting his new father-in-law’s side against the Qing state. In other cases, marriage united two ways of life. Zhang Wenlian

was the offspring of a mixed marriage, his father a Chinese from the Husa area and his mother an indigene, perhaps Achang (Qing sources simply refer to her family members as “barbarian subjects”). Living in Husa in the 1760s, Zhang apparently identified with his father’s Chi-

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nese heritage, but he maintained close relationships with his maternal relatives.’ Such relationships spurred on acculturation, a process that disturbed

Qing officials because they feared it would impede their ability “to distinguish the barbarians from the Chinese,” which was important to controlling both. This fear dated to the seventeenth century when imperial officers first discovered Chinese migrants adopting indigenous funeral and marriage practices, and it was reawakened in the eighteenth century. Nevertheless, the Qing could never eradicate intermarriage, which sometimes involved the highest levels of indigenous society. The

, Tai rulers of a northern Sipsongpanna domain, for example, married with Chinese and, in 1833, one of the offspring of a mixed marriage, Tsau Maha Nawi, tried to use his Chinese relatives to regain power over the entire region.'° If intermarriage helped promote acculturation, it by itself did not necessarily cause people to choose Chinese ways. There is plenty of evidence that Chinese adopted indigenous practices at times, and it is only logical that in a neutral situation the child of a mixed marriage might be taught either or both of his parents’ ways. By the third decade of the eighteenth century, however, the situation in the Crescent was not neutral. For many people, it was clear that adopting some Chinese practices brought benefits. As Qing power expanded in the eighteenth century, imperial culture exerted an increasing attraction for indigenous elites. By the mid-eighteenth century, local rulers often interacted with Qing officials, and those who did so in the proper manner gained advantage. Imperial etiquette, the Chinese language, and Confucian ritual

became avenues for establishing and preserving strong ties with the Qing.'' In fact, one reason that Zhang Yunsui and others supported accommodation with Tai “native officials” was their perception that elite Tai were internalizing imperial values. By responding properly to imperial ritual, indigenous elites inspired confidence and strengthened their position in relation to the Qing. As acculturation to imperial ways became useful, elite Chinese culture was interwoven into the fabric of life. Young Tai nobles learned Chinese as part of their educations, often from tutors serving in their compounds. There was a practical side to this study, for those literate in both Chinese and Tai might influence policy through the imperial communication system. As native officials, Tai rulers sent written reports to the Qing, and fluent Chinese helped them frame events to their advantage. One suspects that this was the case in the 1780s when the

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Gengma ruler sent his son to the Burmese court with a forged letter from Qianlong and sparked a renewal of Sino-Burmese trans-frontier trade—all the while playing the upright native official and concealing this trickery from Beijing. Although this is an unusual example, it is true that Tai rulers maintained an important role in frontier commu| nications, and some performed the critical task of translating Chinese communications into Tai and vice versa.'2 Such a role was important if Tai rulers were to shape Qing policy to their liking, as when Muong Laem and Mengmeng leaders convinced the Qing to withdraw their support for the upstart Lahu leader Zhang Fuguo. Apart from such political advantages, there were other reasons to study Chinese; some Tai came to prize Chinese poetry and, under the guidance of their tutors, learned to compose a good verse.'? There was also the matter of prestige: Qing officials and local Chinese elites almost always interpreted such learning as a sign of “civilization,” which earned respect for those who were literate in Chinese. Imperial culture influenced the Tai in other ways as well. Within the ruler’s compound in Chiang Hung, Tai men sometimes walked about in imperial-style robes (rather than Tai-style shirts and trousers). Qing

badges of rank adorned the hats that covered their Manchu-style queues, which Sipsongpanna nobles had worn in deference to the Qing since the mid-eighteenth century.'* In the northern Crescent, the imperial influence ran even deeper. The Qing requirements for strict, patrilineal inheritance led ruling clans to compile genealogies. Such a focus on ancestors and lineage came to be reinforced by a Chinese-style ancestral cult in Muong Mau. In the ruling family’s compound could be found ancestral tablets and scroll paintings of departed rulers who were

portrayed in their Qing robes.’ The elite were not the only ones to acculturate to imperial ways. Tai commoners were also affected by the changing political landscape. In the 1760s, Governor General Yang Yingju ordered all indigenous mi-

litiamen to shave their foreheads and grow the notorious queue. His objective was to distinguish his Tai allies from the “wild barbarians from outside the realm.”!6 Many northern Crescent Tai complied and the practice eventually spread. When Archibald Colquhoun traveled through the region over a century later, he found the queue to be common among Tai Yai men. Despite this change in hairstyle, Tai males

did not look like Chinese, however. Colquhoun had no difficulty differentiating Tai from Chinese because they “wore blue turbans with the pig-tail wound into its coils, while the Chinese [wore] the regulation _

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‘skull-cap.’ ” (The turban, or kerchief wrapped around the head, had distinguished northern Crescent Tai men from at least the eighteenth century.)'” Forcing frontier inhabitants to accept the queue may have made Qing officials feel more secure about their “barbarian subjects,”

but it did not create uniformity in dress styles. Nor was the order followed by all; in Sipsongpanna, Tai commoners never did adopt the queue. They continued to wear their hair in styles that resembled those in Burma.!®

The Qing influence on cultural transformation extended beyond hairstyles, however. Learning Chinese was important for many indigenous commoners. Some learned it in imperial schools established by activist officials such as Yunnan Provincial Treasurer Chen Hongmou, whose astonishing goal was to provide education for commoner boys—Chi-

nese and indigenous alike—throughout the province’s remote areas. The plan was for boys to first learn Mandarin and then read carefully selected texts that conveyed Neo-Confucian morals and Chinese patriarchal values. It is important to note that Chen’s efforts to establish schools on the Yunnan periphery were not the first educational program for indigenes. From the early Qing on, imperial policy required

| native officials to send sons to imperial schools. However, Chen’s efforts were remarkable in their scope and intention to reach all levels of society.'? Whether they were widely successful, however, is another question. There is no doubt that there were some successes. Weiyuan’s imperial charity schools were so popular among “barbarian subjects” that they helped establish new ones, even finding room in a local Theravada temple. As a result, learning to read and write was not limited to the elite in this area.2° Nevertheless, it is doubtful that all or even most frontier schools were successful for they relied on committed imperial officials and local elites to keep them going. In places as diverse _as Taiwan and Sipsongpanna, many such schools did not last long.?! Nevertheless, Chinese did become an important frontier language during this time, except that most did not learn Mandarin from gentlemen teachers (who simultaneously dispensed large doses of imperial ideology). Instead, they learned the Yunnanese dialect that many, including highlanders, spoke in the markets. Even a “wild savage,” as a Qing soldier described one frontier denizen, might speak some Chinese. This particular man had learned Chinese during trips to Crescent markets, and his son and mother also spoke Chinese. Highland women

such as his mother, it turns out, often went to market to sell forest products and picked up the necessary lingo in the process.22 Yunnanese

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thus joined various Tai dialects and one of the major Kachin dialects as borderlands lingua franca.” Acquisition of a second language or even the ability to read offered a chance for more productive material lives, but the lessons of Chinese culture sometimes went even deeper, provoking communities to reorganize basic ways of forming families. Some Tai Yai living in the Weiyuan area began to adopt arranged marriage, a process of acculturation - to Chinese ways that involved restricting the usual Tai practice of allowing young people to choose their partners.24 In the northern Crescent, a limited number of elite and commoner Tai Yai began to use Chinese-style surnames, something that was also uncommon in Tai society. In this respect, these families were like the Wa leaders introduced above, who accepted a surname from the Qing in 1891 and then kept that surname long after the last emperor gave up the throne.?5 Changes in dress and hairstyle, language and surnames proved that Chinese ways were attractive to Crescent indigenes, elites and commoners alike. Closer ties with the Qing induced the Sipsongpanna elite to adopt queues and the Muong Mau nobility to have ancestral portraits painted, proving that political interaction produced changes in behavior and lifestyle. For commoner indigenes in market towns and the countryside, the adoption of Chinese ways, including language, sur-

names, and marriage practices, came primarily from interacting with Chinese settlers, not officials. In these cases, the growing economic power of Chinese migrants placed them high in local prestige and power hierarchies, and local indigenes therefore began to adopt practices that made it possible to integrate themselves into that hierarchy. Qing officials and Chinese settlers were not the only ones who could claim to be powerful, however. The political and military reach of the Burmese and Siamese meant that their political cultures were influential as well. The Tai Lue, for example, used a dating system that combined Southeast Asian and Chinese elements. When writing their chronicles, they often dated entries in two ways. There was the cyclical calendar, featuring 10 “mothers of the year” that were combined with 12 “chil-

dren of the year” to produce 60-year cycles, much like the traditional Chinese heavenly stems and earthly branches dating system. Then there

was the Cula Sakkaraja dating system (often abbreviated as sakkaat or

sa ka laa tsaa in Lue documents), which was used in Burma and throughout the Tai world.?6 Tai ritual was influenced by Southeast Asian practices as well. Many rituals were linked to Theravada Buddhism, which was one of Burma’s

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cultural exports. Sipsongpanna sources provide brief descriptions of oaths to the Burmese king, taken while standing before the Buddha’s image in Theravada temples.” Other common political rituals and symbolism were also adopted from mainland Southeast Asian sources. When a domain leader first took office in Sipsongpanna, for instance, he came before the ruler (tsau phaendin) in Chiang Hung to receive a certificate of office, share a sacred drink of water, and make an oath of allegiance; in return he received a golden parasol, symbolic of his centrality and power within his domain.”* The symbolism of the parasol, which represented a leader’s status, was common throughout Southeast Asia. When King Rama I of Thailand passed away in 1809, his funerary procession included some 126 parasols. The drinking of

water as part of an oath was used in other Tai polities such as Chiangmai.?®

The Tai elite of the borderlands had to be conversant not only in Qing ritual, but in Burmese ritual and symbolism as well. Thus, the same men who wore queues and Manchu robes also sent envoys to the Burmese, and later Siamese, capitals where familiarity with proper etiquette and pageantry was just as important as in their dealings with Qing officials. Sipsongpanna’s Tsau Maha Vang seems to have been a master of Southeast Asian politics. He went to Bangkok with tribute in 1805 and received in return the types of gifts common for such an encounter—including elephants, which were the transportation vehicles

of choice for aristocrats, and palm leaves, which could be inscribed with holy sutras or royal chronicles.3° Maha Vang would later go to Ava, the Burmese capital, where he received Burmese support for his control of Sipsongpanna. It was his diplomatic prowess in both South-

east Asian and Qing circles that allowed him to best his nephew in battle and secure his son’s ascension to the Sipsongpanna rulership in 1834.

Proper ritual was also important for maintaining relations among Tai polities. These connections might be solidified through marriage,

which was common between Muong Mau and Bhamo, between Mengding and Hsenwi, and among the aristocratic families of Muong Laem, Sipsongpanna, and Kengtung. However, protocol also mandated that other rituals be observed. When the Kengtung ruler died in 1857, Muong Laem and Sipsongpanna joined Burma and Siam in sending delegations to the funeral. These envoys were expected to present appropriate gifts, which varied according to custom, but often included such prized items as silver bowls and betel nut boxes.31

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The absorption of Southeast Asian political and religious ritual left a deep impression on borderlands’ culture and society. In Tai and other Theravada communities, Buddhist temples or monasteries were important centers of diplomatic life. Inside their walls were conducted sacred rituals of vassalage and friendship. It was before the Buddha and scriptures that Sipsongpanna rulers pledged allegiance to Burmese kings and to Qing emperors, but it was also in the temples that alliances among the Tai themselves were concluded. After their conflict in 1817-1818, Kengtung and Sipsongpanna leaders swore oaths of friendship, and their reconciliation was commemorated by the construction of a monastery, Vat Yangban, which was located on the border between the two polities.*? In 1839, this monastery was the site of yet another ritual of reconciliation, this one coming after Kengtung’s intervention in a Sipsongpanna succession dispute had led to warfare. The hostilities ended when the Burmese and Qing stepped in to negotiate an agreement and

oversee an oath punctuated by the drinking of sacred water in Vat Yangban.*?

The temples were ideal places for diplomatic ceremony not only because of the centrality of Theravada Buddhism to Southeast Asian beliefs, but also because the buildings themselves shared a common ar-

chitectural style and symbolic repertoire. For nineteenth-century European travelers, it was clear that Crescent Tai communities shared a religious architecture with northern Burma or Chiangmai.3?+ Most noticeable were the soaring multitiered temple roofs that reach toward the sky, but equally important were the symbols that linked Crescent Tai to Southeast Asia’s cultural network. Built in 1706, the chapel at Muong Hai’s Jing Zhen Temple is topped by tier upon tier of roofs. Over the entrance and on the top are three-tiered parasols, the symbols

| of centrality and power that adorned royal Tai architecture from Bangkok to Sipsongpanna.** Like many Sipsongpanna religious buildings, Muong Long’s Northern Pagoda (thaat nuo) had several multitiered parasols perched on its peaks (Figure 7). It also had a number of naga sculptures—naga being the serpent so common to the HinduBuddhist tradition and so ubiquitous in Tai architecture throughout the borderlands.**

The monasteries and temples were far more than places for elite

, diplomatic encounters. In a Tai village, the monastery or temple received the prime spot, often on a hill overlooking clusters of stilt houses below. Wealthier communities built their temples on a grand scale with soaring roofs and colorful murals decorating the interiors. Within the

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monastery compounds, most local boys temporarily donned the robes of monastic novices and learned to read, write, and chant scriptures

before returning to lay life. Thus, the monastery served as schools where boys acquired the rudiments of their local Tai script, be it one of several used by the Tai Yai in the northern Crescent or the single script used by the Tai Lue in the south. In this way a distinctly Tai culture was passed on to new generations across the social spectrum, for male elites and commoners spent time as novice monks, a practice that continued to be a strong one into the 1950s.3” The Tai aristocracy, of course, balanced this Tai learning with Chinese studies, a combination that opened two wider worlds to them: one Chinese and one Tai. Even though the monasteries taught local Tai scripts, there was so much similarity among certain neighboring writing systems (such as those of Sipsongpanna, Kengtung, and Chiangmai) that education in any one provided an entrée into a regional Tai culture.** The temples and monasteries were central to the many festivals that punctuated the Tai year, including the Buddha’s birthday (May), “Bud-

dhist Lent” (mid-summer to early fall), and the New Year (April), which has come to be inadequately translated into Chinese (and promoted within the domestic tourist industry) as the “Water Splashing Festival” (po shui jie). At the New Year, people’s thoughts turned to feasting and making merit through offerings at the temples. There was indeed plenty of water and splashing, for water was a purifying symbol. Buddha images were washed, and people splashed water on each other, either down at the riverside or in the streets. Visits were made to elders

to pour water on their hands, ask pardon for any disobedience, and seek blessings for the coming year.’ In later generations, Chinese borderlanders would participate in these celebrations, some following Tai custom by dressing in brand-new clothes for the occasion, but the festival’s original spirit and conduct remained embedded in the larger Tai world, past and present, since the April New Year’s festival (Songkran) is still celebrated with great enthusiasm (including the water splashing) throughout Thailand today.*° Religious ritual in Tai domains was not necessarily a benign practice, but was instead linked to an indigenous prestige and power hierarchy. In Sipsongpanna, the monasteries and monks were organized in a cen- tralized hierarchy that paralleled and reinforced the aristocratic polit-

ical structures. At Chiang Hung, the ruler resided in his residence (haw), which was located near the main governing institutions of the realm, including the Great Temple (vat long) and two grand pagodas

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(thaat). From here, leading monks oversaw a clergy arranged in a strict

hierarchy that extended down through the domain (muong) monasteries to the many village temples.* Control over religion was a crucial component of Tai aristocratic power, and the elite defended it against outside threats. When faced with the spread of Mahayana Buddhism during Zhang Fuguo’s reign in the highlands, for example, the Meng~ meng and Muong Laem rulers burned the new temples to the ground

_ just as they fought to oust Zhang from his new position of power among Lahu villagers.42 For these rulers, the loss of political control , over highlanders was linked with the challenge of Mahayana monks to the centralized Theravada hierarchy. |

| Paralleling the elite control over Theravada Buddhism was their role in another hierarchy of ritual that involved spirit cults. For many Tai, the natural world was alive with spirits of all kinds, including guardian spirits (phii) associated with household, village, and domain. In Sipsongpanna, the household guardian (phii buon) was considered to be the spirit of the household’s founder, and it was embodied in one of

the main posts holding up the stilt house; this was the “soul post,” which had its counterpart in Chiangmai and Siamese houses as well.* Although the stilt house is widespread throughout Asia, Tai stilt houses shared many unique features that reflected common ways from region to region. Raised on stilts to protect from flooding, the house had space underneath that provided a protected place to labor in hot weather. If one made it past the guard dog, one climbed into a Tai Lue house on a ladder of nine steps, the number nine being auspicious. In Chiangmai and Central Thai houses today, an odd number of steps is still essential because a stairway with an even number is considered to be for the exclusive use of the deceased. A Tai house’s high ceilings, bamboo floor,

and diaphanous walls helped the house “breathe” as it drew cool air in from below and allowed hot air to escape to the rafters; long eaves protected the house from direct sunlight.** This similarity in design was not simply a product of a shared tropical climate, but reflected elements

of a common worldview, too. Throughout the borderlands, the Tai household, with its guardian spirit embedded in the material of the house itself, was at the bottom of a political hierarchy that rose from household to village to domain.*5 At the village level, there were guardian spirits (phii baan), believed

to come from the village founders or folk heroes. They were honored | in a number of ways, including offerings made after the harvest. There might also be annual ceremonies when the village was closed off from

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the outside world. All roads and paths were blocked, and the rivers might even be barricaded with rafts.*6 At the domain level, there was still another level of guardian spirits. Each domain (muong) was a self-contained political space under the control of the domain ruler (tsau muong). Its territory was marked by gateways at the cardinal points and protected by spirits closely identified with the domain’s military and political success. In most Tai domains, the dominant guardian spirits (phii muong) were considered to be the ancestors of the aristocracy. Each year, officials symbolically closed the domain’s gates, thus sealing the territory from the outside, and made offerings such as slaughtered buffalo to the domain spirits.*”

Commoners were required to participate in this cult and their donations to the ceremonies were part of their labor obligations to the nobility. Thus, these rituals served to reinforce the political and social hierarchy by giving the aristocracy control over rites considered crucial

to the prosperity of the domain; only the ruler of a domain could intercede with the phii muong. At the apex of Sipsongpanna society, the head of state (tsau phaendin) and his government made offerings to key guardian spirits that controlled the welfare of the entire state. These rites were integrated into a complex set of ritual, religious, and political controls that allowed the tsau phaendin to maintain his often shaky power over Sipsongpanna’s many domains.*8 In certain borderland areas, Tai elites were allied to the Qing through their roles as native officials, linked to the Burmese or Siamese as “tsau

faa” (saw-bwa), and entrenched as the local political power through their hereditary ruling positions that included control over land, resources, and spiritual life. These overlapping roles were reflected in the variety of rituals, languages, and symbolic culture employed among the

aristocracy. In a sense, Tai rulers occupied an “intermediate space” between the larger Asian empires and the local borderland communities. In order to preserve this place, Tai elites partially acculturated to various imperial ways—be they Qing, Burmese, Siamese, or, in a few cases, Vietnamese. But because they possessed a degree of autonomy in their own territories, they also developed and maintained a uniquely Tai culture. Because of their role within the intermediate space, moreover, Tai elites represented the apex of local prestige hierarchies, and this made their practices an object of emulation for other communities.*?

In the early eighteenth century, the second Sipsongpanna war was triggered in part by religious fervor among both Tai and highlanders.

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Many of the highland believers paid tribute to the Muong Ham domain ruler, and they seem to have been attracted to their lords’ Theravada Buddhist religion. Thus, they were willing to follow an “immortal” Tai

monk into battle against the Qing. The attraction to Buddhism was

apparent in the northern Crescent, too, where some Kachin also adopted Theravada practices from the Tai.°° It was not only Tai spiritual culture that was attractive to highlanders, however. The stilt house became the dwelling of choice among some Hani, Akha, and Kachin. Such highlander acculturation to Tai ways was common throughout the frontier and often continued until well into the twentieth century.*! For many people who lived in the Crescent in the eighteenth and

nineteenth centuries, cultural change was a part of their lives. The sources of change, however, did not come from China alone. Rather than evolving into a uniform frontier society that was becoming sinicized, Crescent communities mixed and changed in ways that may appear at first glance to be random, yet they were not. With the increasing influence of first the Qing and Chinese pioneers and later the Burmese

and Siamese, the patterns of acculturation were often dictated by changing power and prestige hierarchies. At the local level, Tai elites were also emulated and thus acculturation to Tai ways was common,

too, even among some Chinese.*? Acculturation sometimes led to as- ; similation, but the dominant trend in the cultural history of this frontier was not increasing uniformity and solidarity. Instead, patterns of difference remained deeply ingrained in borderlands’ life.

Maintaining Differences

The Qing officials quoted in the epigraph at the beginning of this chapter concluded that it had become difficult to distinguish frontier Chinese from indigenes. This suggests that the long-term impact of acculturation often left the boundaries between communities seemingly indistinct, just as the political boundaries between China and Southeast Asia were not demarcated. There was some truth to this statement. Throughout Yunnan, many communities came to share certain practices. One of these was the Torch Festival (buoba jie, often called xing hui jie) that was flourishing in Yunnan by the seventeenth century. In most late-twentieth-century accounts, the Torch Festival is attributed

to various “minority nationalities” (especially the Tibeto-Burman speakers such as Yi, Bai, Pumi, Lahu, Jinuo, Naxi, and Hani) and de-

scribed as a celebration on the 24th or 25th day of the sixth lunar

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month that includes animal sacrifice and the burning of pine trees or pine torches.°? The traditions and beliefs are different for each group, but the celebration often includes prayers for a good harvest. The pine torches were variously used to illuminate paddy fields in order to divine

whether the coming harvest would be good, or they were used to fumigate and drive away crop pests or evil spirits. The festival is most often connected with two legends about virtuous “barbarian” women,

, one who experienced the second-century Han dynasty invasions of Yunnan and another who witnessed the tragic death of her husband during the consolidation of the Nanzhao kingdom in the eighth century.°* Although the Torch Festival is considered a minority festival today, it was not always this way. In Qing times, it was regularly celebrated by Chinese throughout Yunnan, and the local gazetteers included descriptions of it alongside descriptions of other Chinese festivals.°*> The Torch Festival was therefore an annual ritual that blurred the lines between different communities. Nevertheless, cultural exchanges such as this were never so fluid as to erase all boundaries.** The Tai, for example, only adopted certain Chinese, Burmese, or Siamese practices, and there continued to be identifiable Tai ways, including the guardian spirit cults, the stilt houses, and distinct written and spoken dialects. The rhythms and beliefs embedded in these pursuits defined the intermediate space of the Tai political and cultural world. Within this space, oral poets circulated, performing for the nobility and commoners alike, linking people into a common culture by relating histories and stories in local Tai dialect. These poets traveled “abroad,” from one Tai domain to another (from Sipsongpanna to Kengtung, for instance), sharing their stories. This helped create a shared Tai worldview that shaped long-standing similarities in the Mekong basin, a pattern duplicated by the northern Crescent’s Tai Yai whose oral tales were shared from Muong Mau to Bhamo and beyond.*’ People also maintained boundaries through living patterns, rituals, and styles of dress. Throughout the borderlands, segregated living patterns tended to prevail; previously noted were the segregated nature of village life as well the division of towns into Tai and Chinese neigh-

borhoods. The differences were often accentuated by architectural styles. Even when architectural styles changed, however, and Tai

: adopted Chinese wattle-and-daub building techniques or highlanders adopted Tai stilt houses, the patterns of separation continued. Acculturation did not always lead to integrated living, a point perhaps best

“Barbarians” Still? - 201

illustrated by the Muslim-Chinese. In many communities, MuslimChinese were highly acculturated to Chinese ways; in border communities, they often acculturated to Tai (or other) ways, too. Despite these cultural transformations, they remained identifiably different, not just because of their religion, but also because of occupation and patterns of living.**

Difference was often easily recognizable, for people wore their affiliations on their bodies. The choice of hairstyle and headwear sent messages to all, and therefore remained an important marker of difference. As many Tai men began wearing the Manchu queue, they kept their

turbans and wound their queues into them. For women from many communities, headdress (or lack of it) signaled marital status and community affiliation. Tai Yai females also wore turbans, and at marriage they switched from low-profile ones to ones so tall and black that they looked like “stovepipes” in the eyes of one observer.5? Unmarried Ka-

chin women wore no turban, but did don them at marriage. Kachin women were further distinguished by their penchant for skirts that were cut shorter than Tai; Kachin men were known for wearing bright colors in contrast to the blues and blacks of the Tai.© Just as patterns of segregated living and clothing style were two forms of boundary maintenance, the activities that took place within distinct communities likewise mattered. The mid-eighteenth through mid-nineteenth centuries were characterized by seemingly endless warfare, and Burmese, Siamese, and Tai regimes often capitalized on their

conquests to capture and transport people back to their domains. A number of Sipsongpanna’s Tai Lue communities were captured and resettled in Chiangmai or Nan, and their distinct villages are still apparent in northern Thailand today. Part of this distinctness came from the fact that entire Lue villages were moved and resettled together, but another crucial aspect of this distinctness was the maintenance of rituals, particularly those associated with the guardian spirit cults. Those Lue who settled in Nan, for instance, did not worship local spirits, but brought their own domain spirits (phii muong) and village spirits (phii baan) with them. Because the rituals included closing off the domain or village to outsiders, their spirit cults reinforced Lue separateness, even as they lived in an area surrounded by Tai Yuan.°*! For Chinese who lived in frontier areas, differentiation through practice was particularly important. It is likely that being “Chinese” in late imperial times was primarily defined by participation in “proper” rites and rituals, especially those associated with birth, marriage, death, and

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ancestors. In other words, it was cultural practices that mattered most. The circulation of manuals and close interaction between elite and popular culture encouraged a relatively unified adherence to specific rituals.* Frontier Yunnan was no different, and Chinese elites frequently expressed their confidence that local Chinese customs were orthodox. One such set of orthodox customs was the “Six Rites” of marriage, the rules of which were outlined in local gazetteers. Most important to the marriage process was parental control: marriages were to be arranged by parents through a matchmaker, and it was necessary that the prospective bride and groom’s birth times and dates be exchanged in order to assure their compatibility.°? The young people’s personal choice had nothing to do with the process. Whether all Chinese strictly followed such customs is doubtful, but most probably acknowledged such practices as proper and civilized, particularly because the Six Rites differed from most indigenous practices. Although some indigenous communities adopted Chinese marriage customs, such transformations were probably even more infre-

quent than in contemporary Taiwan, where plains aborigines were extremely resistant to accepting Chinese familial practices.6* In Tai communities, for instance, marriage was rarely arranged; it was often left up to young people to select their own partners, although parental approval was usually sought. Chastity was valued, but it was not pursued with the same degree of obsession as in Chinese communities, and in practice, young Tai probably did frequently have premarital sexual experiences. A common Chinese reaction to these Tai marriage practices is perhaps best captured by an Englishman who, in 1877, traveled across the northern Crescent with Chinese and Tai Yai companions: As Tai marriage practices were explained, the Chinese colleague “was horrified to find that the young people selected their own partners for life, instead of leaving the matter altogether to the arrangement of parents

... He thought it showed a great disregard of propriety.” This profound difference between Tai and Chinese marriage customs persisted

into the twentieth century and has fueled the modern Chinese fascination and revulsion with Tai courting and sexuality. From Qing gazetteers to post-Mao movies, many southwestern minority groups, especially the Tai, have been portrayed as “loose” in morals or “free” in terms of marriage. In the end, the Qing officials cited in the epigraph were wrong; it was possible to distinguish between the Chinese and the indigenes. Boundaries were maintained by segregated living patterns, clothing

“Barbarians” Still? - 203

choices, and the ritual activities in villages and towns. The language of identification reflected these boundaries: Chinese called indigenes by the collective pejorative yi (barbarian) or by individual names assigned to various groups, such as “Baiyi” for the Tai or “Kawa” for the Wa. Each indigenous group, in turn, maintained specific names for them-

selves and others. The Tai called the Chinese “Haw” and China “Muong Haw;” despite some shared traditions, they also differentiated

: among themselves with the names “Lue” for the Tai who originated from Sipsongpanna, “Yai,” “Nuo,” or “Luang” for those who originated in the northern Crescent, “Laem” for the Muong Laem Tai, “Khun” for the Kengtung Tai, and “Yuan” for those from Chiangmai. These boundaries were not so firm and fast that they could not be crossed. In fact, there were instances in which individuals or communities might change their ways so much as to meld with another group (assimilate), but that is not to say that it was a world of unlimited flexibility in which people were unfettered in their choice of community and culture.

As the Qing empire and Chinese migrants gained greater political and economic control in the Crescent, indigenous acculturation to imperial and Chinese ways became either necessary or profitable or both. Tai elites adopted Chinese dress and learned the language and proper behavior for interacting with officials; some even built their houses to resemble Chinese compounds. They were not alone in acculturating to imperial ways. In contemporary northern Yunnan, Moso chiefs ruled a society characterized by matrilineality and tisese, an institution for sexual union and reproduction that cannot be called marriage. These

practices were at odds with Chinese customs, to say the least, and under pressure from the Qing, these Moso leaders strengthened their participation in marriage and patrilineality, but this transformation only applied to a tiny group within the elite. To this day, the majority of Moso do not marry, but keep the older practices alive.*” Like the Tai elite, the Moso chiefs adopted aspects of Chinese or imperial culture in order to maintain or enhance their power, but this did not lead to a wholesale assimilation to Chinese ways, either for the elites or for others under their control. Instead, indigenous communities tended to acculturate in ways that benefited them. Certain advantageous practices such as Chinese language were adopted, but many other Chinese practices were rejected, including footbinding and arranged marriages. One reason for such imperviousness to full acculturation or even

204 + Asian Borderlands

assimilation was the borderlands’ ambiguous prestige and power hierarchies. Chinese simply never occupied an undisputed position at the top. In political and cultural terms, Siam and Burma were places to which Tai looked for guidance as well, and the rituals of Theravada Buddhism and the Southeast Asian courts influenced borderland societies, too. As the Tai nobility maintained their place as local leaders, they, too, wielded power. Thus, elite Tai ways also became an object of emulation as highlanders adopted their architecture, language, and dress.

In a sense, this cultural diversity depended on the nature of political relations fostered under the Qing and the other major powers in the region. As Qing influence increased in the eighteenth century, indigenous elites acculturated to the imperial ways considered most important by the Qing. This included the emphasis on patrilineality in the appointment of native officials, proper ritual conduct in face-to-face meetings with imperial officials, and the requirement that native offcials be educated in Chinese. Nevertheless, the Qing were usually quite satisfied with partial conformity, and this attitude only increased in the first half of the nineteenth century as the Qing pulled back from active military involvement in many frontier areas. Full acculturation was

never demanded of or enforced on indigenous peoples, and it was rarely in evidence in Yunnan. Local practices that provided indigenous elites with an autonomous source of power, like the Tai guardian cults, were not considered detrimental to Qing concerns, and they continued.

In other regions of the Southwest, similar patterns emerged. In western Hunan, Qing expansion and Chinese settlement placed many. Kexiong (Red Miao) in contact with Chinese culture for the first time. Quite a few selectively adopted Chinese ways of doing things, perhaps learning Chinese farming or trading techniques, perhaps learning some Chinese language, but they maintained Kexiong lifestyles. Such exam-

ples of selective acculturation suggests that the Chinese presence in many areas of the Southwest (and not just in the borderlands) led to major political and economic transformations as well as important cultural changes, but did not force the majority to transform their lives in ways that made them Chinese. Evidence suggests, in fact, that although acculturation to Chinese ways was common, it often was not connected with large-scale rejection of indigenous ways. There were still crucial boundaries—in living patterns, dress, and ritual—maintained between indigenes and Chinese. As the nineteenth century turned into the twentieth, these patterns

“Barbarians” Still? - 205

of difference would take on new political meanings as the Qing empire fell and several generations of Chinese sought to build a nation in its

place. In the twentieth century, it became increasingly important to demonstrate a Chinese identity that was rooted in both cultural practices and descent—in doing and being, one might say. Footbinding is an important example. This tortuous practice spread only very slowly to frontier Chinese settlements, and it was a custom that was accepted by only a very few indigenous communities. Tai and highlanders in the Crescent did not bind feet.** In the 1930s and 1940s, however, long

after footbinding had fallen into disfavor in many parts of China, it remained a strong practice in the very same Chinese communities that had only slowly adopted it a century or so earlier. As one observer put it, “I am told that the Chinese women living among the [Tai Yai] and other border tribes, whose women all had normal feet, clung to the revolting old custom to differentiate them, the governing race, from the ‘uncivilized barbarians.’ ”°?

The emphasis on distinguishing oneself as Chinese also gained ground among a surprising constituency, the northern Crescent Tai elite. In the early twentieth century, the Nandian ruling clan changed its surname to Gong, which they claimed as the surname of their original ancestor, a Ming soldier from Nanjing. Eventually the Mangshi, Longchuan, Zhefang, Ganyai, Husa, and Lasa rulers also claimed descent from Chinese ancestors. One experienced frontier observer was skeptical of these claims, believing them to be fabricated.”° However, it is likely that Tai aristocrats intermarried with Chinese at times, so that laying claim to Chinese ancestors may have been a biologically defensible claim. Cultural practices were another matter, however. Even as they asserted a newfound Chinese identity, these clans remained de-

lightfully eclectic in the way they lived, a trait that had characterized the borderlands elite for several hundred years at least. Many of them spoke Tai at home and dressed in Tai fashions, but the willingness to borrow from others was still apparent. In the early 1930s, Beatrice Metford dined with Dao Beimu, brother of the Ganyai ruler. Educated

| in Rangoon, Dao spoke English and had taken the name Philip Tao. He dressed in European suits, wore tortoise-shell glasses, and sent round one of his brother’s Chryslers—purchased in Rangoon—to pick

up Metford and bring her back to his stilt house for supper. The meal was served by Dao’s sister-in-law, who was dressed in Burmese fashion, and around the table were laid chopsticks.”7! A near contemporary in

Sipsongpanna, the Muong Hai domain ruler Dao Liangchen, spoke

206 - Asian Borderlands

fluent Chinese and sent his son and daughter to Chinese school. He had a promising tea business and enough income to enjoy Europeanstyle clothing, drink his coffee with milk, and entertain visitors with a game of tennis on his personal court.” Although in practice the northern Crescent Tai rulers remained culturally eclectic even as they preserved many Tai ways, their claims to Chinese ancestry nevertheless signaled a historical shift in the political environment that was so crucial to shaping prestige and power hierarchies. In the twentieth century, new national governments in Burma, China, Thailand, and Vietnam would try to divide, conquer, and con-

trol the Sino-Southeast Asian borderlands in ways unimaginable during earlier eras. New national cultures would be constructed to centralize and homogenize political administration. In the process, the intermediate cultural and political space that was controlled by Tai regimes was slowly undermined. In the context of the early modern Asian

empire, indirect rule through the Tai elite had usually been deemed reasonable, but such autonomy was not accepted by the modern states. The modern states targeted aristocratic landholding as well as the ideological foundations of Tai power. In Thailand, Vietnam, and China, each state undermined and eventually eradicated the domain guardian cults that bolstered aristocratic Tai rule.”? As the intermediate political space closed, Tai culture began to lose its place at the top of the local

prestige hierarchy. In China, the Tai Lue and Tai Yai were grouped with borderlands indigenes as simply another “minority nationality,” and a whole new dynamics of prestige hierarchies and ethnic consciousness began to drive patterns of cultural change.

Conclusion

In 1662, a Qing general envisioned a frontier world in which the indigenous elite deeply admired imperial culture and willingly submitted their allegiance. The hope was that cultural affinity and political loyalty

would make the Yunnan frontier a stable and orderly place. Two and a half centuries later, near the end of the Qing, this had not yet come to pass, but another generation still harbored similar hopes. In 1909, an official reported that the Crescent was divided from China by language and custom, but he envisioned making frontier peoples more pliable by making them more Chinese. He urged renewed efforts to educate indigenes in Chinese language, ethics, and other disciplines in order to promote a “spirit of unity” through a “transformation to the common culture” (tonghua).' Separated by 247 years, the outlooks of these two Qing men might suggest that little had changed: in the early twentieth century, imperial officials were still waiting for cultural change to make the Yunnan frontier an easier place to incorporate. But it would be wrong to conclude that imperial influence and Chinese culture had made no impact at all.

Qing expansion and Chinese migration had transformed the Sino-— Southeast Asian borderlands, but in ways that did not necessarily pro-

mote the spirit of unity sought by this early twentieth-century statesman and his postimperial successors.

Beginning in the 1720s, Yongzheng and his “new men” radically extended Qing power by conquering many indigenous areas of the Southwest. In some areas, the occupiers removed indigenous leaders

208 - Conclusion

and destroyed local political institutions, but in many others they sought to modify, not eradicate, local political culture. In the Crescent, most elite Tai clans maintained their ruling positions, though they were suddenly subject to much stricter imperial oversight. An heir apparent had to apply in writing for recognition as a “native official,” and the application required a detailed genealogy so that strict patrilineal inheritance could be enforced. The Qing kept records that delimited the extent of each native official territory and set limits on the number of militiamen that native officials might mobilize; imperial officers maintained regular contact with indigenous regimes through a process of annual reviews and rewards. In the aftermath of these changes, indigenous autonomy was somewhat curtailed, especially in areas where the

Qing took control of important economic resources, and it became more difficult for ambitious men to usurp local leadership, raise large armies, and collect sufficient funds in order to expand their power. The approach to the Crescent had its parallels on other frontiers, particularly in the Northwest. In Mongolia and Qinghai, the Qing forced Mongol clans into bureaucratically organized banners under indigenous leaders who were subject to close surveillance. Each banner’s lands were carefully delimited in order to prevent any one leader from expanding his territorial reach. These changes undermined the ability

of the Mongol elite to mobilize enough manpower and resources in order to challenge the Qing. Just as native officials were subject to annual reviews, northwestern indigenous leaders were required to appear before the emperor for regular audiences.? Throughout the empire, the Qing recorded indigenous territories, supervised the inheritance of indigenous leadership roles, and stepped up surveillance of elites. Such strategies were part of a common repertoire for Qing frontier rule, and they proved a powerful set of tools for extending imperial power.

Throughout their vast and diverse empire, then, the Qing sought bureaucratic solutions to the challenge of frontier management, and in

this they were not unique. Faced with autonomous Hindu, Muslim, and Afghan rulers to the north of their expanding realm, the Mughals sought to control these “miniature kingdoms” without replacing each ruling lineage, just as the Qing sought to harness Tai aristocrats and Mongol nobles. Mughal methods were remarkably similar to Qing dealings with native officials. By the late sixteenth century, the Mughals had successfully intervened in the lineage chiefs’ revenue systems (thus limiting their access to resources), increased control over the succession

process using written documents, and fixed the boundaries of each

Conclusion - 209

lineage territory. Contractually defined tasks and delimited territories

prevented the ambitious from waging war and expanding their domains. The Mughal policies were given teeth by the stationing of imperial soldiers throughout the countryside, just as the Qing garrisoned its Green Standard and banner armies at strategic points throughout their frontiers. If the Qing were like other large empires in their efforts to centralize and bureaucratize their relations with frontier peoples, they were also required to be similarly flexible in accommodating local political and cultural institutions.* In Tai areas, the Qing did not create a local elite by granting them native official titles; instead, they worked through established political institutions designed by the aristocracy to manage their domains (muong). The justification for doing so was more than a practical one; those favoring accommodation drew on intellectual traditions that emphasized a universal human nature to argue that native officials were worthy underlings because they could learn imperial ways and subordinate themselves to the emperor. At the same time, indigenous elites were not treated exactly like ordinary bureaucrats, even though Qing “ethnographies” taught officials to view them as subordinates. Imperial officials were willing sometimes to adapt to Tai ritual, political symbolism, and traditions, even if their notions of Tai ways were sometimes wrong. In Sipsongpanna and Muong Laem, the Qing adopted local rituals of loyalty as well as political symbolism to try to ensure the cooperation of Tai leaders. If Tai leaders served the empire well, they were rewarded in ways that fit their own cultural expectations—they were given greater control over land and people, for example. As a result, the Tai aristocracy came to interpret the relationship with China as one of child to parent, yet their chronicles

| exclaimed how indispensable were their services to the parent. Such claims convey much truth, for without the cooperation of indigenous elites, the use of indigenous soldiers, or the productivity of frontier farmers, the imperial endeavor would have been impossible. Along the Sino-Southeast Asian frontier, the Qing often recruited indigenous militias for the toughest of assignments, including jungle fighting against rebels in the hills near Weiyuan and Muong Laem. Elsewhere, native militias accompanied Qing regulars on major campaigns, as when 2,000 Naxi soldiers from Lijiang accompanied the 1718 invasion of Tibet. °

The attempt to incorporate Tai aristocrats and soldiers is but one | example among many of frontier elites who worked with the Qing. As

210 + Conclusion

their relationship with Tibet unfolded, the Qing allied with a number Tibetan and Mongol partners, both religious and secular. Only after numerous failures did they stumble into a successful solution for ad-

ministering Tibet through the Dalai Lama and other dGe-lug-pa (Yellow Hat) leaders.6 Much like the Tai aristocracy, the Tibetan Buddhist hierarchy became an indigenous institution that the Qing sought

to regulate rather than eradicate. Since the dGe-lug-pa influence reached throughout Inner Asia, the Qing went to great lengths to control it. Early Qing emperors portrayed themselves as bodhisattvas to Mongols and Tibetans alike, thereby placing themselves on the same divine plane as the Dalai Lama.’ In other Inner Asian territories, the Qing also worked to incorporate elites, whether banner chiefs (jasaks) in Mongolia or local elites (begs) in East Turkestan (Xinjiang). In Mongolia, Xinjiang, and Hunan, the Qing adapted to local legal practices as well, incorporating aspects of traditional Mongol law, Muslim law (sharia), and Kexiong (Red Miao) customary law in each respective area. It is clear that, except perhaps in the Yongzheng era, the Qing did not seek to standardize administration throughout the empire, and different policies could be developed for different frontiers, an approach grounded as much in a relatively flexible and practical ideology as it was in the nature of the Qing bureaucracy. The Qing administered frontiers through different institutions (the standard bureaucracy, the military bureaucracy, the Lifan Yuan), and individual officials could communicate specific problems directly to the court through a secret memorial system. As a result, decision making was not constrained by a single institutional approach, and frontier officials could get approval for unique solutions to specific problems.® Qing officials had to be at their most flexible when it came to accommodating the unique indigenous political and cultural institutions encountered on each frontier. The use of multiple methods of incorporating indigenous elites, along with the multiple legal systems mentioned above, demonstrates this flexibility. However, flexibility and creativity were also applied to revenue collection, military provisioning, and security. Perhaps the most unique revenue'streams were developed in Xinjiang, where the court felt the most pressure to make the empire pay for itself. As a result, James Millward reports, Qing officials became involved in long-distance commerce, trading lower Yangzi silk to the Kazakhs for livestock and provisions; they also established networks of shops in Xinjiang, using the profits to pay for services needed

by soldiers.? Officials were not always this radically innovative,

Conclusion : 211

choosing instead from a repertoire of standard revenue policies in most cases. In southern Yunnan, the empire was partially paid for by imple-

menting approaches that were used on other frontiers or in China proper. Revenue was generated by wresting control of salt wells and tea plantations and then licensing merchants for purchase and distribution. As on many frontiers in the Southwest and Northwest, Yunnan officials also sought to increase land tax revenue by encouraging settlement and land reclamation. They promoted Chinese migration, using a standard repertoire of tax incentives and grants of seed, animals, and tools.'° Whether innovative or imitative, the selection of proper policies often generated debate. For several decades, migration to Taiwan was a hotly contested topic as Qing officials argued the pros and cons of allowing ‘Chinese migrant families to come in large numbers. Several times the state blocked family migration, believing that it would lead to conflict with indigenous communities. Similarly, migration to Yunnan and the dispossession of local peoples were serious problems addressed by the

highest officials. As in the Taiwan case, the Qing initially sought to | control migration, in this case by evicting Chinese settlers from indigenous areas. It was an approach grounded in the idea that segregation promoted stability, and it was attempted elsewhere in the empire, too.'! Segregation did not work, however, and Yunnan officials were forced to find other solutions. One marginally successful policy was to investigate mortgages and to overturn any land transfers that placed indigenous lands in Chinese hands. Although the results were not as successful as Taiwan’s innovative tribal land rent system, which placed revenues in indigenous hands and land under Chinese management, the Yunnan solution demonstrates how policy formulation was a dynamic process. |?

Frontier administrators assessed problems, formulated solutions based on previous experiences, and developed new approaches. In the process, the court and its officials often borrowed approaches from one region and tried them in others. For example, the agricultural colony (tuntian) was an ancient practice employed to meet Qing security and provisioning needs on multiple frontiers. The basic idea was to deploy farmer-soldiers to distant garrisons where they would live off assigned agricultural lands. The Qing often used this approach with its Green Standards, but they also formed innovative colonies with non-Chinese civilians or militiamen, not imperial soldiers. The commander Agui was involved in a number of these projects. In 1760, he recruited East Tur-

212 + Conclusion

kestani farmers to settle near and produce grain for Xinjiang’s crucial Yili garrison; in the 1770s and 1780s, he and Fukang’an settled indigenous farmer-soldiers in “native agricultural colonies” (tutun) on the Sichuan, Gansu, and Taiwan frontiers. In each case, the creation of non-Chinese colonies depended on local circumstances, and each was of varying degrees of success; however, the examples demonstrate how the court and key officials drew from experiences throughout the empire to formulate frontier policies." Faced with the decline of the regular army in Yunnan in the early nineteenth century, Yunnan officials drew from the reservoirs of collective frontier experience. In at least one case, they resurrected the idea of creating colonies of indigenous farmer-soldiers, in this case to combat incursions by mountaineers in the northern Crescent. Officials recruited several hundred Lisu farmer-soldiers and offered them seeds,

oxen, and money in return for their relocating to the hills west of Tengyue. There, the Lisu and their families reclaimed land to farm and

protected border towns against raids. In another case, the Tengyue magistrate Hu Qirong drew from his Hunan roots to develop a defense strategy in the 1820s. Hu recruited militiamen from local Tai and Chinese communities, built a network of blockhouses and watchtowers, and designated agricultural land to provide for the militiamen. These two examples demonstrate how Qing officials learned from ideas implemented in other areas and eras. Despite this learning process, officials still had to make sound choices and appropriately adapt policies

to local conditions, which was always a challenge. Hu Qirong, for example, was criticized for implementing a defense plan that worked in Hunan—where there were few strategic points to defend—but did not work in Yunnan’s vast borderlands, where it proved far too costly to fortify each strategic location." Despite the efforts of several generations of officials, most Qing frontiers remained difficult to control. One reason was that officials might select inappropriate policies, as did Hu Qirong. Another reason is that

many borderlands regions were not subject to Qing machinations alone. This was an age when Asia was undergoing wrenching political, economic, and cultural developments—many of them connected to the

expansion of large states, including China but also Russia, Burma, Siam, and Vietnam. In the Sino-Southeast Asian borderlands, the Qing

could not pursue its interests unchecked or unchallenged. In a thoughtful essay, Victor Lieberman has argued that mainland Southeast Asia, much like early modern Europe, witnessed a remarkable expan-

Conclusion - 213

sion of state power, ca. 1450-1830. During this period, populations grew, commercial economies expanded, and markets increased. The movement of goods, people, and ideas undermined autonomous political, economic, and cultural enclaves, particularly in frontier areas; this, in turn, helped fuel economic integration and political expansion. Suc-

cessful regimes opened more lands, increased their revenue, raised larger armies, conquered smaller neighbors, and regulated society more closely. By the early nineteenth century, the total number of mainland

Southeast Asian states had been reduced from 22 to just three: Burma, : Siam, and Vietnam. In a wonderful phrase summarizing what happened, Lieberman suggests “a thickening web of economic, legal, and cultural links” that reached out from the expanding powers to envelop more territory and more subjects. The thickening webs had a profound influence on the Sino—Southeast Asian frontiers. Through violence (particularly the great confrontations of the later eighteenth century) the Burmese and Siamese courts gained influence over frontier peoples, and some local elites came to identify with the expanding central regimes. The long-term implication of these trends, Lieberman argues, is that

nations.'> :

they shaped the emergence of mainland Southeast Asia’s modern In hindsight, this narrative works well for the Sino-Southeast Asian borderlands because Burma and Siam (and China, too) did indeed become modern nations, and the tangle of smaller frontier polities and societies in between disappeared into the new national maps and administrations. The thickening webs that were woven before modern times seem to have neatly captured certain borderland territories for Burma, others for Siam, and yet others (the Crescent) for China. But

, hindsight is often deceiving; it provides the seer with a sense of omni-

science that is more a delusion. In some ways, this scenario reflects an | older (perhaps even Turnerian) view of the frontier past. History is read

backwards, and the paramount story of the frontier is its contribution to the growth of the nation. Such a perspective favors stories of national emergence but obscures indigenous agency, overlooks contingency, and simplifies cultural change.

Tai leaders of the borderlands often had political links to the Qing, Burma, and Siam; thus, the three powers often competed for the allegiance of the same peoples. Webs of integration became entangled, and a simple linear story of proto-nation-building is inadequate to account for developments. Because some Tai elites were often simultaneously serving various overlords, the borderlands were an arena of imperial

214 + Conclusion

rivalry and a place where indigenous leaders and their institutions were important. Such a historical environment led to what Joseph Fletcher has labeled “interconnections” (historical phenomena “linking two or more societies”) and “horizontal continuities” (historical phenomena “experienced by two or more societies” ).'¢ During the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, China, Burma,

and Siam each tried to incorporate borderlands areas into their empires. Many Qing officials viewed Crescent “barbarians” through the tradition that emphasized a universal human nature, believing that these were inferior peoples who nevertheless had the potential to be civilized. The relatively civilized “barbarians” were given native official

positions and trusted to keep the frontier quiet. The Burmese and Siamese developed their own methods of supervising and working with Tai aristocrats. The common experience of managing the Sino—Southeast Asian borderlands affected the development of all three empires. The Qing campaigns to drive back Burma (1765-1769) led to the im-

| provement of inter-provincial communications networks. In Yunnan alone, officials created 82 new relay stations to handle military communications and provisioning. For the first time ever, mounted couriers

carried imperial communications to parts of the province beyond Kunming.'” In other words, imperial rivalry and borderlands administration led the Qing (and its Southeast Asian competitors) to build out government infrastructures of control." Yet these infrastructures of control overlapped, meaning that frontier peoples were not experiencing increased political, military, economic, and cultural ties with a single expanding core. Loyalties were often divided as is evident when the Muong Laem ruler went to Burma’s aid

in 1805. He was a Tai ruler and native official descended from eighteenth-century aristocrats who sought Qing support and boasted of their contributions to Qing security. Yet, he was also a saw-bwa beholden to the Burmese king. Nor were the lines of loyalty clarified in Sipsongpanna, where internal rivals for power frequently sought out-

side support from the Qing, Burma, Siam, or other Tai polities. The

interpenetration of three different expanding empires—and their unique institutions of control—reveals how messy territorial consoli-

dation and political integration could be. One might argue that the Sino—Southeast Asian frontier is a relatively isolated location or atypical example, but these issues pertain to other frontiers, a fact that the savviest Qing officials readily knew: in the early nineteenth century, an experienced official compared the Tai, with their competing loyalties,

Conclusion + 215

to the Kazakhs, who pledged allegiance to both the Qing and Russians. The “thickening web” of one expanding empire might easily become entangled with those of others. As Siam increased its influence throughout the borderlands, it chal-

lenged the Burmese or Qing presence in places such as Chiangmai, Muong Laem, and Sipsongpanna. Thus, the processes of territorial consolidation and military expansion were, to some degree, reversible—as

they had long been in Asia. There was no linear process of territorial expansion coupled with unambiguous political, economic, and cultural

integration. This was true even in areas where the Qing were not threatened by Burmese or Siamese influence. The Crescent’s early nineteenth-century “Luohei” uprisings were provoked by demographic, economic, and political transformations that the Qing could not control with their declining Green Standards. Tai rulers therefore raised larger militias—exceeding the quotas once imposed by the Qing—to extinguish this threat. Eighteenth-century Qing leaders had limited the size of indigenous forces and had built the Green Standards into the preeminent Crescent military. In the nineteenth century, the process was reversed, proving that even in interior lands, the Qing experience defied the false logic of ever-increasing political control. Nevertheless, there were long-term historical transformations taking place. Tai aristocracies were forced into closer relationships with the large empires, and, as the frequency of warfare increased after 1750, these smaller regimes were severely stressed. Far from simply a continuous process of building political, economic, and cultural webs into peripheral areas, the expansion of Asian empires relied on the discon-

tinuities produced by large-scale violence and destruction. By the 1850s, a century of warfare had left its mark. Tai aristocracies maintained their sophisticated social and political systems; aristocrats still “ate” their domains (kin muong), meaning they extracted taxes and labor from commoners who worked the domain rice fields, and they still controlled the hierarchies of Buddhism and guardian spirit worship. Thus, the material and ideological bases of rule remained under

their control. However, there were new challenges to aristocratic power. Burmese, Siamese, and Qing meddling in the inheritance process caused long-term and violent divisions within aristocracies. The filling up of hill regions with growing highland and Chinese populations cre-

ated another reservoir of opposition. And the changing economy, spurred on by Chinese migration, required further adaptation. In the eighteenth and early nineteenth century, as Chinese migrants

216 + Conclusion

and their descendents transformed the Southwest from an area dominated demographically by indigenes to a majority Chinese region, many pioneers pushed into the Crescent and beyond. The growing towns became an integral part of the region’s transformation, a process mir-

_ rored on other frontiers.'? Some towns came to be dominated by Chinese and imperial institutions; others remained largely Tai places. And then there were those that developed into areas where migrants, offcials, and indigenes lived in close proximity, if not side-by-side. Inhab-

itants lived in segregated neighborhoods, but traded together in the markets. Thus, Chinese migration tended not to drive indigenes out, and indigenes continued to be important political and economic actors, though it was not easy adapting to rapidly changing conditions. In some areas, Chinese settlers introduced cash-cropping techniques that destroyed subsistence livelihoods and undermined delicate ecosys-

tems.” In many other areas, land became a commodity and its sale sometimes threatened indigenous livelihoods. Increasing commercialization led many into unfamiliar and uncomfortable new relationships with the market. As local marketing increased, and communities became enmeshed in wider regional markets, indigenous leaders found themselves losing control over economic and political affairs within their territories. By the second half of the eighteenth century, native officials had begun to mortgage their lands to wealthy Chinese mer-

chants, and debt threatened even the great Sipsongpanna ruling family.2! In many ways, then, the Yunnan frontier was subject to trends affecting many of the world’s frontiers at the end of the early modern

period. Expansive states and invasive settler societies imposed new property-rights regimes that destroyed indigenous land-use patterns; the introduction of new biological species (corn, tobacco, opium) and new agricultural or mining practices led to more intense use of natural resources, and indigenous peoples seemed to be on the losing end— losing not just their livelihoods but their cultural ways, too.”2 And yet these dire developments did not lead to the complete political and economic destruction of indigenous societies, in part because the Qing took steps to alleviate these problems, but also because local communities adapted. Perhaps the most important sign of adaptation was that indigenous elites remained politically and financially viable into the nineteenth century and beyond. Some local rulers took to commerce; others benefited from imposing licensing fees and tolls. As for commoners, the landscapes of the mid-nineteenth century flourished

with Tai and highlanders working their plots and producing at least

} Conclusion + 217 some items for the market. Thus, it is difficult to conclusively determine

that Chinese migration and Qing imperialism led to the impoverishment of indigenes. This is not to deny that Qing brutality and Chinese economic exploitation did destroy indigenous societies in certain parts of the empire.?? Instead, it is clear that brutality, exploitation, and destruction were not the only possible outcomes. Along the Yunnan frontier, many indigenes adapted to cash cropping and trade, and they could be found every five days in the periodic markets that increasingly linked their production and consumption to larger regional economies. By the early nineteenth century, the Sino—Southeast Asian border-

lands had experienced a “thickening” of its web of political and economic links to Qing China; this, in turn, provided the conditions for important cultural transformations. In the marketplaces, Tai and highlanders often spoke Chinese (though many Chinese also learned indig-

enous languages). Some indigenous groups set up schools where their | sons learned Chinese and Confucian mores. Tai could be seen sporting

the Manchu queue, and Tai elites sometimes dressed in Chinese clothing. Even as Chinese influence changed the Crescent, there emerged stronger political, economic, and cultural ties to Southeast Asia as well. Tai politics, material culture, and ways of life were steeped

in the ritual and symbolism of Southeast Asia. As leaders of the borderlands, moreover, the Tai preserved distinctive practices that influenced other borderland inhabitants. Even as acculturation became widespread, however, there remained important boundaries between communities; difference manifested itself through living patterns, rit-

uals, clothing, and language. Although these boundaries could be breached, the overall trend was not toward a uniform frontier society, and the Sino-Southeast Asian borderlands, including the Crescent, remained a place shaped by Qing, Southeast Asian, and local historical trajectories.

End of an Era Throughout the 1840s and 1850s, there was growing enmity between Chinese and Muslim-Chinese that hinted at the violence that would come. When Du Wenxiu and his allies rebelled against the Qing in 1856, they made Dali the capital of their Islamic kingdom, and from there they pushed their armies eastward to the provincial capital and southward to Tengyue and Simao. The devastations of the Panthay (Hui) Rebellion transformed Yunnan society to a degreé that is still not

218 + Conclusion

understood. First and foremost, this civil war caused many to flee their

homes; many others were killed. As the Panthay regime took over western Yunnan, some Chinese resisted, others fled for remote areas or Burmese-controlled territory, and still others remained behind.** Tengyue’s Li lineage, for example, lost at least 14 members, male and female, during this time period. Surviving Lis fled to rural parts of Longling, but one notable member left for Burma, where he became a jade merchant enjoying the business successes that would provide a financial foundation for rebuilding the lineage after 1875.25 Those who stayed behind lived in half-deserted villages and saw their livelihoods severely

diminished because of the fighting. Crops were destroyed and trade routes became dangerous to traverse.Ӣ

The violence was of a scale to destroy frontier cities. During this period, Simao’s population of 50,000 dwindled in size, never to recover.

' The French Mekong expedition members were struck by Simao’s decline when they visited in 1867. As they arrived, the magistrate was distributing European firearms imported from Kengtung, and the inhabitants were expecting Panthay troops to attack. Outside the city, the expedition passed through villages that were virtually depopulated.?’ After the end of the civil war in 1873, epidemics continued to take a toll; when Archibald Colquhoun traveled through Simao in the

early 1880s, he saw a crumbling city whose population was still small.28 By 1920, Simao had only 9,000 residents; in 1950, it may have

had as few as 1,000. It was one of several frontier cities where the population never returned to mid-nineteenth-century levels.” In the early nineteenth century, the Sino-Southeast Asian frontier, and indeed much of Yunnan, might have become anything, depending on how events unfolded. Its government relied on hybrid institutions

drawn from Chinese, Southeast Asian, and Tai practices. Its trade routes linked to Burma, Siam, and China, and it even imported small amounts of European goods. Its diverse cultural practices included a few syncretic traditions, such as the Torch Festival. In different circumstances, it is conceivable that developments may have taken the Yunnan

frontier toward a truly multiethnic, integrated future. In fact, it is arguable that the Panthay regime was trying to accomplish this as it incorporated Islamic, Chinese, and indigenous symbolism, institutions, and people into its administration.*° Instead of having the chance to exploit such strengths, the region, like so much of China in the midnineteenth century, was engulfed in warfare so brutal that it is frankly quite hard to conceive.

Conclusion + 219

The Panthay uprising was a watershed event for Yunnan. The years of warfare and epidemics that followed devastated and polarized society, especially in frontier areas.2! The polarization was primarily a result of Chinese atrocities aimed at Muslim-Chinese, though the Qing state was implicated as well. In 1845, Chinese massacred 8,000 Muslims in Yongchang (Baoshan); in 1856, another Chinese rampage left up to 4,000 Muslims dead in Kunming. Qing officials were complicit in these acts of genocide. In an effort to explain such barbarity, David Atwill has proposed that increasing demographic and economic pressures were exacerbated by a growing perception among Chinese and Qing officials that the Muslim-Chinese were different and deviant. Part of this perceived deviance, Atwill suggests, was rooted in the MuslimChinese communities’ strong ties to Southeast Asia through the caravan trade. For many recent Chinese migrants, this may have clashed with their own China-oriented worldview. The China-oriented worldview, moreover, left less room for communities who were different. This is true whether the communities were Hui or “barbarian,” for there also emerged in these decades a vocal criticism of the power and autonomy enjoyed by native officials. Local writers and some officials increasingly viewed the removal of indigenous leaders (gaitu guiliu) and increased Chinese settlement as the ideal long-term policy to solve Crescent troubles.*2

Thus, the growing rift between Chinese and Muslim-Chinese was paralleled by increasing uneasiness over the political and economic roles of indigenous rulers and their subjects. After the outbreak of the Panthay Rebellion, Muslim-Chinese leaders in Dali successfully reached out to and included many indigenous communities in their new regime, and evidence suggests that many indigenes also felt threatened by Chinese aggression, and many—including some Crescent Tai—joined to fight against Chinese and the Qing.*?

It may prove to be that the Panthay regime represented an older vision of Yunnan. This was a vision of multiple, diverse communities,

drawn together under imperial rule, yet flexible enough to allow an orientation toward Southeast Asia through the caravan routes. Such a vision would not have been foreign to eighteenth-century officials like Zhang Yunsui, who had argued for accommodating indigenous leaders and allowing Chinese merchants and miners free access to the border-

lands to make their livings. Zhang’s approach was supported by the Qianlong court, which generally viewed “barbarian” and Chinese subjects—no matter where they lived—as equally deserving of the em-

220 - Conclusion

peror’s benevolence. Qianlong and his officials had encouraged Chinese migration to Xinjiang, for example, but they had also sought to protect indigenes, including East Turkestanis, from exploitation at the hands

of migrants. This balanced approach was similar to the protection of aboriginal land rights on Taiwan or policies to prevent usury in the Crescent, and it revealed the inclusive (and patronizing) nature of eighteenth-century Qing imperial ideology. By the 1840s, such ideas were all but dead as Qianlong’s grandson Daoguang became a zealous supporter of Chinese colonization in Xinjiang, and his officials showed a distinct unwillingness to conceive of indigenes as equally deserving subjects of the emperor. The increasing support for Chinese frontier migrants reflected a remarkable shift in imperial ideology, a shift that may have started the Qing empire down the path toward Chinese nationhood.**

Legacies of Conquest In 1938, the scholar Gu Jiegang traveled to Gansu Province to investigate local society. When he returned to wartime Chongqing, he reported that “among the races there are Han, Manchus, Mongols, Hui

Muslims, Qiang and Fan, Salar Muslims...and Turen... Because northwesterners have all these factions, all these mental barriers... they don’t know they all are citizens of the Republic of China!”5 In the 1940s, Zhang Jingqiu took up a teaching position in Sipsongpanna. During one of his many exploratory excursions, he visited one domain ruler (tsau muong) who had hung a map of China on the wall of his office.%¢

These contrasting reports reflect several important developments. From the 1920s through the 1940s, Chinese elites became increasingly interested in the frontiers, particularly those places that had come under the influence or control of foreign powers. Scholars conducted numerous investigations into the customs, political institutions, and economies of indigenous communities. Many of these investigations were supported by various government agencies and undertaken by ethnologists trained overseas or in new programs at China’s top universities.2” Like the imperial elite before them, China’s twentiethcentury intellectuals linked scholarship with serving the state, and from this early period ethnologists and others often designed their studies to contribute to national unity. In the 1930s, Zhou Guangzhuo, a Yunnanese native and a professional geographer, headed a small expedition

to the Yunnan border. Accompanying him was a surveyor from the

Conclusion » 221

National Bureau of Surveying, and together they brought with them the tools needed for cartographic and meteorological measurements. In addition to geographical investigation, the team studied border economics, ethnic groups, and transport. Their goal was to find ways to more fully integrate this region into the nation.*? Throughout the 1930s and 1940s, as more surveys were undertaken, scholars established a body of knowledge about frontier geography,

| ethnology, and history. What they found in the field varied, however, from Zhang’s discovery of a Tai aristocrat with his modern map of China to Gu’s realization that few in Gansu knew or cared about the nation. In many areas of the old empire, frontier peoples remained loyal to local communities or linked by cultural affinity and economic exchange to trans-frontier regions. Such variations were the legacy of the Qing who had built their empire through military conquest but ruled their frontiers through modified indigenous institutions. Each place was therefore unique.

The Qing practice of adapting to indigenous political regimes ensured a measure of local autonomy. Indigenous elites often maintained some control over revenue collection and military mobilization, not to mention local ritual practices that reinforced their power. At its height, the Qing kept these localized sources of power in check through bu-

reaucratic oversight and military might, but under different circumstances these indigenous institutions could be revitalized as a source of independent authority. This is borne out by the fact that so many indigenous frontier institutions continued to function after the Qing fell;

they had not been fully digested by the imperial bureaucracy and therefore had maintained enough of their original integrity to stand alone.

In several cases, the indigenous institutions that survived from the Qing era were transformed in modern times and became the foundations for emerging independence movements. This was the case in Outer Mongolia in 1911, when a group of Mongol princes ousted the Qing governor and proclaimed an autonomous Mongolia under the Jebtsundamba Khutughtu. The Jebtsundamba Khutughtu was a highranking lama and had been part of the Tibetan Buddhist hierarchy managed by the Qing, as had the Dalai Lama, who became a central figure in post-Qing Tibet’s de facto independence. In both cases, former

suzerain territories were reengineered as nations, and the institutions facilitating such transformations were indigenous ones formerly nur-

tured by the Qing. .

The Qing sought to manipulate and control indigenous institutions,

222 + Conclusion

of this there is no doubt, but they also recognized the importance of keeping them intact in certain places. Nowhere was this clearer than in the 1777 report that urged the Qianlong court to end the military occupation of Sipsongpanna and reinstate the ruling family. When China’s new Communist regime came to power in 1949, it initially appeared to operate in a similar manner. Like the Manchus before it, the Communist Party was a conquest state, and its army occupied many frontier regions, including the Crescent where it also turned to Tai elites for help. Official seals were issued to various Tai rulers, much as they had been in Qing times. By the mid-1950s, however, the party

moved to end its reliance on the Tai rulers and imposed land reform in order to undermine aristocratic control. A decade later the party destroyed the ritual and religious practices that underpinned the old order; the domain cults and Theravada Buddhism were all but eradicated at this time. For many, this represented a new era of opportunity, but the end of the old order also provoked widespread crises in iden-

tity.°? .

What occurred in the Tai realms paralleled the better-known case of Tibet, where the party removed the landed wealth of the Tibetan Buddhist hierarchy before smashing the monasteries during the Cultural Revolution. Like other empires, the Qing had thrived for several centuries by allowing indigenous institutions to fill the intermediate space between centralized state and the diverse communities of the frontier. Like other modern national regimes, the Chinese Communist PartyState eliminated that intermediate space before it provided room for a powerful twentieth-century ideology—ethno-nationalism—to grow.”°

In the erstwhile Qing frontiers, the party would build new ruling institutions, not rework old ones, and the syncretic practices of old were systematically destroyed and with them crumbled early modern prestige hierarchies. In Qing times, indigenous languages were important to learn, and Chinese settlers picked up Tai or Kachin in order to participate in marketing and local affairs, even as indigenes also learned Yunnanese for the same purposes. Today, in remote areas where ethnic Chinese are a minority, there is a clearer linguistic hierarchy, reinforced by the national education system and local government institutions; it places Mandarin Chinese above all other languages, and it has become much more common for indigenes to find Chinese language useful than for Chinese to find indigenous languages useful.*! In Qing times, Tai

prestige and power once caused others to acculturate to their ways. Today, Tai and other frontier indigenes have survived the cultural ho-

| Conclusion + 223 locaust of the 1960s, when their religions were forbidden and traditional ways all but destroyed, but they face a national landscape in which they are marginalized as backwards minorities and their cultures are sold as primitive and exotic attractions to Chinese and international

tourists. Since the 1980s, however, China has reengaged with the nations around it, including Myanmar (Burma), Thailand (Siam), and Laos. As the national borders have reopened, people once again travel throughout the old Sino-Southeast Asian borderlands. The caravan routes, where mules and ponies once plodded, have been replaced by roads and airline routes, but Theravada monks, Tai singers, and mer-

chants are once again on the move between the ancient Tai trade towns.” A new era of economic and cultural exchange has dawned in the lands where China meets Southeast Asia.

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Notes

Introduction 1. Wu Sangui report in QSL, vol. 3, 574-575. 2. Throughout the book, “Southeast Asia,” a convenient anachronism, refers to the region now encompassed by Burma (Myanmar), Laos, Thailand, and Vietnam. Linguistic classification is subject to controversy; the Tai languages, for example, are classified by some as part of the Sino-Tibetan family. See Peter Kunstadter, “Burma: Introduction” and “China: Introduction,” in Southeast Asian Tribes, Minorities, and Nations (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1967), 78-89, Table 5, 152-161. 3. James Lee, “The Legacy of Immigration in Southwest China, 1250-1850,” Annales de démographie historique (1982): 295-296. 4. She Yize, Zhongguo tusi zhidu (Chongqing: Zhengzhong shuju, 1944; reprint, Shanghai: Zhengzhong shuju, 1947); Gong Yin, Zhongguo tusi zhidu (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1992); Herold J. Wiens, Han Chi-

nese Expansion in South China (1954; reprint, Hamden, Conn.: Shoe String Press, 1967); Kent Clark Smith, “Ch’ing Policy and the Development of Southwest China: Aspects of Ortai’s Governor-Generalship, 1726-1731” (Ph.D. dissertation, Yale University, 1970); John E. Herman, “Empire in the

Southwest: Early Qing Reforms to the Native Chieftain System,” The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 56, no. 1 (February 1997): 47-74.

5. William T. Rowe, “Education and Empire in Southwest China: Ch’en Hung-mou in Yunnan, 1733-1738,” in Education and Society in Late Imperial China, 1600-1900, ed. Benjamin A. Elman and Alexander Woodside (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 417-457; Herman, “Empire in the Southwest.” 6. Frederick Jackson Turner, “The Significance of the Frontier in American History,” Report of the American Historical Association for 1893 (1894):

226 + Notes to Pages 3—4

199-227. Colin Heywood also believes that Turner’s conception of the frontier is not that different from Ottoman visions of the “lands of unbelief” just beyond their control. “The Frontier in Ottoman History: Old Ideas and New Myths,” in Frontiers in Question: Eurasian Borderlands, 700-1700, ed. Daniel Power and Naomi Standen (Basingstoke, Hampshire: Macmillan Press; New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1999), 233. 7. Howard Lamar and Leonard Thompson, “Comparative Frontier History,” in The Frontier in History: North America and Southern Africa Compared | (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1981), 7-10; Owen Lattimore, “The Frontier in History,” in Studies in Frontier History: Collected Papers, 1928-1958 (London: Oxford University Press, 1962), 469. The endless debate about the utility or uselessness of the frontier paradigm (and its major alternative, regional histories of the American West) has yet to prove that the concept of frontier is not an important one. Every major rubric has its strengths and weaknesses, of course, and “frontier” is certainly not alone in this category. The revisionists (new western historians) have yet to reveal an alternative approach that is any more rigorous. The ongoing debates now seem only to promote the parochialism that Americanists themselves acknowledge as a weakness in their discipline. For a classic

| critique of Lamar and Thompson as well as the frontier paradigm, see Patricia Nelson Limerick, The Legacy of Conquest: The Unbroken Past of the American West (New York: Norton, 1987), 17-32. 8. Richard White, The Middle Ground: Indians, Empires, and Republics in the Great Lakes Region, 1650-1815 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), ix—x, 22-23, 30.

9. Jeremy Adelman and Stephen Aron have made a strong and interesting attempt to demonstrate the linkages between imperial rivalry on “borderlands” and the local-level interactions on the “frontier.” See Adelman and Aron, “From Borderlands to Borders: Empires, Nation-States, and the Peoples in Between in North American History,” The American Historical Review, vol. 104, no. 3 (June 1999): 814-841. Their article also provoked yet another brief skirmish in the frontier paradigm debate. See the response by John R. Wunder and Pekka Hamalainen, “Of Lethal Places and Lethal Essays,” The American Historical Review, vol. 104, no. 4 (October 1999): 1229-1234. The ideas of frontier hybridity and syncretism are not entirely new to Chinese history. See the discussion by Piper Rae Gaubatz, Beyond the Great Wall: Urban Form and Transformation on the Chinese Frontiers (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1996), 17. For a discussion of cultural

fluidity and geographical mobility that compares western Anatolia and Manchuria, see Peter C. Perdue, “Empire and Nation in Comparative Per-

spective: Frontier Administration in Eighteenth-Century China,” The Journal of Early Modern History, vol. 5, no. 4 (2001): 285. 10. Cemal Kafadar, Between Two Worlds: The Construction of the Ottoman State (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 125-126; Peter C.

Notes to Pages 4-9 + 227 Perdue, “Boundaries, Maps, and Movement: Chinese, Russian, and Mongolian Empires in Early Modern Central Eurasia,” The International History Review, vol. 20, no. 2 (June 1998): 263-286; Peter C. Perdue, China Marches West: The Chinese Conquest of Central Asia (Cambridge, Mass.: - Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2005). 11. “Tai” refers to people in southern China and Southeast Asia who speak dialects belonging to the Tai language group. Many “Thai,” who are citizens of modern Thailand, speak Tai dialects and are therefore Tai. In China today, some Tai groups have been classified as “Dai.”

12. Gaubatz, Beyond the Great Wall, 14-15; John E. Wills, Jr, “The Seventeenth-Century Transformation: Taiwan under the Dutch and the Cheng Regime,” in Taiwan: A New History, ed. Murray A. Rubinstein (Armonk, N.Y.: M.E. Sharpe, 1999), 84-106. 13. White, The Middle Ground, ix. 14. Peter Perdue has a fascinating discussion of how writing contributed both to the Qing conquest of Central Asia and to the creation of a history that has legitimated and naturalized that conquest. Peter C. Perdue, “Military Mobilization in Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century China, Russia, and Mongolia,” Modern Asian Studies, vol. 30, no. 4 (1996): 782-788. 15. See for example, Kent Clark Smith’s excellent dissertation, “Ch’ing Policy and the Development of Southwest China,” and Pei Huang’s conclusions about the aggressiveness of Qing frontier policy in Autocracy at Work: A Study of the Yung-cheng Period, 1723-1735 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1974), 299-300. 16. John Robert Shepherd, Statecraft and Political Economy on the Taiwan Frontier, 1600-1800 (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1993). 17. Donald S. Sutton, “Violence and Ethnicity on a Qing Colonial Frontier:

Customary and Statutory Law in the Eighteenth-Century Miao Pale,” Modern Asian Studies, vol. 37, no. 1 (2003), 41-80. 18. For one scholar’s sense of the importance of conquest and demographic change, see Joseph EF. Fletcher, “Ch’ing Inner Asia c. 1800,” in The Cambridge History of China, vol. 10, Late Ch’ing, 1800-1911, part 1, ed. John K. Fairbank (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 35. For the importance of the frontier paradigm as a way of avoiding “congeries of regional studies,” see James A. Millward, “New Perspectives on the Qing Frontier,” in Remapping China: Fissures in Historical Terrain, ed. Gail Hershatter, Emily Honig, Jonathan N. Lipman, and Randall Stross (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1996), 124. 19. R. Bin Wong, China Transformed: Historical Change and the Limits of — European Experience (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1997). 20. Michael Adas, “Imperialism and Colonialism in Comparative Perspective,” The International History Review, vol. 20, no. 2 (June 1998): 371. 21. Lamar and Thompson, “Comparative Frontier History.” 22. The term is Gaubatz’s, who has a wonderful review of the literature, both North American and Chinese. See Beyond the Great Wall, 19-21. Latti-

228 - Notes to Pages 11-12 : more makes this point in “Inner Asian Frontiers: Chinese and Russian Margins of Expansion,” in Studies in Frontier History, 135-137. — 23. The literature begins with She Yize, Zhongguo tusi zhidu. Many scholars — follow She in referring to the tusi institution as a system. See, for example, Gong, Zhongguo tusi zhidu. In English, Herold Wiens drew from She’s work. Wiens, Han Chinese Expansion in South China, 226-232. 24. Kida Mikio, “Rokusen Ban Hyakui no hanran ni tsuite: Minsho hei Ten kosaku no shoso to dochaku taio,” Tonan Ajia: Rekishi to bunka, no. 10 (1981): 122-141. 25. I have borrowed Benedict Anderson’s well-known and pithy definition of nation. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, rev. ed. (London: Verso, 1991), 6-7. The idea that Chinese culture would “sinicize” or “swamp” all others in its path comes from Wiens, Han Chinese Expansion in South China, xi, xii, 332. In the crucial years of expansion, ca. 1722-1780, 21 men served as Yunnan-Guizhou governor general. The majority (14) were Manchu bannermen whereas five

were Han bannermen. Only two were Chinese. See Charles Patterson Giersch, Jr., “Qing China’s Reluctant Subjects: Indigenous Communities and Empire along the Yunnan Frontier” (Ph.D. dissertation, Yale University, 1998), Appendix 1, 294. 26. This teleological approach to frontier history is extremely common in China, even today. See Cheng Chongde, 18 shiji di Zhongguo yu shijie, bianjiang minzu juan (Shenyang: Liaohai chubanshe, 1999). 27. Charles Tilly has given a basic definition of the modern national state’s major features: (1) territorial consolidation, (2) specialized personnel, and (3) integrity recognized by other states. Charles Tilly, “Reflections on the History of European State-Making,” in The Formation of National States in Western Europe (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1975), 51. 28. Edmund R. Leach, “The Frontiers of ‘Burma,’ ” Comparative Studies in Society and History, vol. 3, no. 1 (October 1960): 50. 29. Thongchai Winichakul, Siam Mapped: A History of the Geo-Body of a Nation (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1994), 81-82, 96-97. 30. Li Fuyi, trans., Leshi (Kunming: Guoli Yunnan daxue Xinan wenhua yanjiushi, 1947), vol. 1 passim; Miandian dang 01-23, 6-3, Guangxu 19/9/26; Francis Garnier, Voyage d’exploration en Indo-chine, vol. 1 (Paris: Librairie Hachette et cie, 1873), 400, 402. 31. John E. Herman, “The Cant of Conquest: Tusi Offices and China’s Political Incorporation of the Southwest Frontier,” in Empire at the Margins: Culture, Ethnicity and Frontier in Early Modern China, ed. Pamela Crossley, Donald Sutton, and Helen Siu (Berkeley: University of California Press, forthcoming). Herman argues that even gaitu guiliu (replacing tusi with centrally appointed officials) often left indigenous elites still in positions of power.

32. Geoff Wade, “Some Topoi in Southern Border Historiography during the Ming (And Their Modern Relevance),” in China and Her Neighbours:

Notes to Pages 12-13 + 229 Borders, Visions of the Other, Foreign Policy 10th to 19th Century, ed. Sabine Dabringhaus and Roderich Ptak (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 1997), 155-156. 33. Kengtung is included as one of the “native official” regimes that was controlled by the Ming. However, Kengtung had come under the sway of a resurgent Burmese Toungoo state in 1559. See Sao Saimong Mangrai, ed. and trans., The Padaeng Chronicle and the Jengtung State Chronicle Translated (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Center for South and Southeast Asian Studies, 1981), 4—S. 34. Tan Qixiang, ed., Zhongguo lishi dituji, vol. 7, Yuan-Ming shigi (Shanghai: Ditu chubanshe, 1982). See “Ming shiqi tuzu bianli” (Compiling Principles

for the Ming Period Map-Group), n.p. See also map 76-77 of Yunnan Province.

35. Ibid., vol. 8, Oing shigi (Shanghai: Ditu chubanshe, 1987), 48-49. 36. Shih-Chung Hsieh, “On the Dynamics of Tai/Dai-Lue Ethnicity: An Ethnohistorical Analysis,” in Cultural Encounters on China’s Ethnic Frontiers, ed. Stevan Harrell (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1995), 303304; see also Hsieh’s “Ethnic-Political Adaptation and Ethnic Change of the Sipsong Panna Dai: An Ethnohistorical Analysis” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Washington, 1989); Daile: Xishuangbanna de zuqun xianxiang (Taibei: Zili wanbao she, Wenhua chubanbu, 1993), 5, 57.

. 37. Ann Maxwell Hill’s fine study on Chinese traders in Sipsongpanna and Southeast Asia examines the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, but her conclusions about premodern politics require rethinking. She states

that prior to the late nineteenth century Sipsongpanna “was deeply enmeshed in China’s political system, which legitimated the ruling family at

| [Chiang Hung].” Earlier, however, she had noted that “Tai polities, generally, were organized along similar lines, persisting in one form or another . into the early twentieth century.” If Sipsongpanna was deeply enmeshed in China’s political system, how could it still function like other Tai polities? Merchants and Migrants: Ethnicity and Trade among Yunnanese Chinese in Southeast Asia (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Southeast Asia Studies, 1998), 65, 67. Kato Kumiko has written a wonderfully detailed

study of Sipsongpanna political administration, but it relies heavily on 1950s Chinese sources in order to describe Sipsongpanna’s premodern administration. Kat6 Kumiko, Bonchi sekai no kokkaron: Unnan, Shipusonpanna no Tai zoku shi (Kyoto: Kyoto daigaku, 2000). An important exception is Hasegawa Kiyoshi, who has made attempts to analyze the evolution of Sipsongpanna ruling practices, including the centralization of Sipsongpanna based on ideology and practices adopted from Buddhism, local spirit worship, and Sipsongpanna’s external relations with China and Burma. See Hasegawa Kiyoshi, “ ‘Fu’ naru Chugoku, ‘Bo’ naru Biruma—Shippu son pan na oken to sono ‘gaibu’,” in Oken no iso, ed. Matsubara Masatake (Tokyo: K6bund6, 1991), 380-414; Hasegawa Kiyoshi, “Sip Song Panna okoku (Cheli) no seiji shihai soshiki to sono tochi

230 + Notes to Pages 17-20 ryoiki—Unnan Daizoku kenkya no ikkan toshite,” Tonan Ajia: Rekishi to bunka, no. 11 (1982): 125-148.

1. A Traveler’s Tale 1. Xu Xiake, Xu Xiake Tengyue youji, ed. Zhu Huirong, with additions by Liu Chunming (Kunming: Yunnan daxue chubanshe, 1993), 1 (hereafter cited as Xu, Tengyue youji). This section, unless otherwise noted, is based on Xu, Tengyue youji, 1-12. 2. According to Richard Strassberg, Xu Xiake tried to describe clearly the places he saw and he never edited the journal for publication. Richard Strassberg, Inscribed Landscapes: Travel Writing from Imperial China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 318-319. 3. According to Zhu Huirong and Liu Chunming, the language is a Kachin (Jingpo) dialect. Xu, Tengyue youji, 5. 4. Xu Hongzu (Xu Xiake), Xu Xiake youji jiaozhu, vol. 2, ed. Zhu Huirong (Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe, 1985), 1130-1131 (hereafter cited as Xu Xiake youji fiaozbu). 5. Ibid. 6. Topographical information from Xu, Tengyue youji; H. R. Davies, Yiinnan: The Link Between India and the Yangtze (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1909; reprint, Taibei: Ch’eng Wen Publishing, 1970); E. Colbourne Baber, Report by Mr. Baber on the Route Followed by Mr. Grosvenor’s Mission between Tali-fu and Momein (London: Harrison and Sons, 1878); Fred. W. Carey, “A Trip to the Chinese Shan States,” The Geographical Journal, vol. 14, no. 4 (October 1899): 378-394 and “Journeys in the Chinese Shan States,” The Geographical Journal, vol. 15, no. 5 (May 1900): 486-513; Archibald R. Colquhoun, Across Chrysé: A

Journey of Exploration through the South China Border Lands from Canton to Mandalay, vol. 2 (London: Sampson Low, Marston, Searle, and Rivington, 1883; reprint, Singapore: Graham Brash, 1988); J. McCarthy,

“Across China from Chin-kiang to Bhamo, 1877,” Proceedings of the Royal Geographical Society, vol. 1, no. 9 (1879): 489-507; E. B. Sladen, “Burma: Exploration via the Irrawaddy and Bhamo to South-Western China,” Proceedings of the Royal Geographical Society, vol. 15, no. 5 (1871): 343-362; Francis Garnier, Voyage d’exploration en Indo-chine, vol. 1 (Paris: Librairie Hachette et cie., 1873), 402-423; Milton Osbourne, River Road to China: The Mekong Expedition 1866-1873 (New York: Liveright, 1975). 7. For a more detailed discussion of sources, see Charles Patterson Giersch, Jr., Qing China’s Reluctant Subjects: Indigenous Communities and Empire along the Yunnan Frontier (Ph.D. dissertation, Yale University, 1998), 27— 30.

8. Zhu Mengzhen, Xinanyi fengtu ji, in Shiliao sanbian, vol. 28 (Taibei: Guangwen shuju, 1969), 6:1a.

Notes to Pages 21-23 - 231 9. GZDQL, vol. 30, 531-532, QL 33/5/3, Aligun, Shuchide, and E’ning; JJCLF # 013433 (Taibei), QL 36/2/6, Agui and Zhangbao; G. W. Clarke, The Province of Yunnan (Shanghai: Shanghai Mercury, 1885), 28; Davies, Yiin-nan, 22, 56; T’ien Ju-k’ang, Religious Cults of the Pai-i Along the Yunnan-Burma Border (Ithaca, N.Y.: Southeast Asia Program, Cornell University, 1986), 78-79. 10. Ho Ping-ti, Studies on the Population of China, 1368-1953 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1959), chaps. 2 and 3; James Lee, “Food Supply and Population Growth in Southwest China, 1250-1850,” The

Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 41, no. 4 (August 1982): 727. | 11. For a summary of how scholars currently divide Yunnan’s Qing-era peoples into nationalities, see You Zhong, Yunnan minzu shi (Kunming: Yunnan daxue chubanshe, 1994), 528-562.

12. Norma Diamond, “Defining the Miao: Ming, Qing, and Contemporary Views,” in Cultural Encounters on China’s Ethnic Frontiers, ed. Stevan

| Harrell (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1995), 92-116; Stevan Harrell, “The History of the History of the Yi,” in Cultural Encounters, 63-91. For linguistic variations among the Hani, see You Zhong, Yunnan minzu shi, 538-539. For historical differences between Hani and Akha, see Leo Alting von Geusau, “Akha Internal History: Marginalization and the Ethnic Alliance System,” in Civility and Savagery: Social Identity in Tai States, ed. Andrew Turton (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon, 2000), 122158.

13. Yang Yongsheng, “Luxixian Gaogengtianxiang shehui lishi gaikuang,” in Achangzu shebui lishi diaocha (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1983), 89; You Zhong, Yunnan minzu shi, 385-386, 541-542; Davies, Yiin-nan, 28; Li Chenghong, “Hu Lasa Achangzu shehui jingji diaocha,” in Achangzu shehui lishi diaocha, 4, 30, 32-34. 14. Zhonggong Simao diwei diaochazu, “Menghaixian Banna Xiding Bulangzu shehui,” “Menghaixian Bulangshan Manxinglong shehui diaocha,” “Bulangshan Zhangjiazhai mianmao,” and “Bulangshan Xinman’ezhai

shehui jingji gingkuang,” in Bulangzu shehui lishi diaocha, vol. 1 (Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe, 1981), 1, 5-6, 12, 16, 22, 28; Yang

; Yucai, “Menghaixian Bulangshan Zhangjiazhai Bulangzu shehui diaocha,” in Bulangzu shehui lishi diaocha, vol. 2 (Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe, 1982), 1-2; Shih-Chung Hsieh, “Ethnic-Political Adaptation and Ethnic Change of the Sipsong Panna Dai: An Ethnohistorical Analysis” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Washington, 1989), 53-55; Guan Jian, The Indigenous Religion and Theravada Buddhism in Ban Da Tiu—A Dai Lue Village in Yunnan (China) (Gaya, India: Centre for Southeast Asian Studies, 1993), 20-21.

15. Alting von Geusau, “Akha Internal History,” 123-125; Hsieh, “EthnicPolitical Adaptation,” 53; Xishuangbanna Daizu zizhizhou diaocha [zu], “Xishuangbanna Hanizu shehui lishi diaocha,” and Yan Ruxian, “Hanizu jianjie,” in Hanizu shebui lishi diaocha (Kunming: Yunnan minzu

232 + Notes to Pages 23-26 chubanshe, 1982), 1-4, 100-106; You Zhong, Yunnan minzu shi, 537540.

16. Hsieh, “Ethnic-Political Adaptation,” 52; You Zhong, Yunnan minzu shi, 549-550. 17. Edmund R. Leach, Political Systems of Highland Burma: A Study of Kachin Social Structure (London: G. Bell and Sons, 1954), 1-3, 6, 21; You Zhong, Yunnan minzu shi, 548-549. 18. Chen Jiongguang and Li Guanghua, Lahuzu jianshi (Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe, 1986), 1, 29; You Zhong, Yunnan minzu shi, 542-544. 19. Leach, Political Systems, 59; You Zhong, Yunnan minzu shi, 540-541. 20. Peter Kunstadter, “Burma: Introduction,” in Southeast Asian Tribes, Minorities, and Nations, vol. 1 (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1967), 81-88; Tian Jizhou et al., Wazu jianshi (Kunming: Yunnan jiaoyu chubanshe, 1986), 4-14, 23-24; Sylvie Pasquet, “Entre Chine et Birmanie: Un mineur-diplomate au royaume de Hulu, 1743-1752 (premiere partie),” Etude chinoises, vol. 8, no. 1 (printemps 1989): 49. 21. Huang Huikun et al., Daizu jianshi (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1985), 91, 109-110; James Lee, “The Legacy of Immigration in Southwest China, 1250-1850,” Annales de démographie historique (1982): 289; Pasquet, “Entre Chine et Birmanie,” 46-47, 51.

22. Shunning fuzhi (1725 edition) 5:1b-2b; Jiang Yingliang, Daizu shi (Chengdu: Sichuan minzu chubanshe, 1983), 332; Pasquet, “Entre Chine et Birmanie,” 46-51. 23. For the best discussion of Muslim-Chinese in Yunnan and the origins of this conflict, see David G. Atwill, “Blinkered Visions: Islamic Identity, Hui Ethnicity, and the Panthay Rebellion in Southwest China, 1856-1873,” The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 62, no. 4 (November 2003): 1079-1108. 24. For two different views, see David K. Wyatt, Thailand: A Short History _ (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1982), 5-6; Huang Huikun, Cong Yueren dao Tairen (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1992), 4— 5, 356-357. 25. For information on Tai-Kadai language family, see Somsonge Burusphat, Jerold A. Edmondson, and Megan Sinott, eds., Introduction to Tai-Kadai People (Salaya, Nakhon Pathom, Thailand: Institute of Language and Culture for Rural Development, Mahidol University, 1998). For the slight differences among the Tai Yai spoken dialects, see Yos Santasombat, Lak Chang: A Reconstruction of Tai Identity in Daikong (Canberra: Pandanus Books, 2001), 1-2. 26. Guan Jian, The Indigenous Religion and Theravada Buddhism; Jiang, Daizu shi, 344, 348-350; Wyatt, Thailand, 20-21, 31. An ethnographic account of the modern Sipsongpanna Tai can be found in Hsieh, “EthnicPolitical Adaptation,” 45-52. 27. Peter Kunstadter, “Burma: Introduction,” 81-88; Ronald D. Renard, “Tai Lui Self, House, Village, and Moeng,” Crossroads, Special Thai Issue (Part Two) vol. 5, no. 1 (1990): 46-47, 50; Wyatt, Thailand, 7-9.

Notes to Pages 27-28 + 233 28. Davies reported that the Tai of Longchuan called themselves “Tai N6” while the Tai in Burma called them “Tai Che.” Davies, Yiin-nan, 25. Mainland China scholars use the term “Dai-Na” for these Tai. Gao Lishi, Xish-

uangbanna Daizu de lishi yu wenhbua (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1992), 2. See also Leach, Political Systems, 29-30, 32. 29. Kida Mikio, “Rokusen Ban Hyakui no hanran ni tsuite: Minsho hei Ten kosaku no shoso to dochaku taio,” Tonan Ajia: Rekishi to bunka, no. 10

(1981): 122-141; Huang Huikun et al., Daizu jianshi, 4-5, 77, 86; Jiang, Daizu shi, 245, 248-257; Tengyue zhouzhi (1790; reprint, 1931), 1:6b—7a.

30. Liu Jie, “Lianghe gingkuang diaocha baogao,” in Dehong Daizu shebui lishi diaocha, vol. 1 (Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe, 1984), 14-15; Sheng bianwei bangongshi ziliaoshi, “Dehong Daizuqu wuge dianxing dia-

ocha zonghe gingkuang,” in Dehong Daizu shehui lishi diaocha, vol. 1 (Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe, 1984), 132; Leach, Political Systems, 56, 213-217, 220-221; Yos, Lak Chang, 86-92; Zhang Xisheng, “The Feudal Law and Power Structure of the Dai Nationality of the Dehong Region,” in Proceedings of the Fourth International Conference on Thai Studies, Kunming, May 11-13, 1990, vol. 2 (Kunming: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 1990), 325-328. 31. Davies, Yiin-nan, 23, 28; Liu Jie, “Lianghe gingkuang,” 15; Li Chenghong, “Hu Lasa Achangzu shehui jingji diaocha,” 4, 30, 32-34; “Duoshi jiapu,” in Dehong Daizu shehui lishi diaocha, vol. 3 (Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe, 1987), 33-40. 32. Hsieh Shih-Chung calls Sipsongpanna a “kingdom” and the tsau phaendin a “king.” David Wyatt labels the Tai polities “principalities” ruled by “princes.” I refer to them as “states” or “polities” and to their rulers as

“aristocratic rulers” or “heads of state,” more neutral terms that still convey the fact that these people maintained autonomous political and military institutions and the fact that many Tai recognized the cohesion of their respective territories. Hsieh, “On the Dynamics of Tai/Dai-Lue Ethnicity: An Ethnohistorical Analysis,” in Cultural Encounters, ed. Stevan Harrell, 303-307; Wyatt, Thailand, 35.

33. Li Fuyi, trans., Leshi (Kunming: Guoli Yunnan daxue Xinan wenhua yanjiu shi, 1947), 1-2; Jiang, Daizu shi, 174-175, 178-179; Wyatt, Thailand, 5-6. 34. Hsieh discusses the Sipsongpanna government in some detail, see Hsieh, “Ethnic Political Adaptation,” 97-117; see also Hasegawa Kiyoshi, “ ‘Fu’

naru Chugoku, ‘Bo’ naru Biruma—Shippu s6n pan na Oken to sono ‘saibu,’ ” in Oken no isd, ed. Matsubara Masatake (Tokyo: Kobundo, 1991), 399-403; Hasegawa, “Sip Song Panna okoku (Cheli) no seiji shihai soshiki to sono tochi ryoiki—Unnan Daizoku kenkyi no ikkan toshite,” Ténan Ajia: Rekishi to bunka, no. 11 (1982): 125-141; Jacques Lemoine, “Tai Lue Historical Relation with China and the Shaping of the Sipsong Panna Political System,” in Proceedings of the International Conference on

234 + Notes to Pages 29-32 Thai Studies, Australian National University, Canberra, 3-6 July 1987 (Canberra, 1987), 121-133. 35. Jiang, Daizu shi, 429-430, 433-434. For an identical portrayal, suggesting that mainland China scholarship has come to a consensus, see also Huang Huikun et al., Daizu jianshi, 148, 170, 181. 36. Garnier, Voyage d’exploration, vol. 1, 407-408. 37. Li Fuyi, Leshi, 31. This process of investiture by both the Chinese emperor and the Burmese king began in the sixteenth century and became important to Sipsongpanna rulership. Hasegawa, “ ‘Fu’ naru Chugoku, ‘Bo’ naru Biruma,” 380-414. 38. The Yunnan Branch Secretariat (Yunnan xingzhong shusheng) was first

established in 1274 but then abolished and reestablished in 1280. See David M. Farquhar, The Government of China Under Mongolian Rule: A Reference Guide (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1990), 398. 39. Charles Backus, The Nan-chao Kingdom and T’ang China’s Southwestern Frontier (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 3-4; see K. C. Chang, The Archaeology of Ancient China, 4th ed. (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1983), 453-467.

40. Backus, Nan-chao, 4; John E. Herman, “Amid the Clouds and Mist: China’s Conquest of a Southern Kingdom, 1250-1750,” unpublished man- , uscript, 31-34. 41. Backus, Nan-chao, 4, 6, 18; Herman, “Amid the Clouds and Mist,” 37-39. 42. Herman, “Amid the Clouds and Mist,” 39-50; see Backus’s discussion of the Cuan, Nan-chao, 6-8. 43. Backus, Nan-chao, 8-16; Herman, “Amid the Clouds and Mist,” 51-66. 44. Backus has a fascinating discussion of this; see Nan-chao, 17-22. 45. Ibid., chap. 3.

46. Ibid., 51-52, 77; Fang Guoyu, Zhongguo xinan lishi dili kaoshi, vol. 2 (Beijing: Zhonghua shu ju, 1987; reprint, Taibei: Taiwan shangwu yinshu-

guan, 1990), 883, 888-890, 893-894; Herman, “Amid the Clouds and Mist,” 84, 92-97. 47. PPK, 381-382. Xutcai is related to the Lue method of dating. Like other northern Tai groups, they used a sixty-year cyclical calendar. For further

explanations, see Sao Saimon Mangrai, ed. and trans., The Padaeng Chronicle and the Jengtung State Chronicle Translated (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Center for South and Southeast Asian Studies, 1981), 52-54 (hereafter cited as Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle). Gao Lishi, trans., “Xishuangbanna Zhaopianling shixi yizhu,” Minzu xuebao, no. 2 (1982): 90. 48. See also Li Fuyi, Leshi, 1-2; Gao Lishi, “Xishuangbanna Zhaopianling shixi yizhu,” 83; Dao Yongming, “Cheli xuanweishi shixi jijie,” in Cheli xuanweishi shixi jijie, ed. Dao Shuren, Dao Yongming, and Kang Lang Zhuang (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1989), 1-4. 49. Wyatt, Thailand, 36; I have also drawn on Wyatt, 33-37, for the information on Tai state origins.

Notes to Pages 32-36 + 235 50. Some mainland China scholars have tried to argue that it was the Song emperors, not the Dali kings, who granted recognition to Phajaa Tsuong. The implausibility of this assertion has been pointed out by Hsieh, “On the Dynamics of the Tai,” 310-313, and by Dao Yongming, “Cheli,” 4— 5.

51. For “father,” see PPK, 381-382 and Dao Shuren, trans., “Sishisidai Zhaopianling shixi,” in Cheli xuanweishi shixi jijie, 220; for tsau lum faa and

tsau faa vawng, see Gao Lishi, “Xishuangbanna Zhaopianling shixi yizhu,” 83; Li Fuyi, Leshi, 1. 52. Wyatt, Thailand, 45. 53. Dao Shuren, “Sishisidai,” 222-223; Li Fuyi, Leshi, 3-4; David K. Wyatt and Arronrut Wichienkeeo, trans., The Chiang Mai Chronicle (Chiang Mai: Silkworm Books, 1995), 14-18. 54. Wyatt, Thailand, 44-50; Hans Penth, A Brief History of Lan Na (Chiang Mai: Silkworm Books, 1994), 11-12. 55. Sara Davis, “Premodern Flows in Postmodern China: Globalization and the Sipsongpanna Tais,” Modern China, vol. 29, no. 2 (April 2003): 176203.

56. Fang Guoyu, Zhongguo xinan, 885-886, 888-890, 1096-1098, 1132; Gong Yin, Zhongguo tusi zhidu (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1992), 46-52. 57. Hsieh “Ethnic-Political Adaptation,” 84-89; Dao Yongming, “Cheli,” 1518; Wyatt, Thailand, 48-50; Jiang, Daizu shi, 194-204. 58. Geoffrey Phillip Wade, “The Ming Shi-lu (Veritable Records of the Ming Dynasty) as a Source for Southeast Asian History, 14th to 17th Centuries” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Hong Kong, 1994), 126; Fang, Zhongguo xinan, 1133-1199. 59. Taizong shilu, vol. 22, 28, as cited in Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu (Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe, 1993), 188-189 and Dao Yongming, “Cheli,”

36-37; Wade, “Ming Shi-lu,” 133, 155-157. ,

60. Taizong shilu, vol. 36, 39, as cited in Dao Yongming, “Cheli,” 38-40;

Wyatt and Wichienkeeo, Chiang Mai Chronicle, 72-74. : 61. Kida, “Rokusen Ban Hyakui,” 134; Geoff Wade, “Some Topoi in Southern Border Historiography During the Ming (And Their Modern Relevance),”

in China and Her Neighbours: Borders, Visions of the Other, Foreign Policy 10th to 19th Century, ed. Sabine Dabringhaus and Roderich Ptak (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 1997), 149-150; Wade, “Ming Shi-lu,” 192,

62. Dao Shuren, “Sishisidai,” 230-235; Li Fuyi, Leshi, 11. 63. Yingzong shilu, vol. 233, 4b and vol. 235, 1b—2a, as cited in Wade, “Ming Shi-lu,” 175-176 and in Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu, 196-200. 64. For Lanna’s role, see Wyatt and Wichienkeeo, Chiang Mai Chronicle, 8384, 88. For Sipsongpanna accounts see Dao Shuren, “Sishisidai,” 236-241; Dao Yongming, “Cheli,” 90-92; Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu, 213-216, 219. 65. Hsieh argues that Sipsongpanna had a long-term stable relationship with

236 + Notes to Pages 36-38 China as well as long-term friendly relations (“tacit alliance”) with Lanna, Keng Tung, and Lan Sang. Hsieh, “On the Dynamics of the Tai,” 306. 66. Barbara Watson Andaya, “Political Developments between the Sixteenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” in The Cambridge History of Southeast Asia, vol. 1, part 2, ed. Nicholas Tarling (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 67-68.

67. Wyatt, Thailand, 92-93; Dao Shuren, “Sishisidai,” 242-244; Li Fuyi, Leshi, 19; Dao Yongming, “Cheli,” 109-110; Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu, 226-227; Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle, 247. 68. Accounts of the marriage and enthronement, translated from the Tai, ap-

pear in Dao Shuren, “Sishisidai,” 244-250 and Li Fuyi, Leshi, 19-27. Note, however, that the Tai version (i.e., PPK, 423) from which Dao has done his translation refers to the Ming as the “Haw” or “Muong Haw,” which Dao often freely translates as Tianchao (“Heavenly Dynasty”), even though the original means the “Chinese” or the “Chinese state.” Although the Lue did sometimes refer to the China-based states in ways that might be translated as “Heavenly Kingdom,” this translation is incorrect here. 69. For Kengtung’s increasing ties to Burma at this time, see Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle, 247-248. For information on Ceng Xeng’s increasing ties to Burma at this time, see Pierre-Bernard LaFont, ed. and trans., Le Royaume de Jyn Khen: Chronique d’un Royaume Tay Loe du Haut Mékong (xv xx° siécles) (Paris: LHarmattan, 1998), 106-110. For Bayin-naung’s relations with Tai polities, see Victor B. Lieberman, Burmese Administrative Cycles: Anarchy and Conquest, c. 1580-1760 (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1984), 37-38. For Buddhism, see Geoff Wade, “The Spread of the Theravada Tradition in the Tai Polities of Yun-nan, 14th to 18th Centuries” (paper delivered at the Third Euro-Japanese Symposium on Southeast Asian History, University of Hamburg, 7-9 September 1998), 17-22, 24. 70. Li Fuyi, Leshi, 22. 71. Some believe that Sipsongpanna was divided in two at this time, with one Burma-oriented regime west of the Mekong and one China-oriented one to the east. Hasegawa, “Sip Song Panna dkoku (Cheli) no seiji shihai soshiki to sono tochi ryoiki,” 130-132. 72. Yongchang fuzhi (1885 edition) 9:4a—8a; 27:2a-3b; Yunnan tongzhi (1574; reprint, 1934) 5:24a-26b; 6:14a; 7:3b, 16b-18a; 16:2a; Yunnan tongzhi (1736 edition) 10:98a-104b; 16:15b—22a; Tengyue zhouzhi (1790; reprint, 1931) 1:6b; Jiang, Daizu shi, 236-254. 73. Andaya, “Political Developments,” 64. 74. Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle, 246; Wyatt and Wichienkeeo, Chiang Mai Chronicle, 116-118; Wyatt, Thailand, 99. 75. Li Fuyi, Leshi, 28.

76. Xu Xiake youji fiaozhu, vol. 2, 1052-1053, 1130-1131, 1138, 1149, 1152.

77. Lynn A. Struve, “The Southern Ming, 1644-1662,” in The Cambridge

Notes to Pages 38-43 + 237 History of China, vol. 7, The Ming Dynasty, 1368-1644, part 1, ed. Frederick W. Mote and Denis Twitchett (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 701-706. For Sha Dingzhou, see Gong Yin, Zhongguo tusi, 675-676. 78. Struve, “The Southern Ming,” 707-710. 79. Yingcong Dai, “The Rise of the Southwestern Frontier under the Qing, 1640-1800” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Washington, 1996), 87-89; Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 99:25a—26a. 80. For more details on the Qing military in Yunnan, see C. Patterson Giersch, “Yunnan’s “Native Militias” (Tulian) and the Qing Empire,” Minzu ping lun, forthcoming. Most translations follow H. S. Brunnert and V. V. Hagelstrom, Present Day Political Organization of China (Shanghai: Kelley and Walsh, 1912), 337-340. 81. Brunnert and Hagelstrom, Present Day Political Organization, 337; Luo Ergang, Luyingbing zhi (Chongqing: Shangwu yinshu guan, 1945; reprint, Beying: Zhonghua shuju, 1984), 6; Fang Guoyu, Zhongguo xinan, vol. 2, 1228-1229. 82. See Luo, Luyingbing zhi, 54-55, for a simplified chronology. 83. Yongchang fuzhi (1702 edition) 13:3b-6a; Yongchang fuzhi (1885 edition) 9:6b; Yunnan tongzhi (1736 edition) 16 shang:15b-22a; Yunnan tongzhi (1895 edition) 99:67b. 84. Gong Yin, Zhongguo tusi, 113-114.

85. Discussion of native officials and their troops comes from She Yize, Zhongguo tusi zhidu (Chongqing: Zhengzhong shuju, 1944; reprint, Shanghai: Zhengzhong shuju, 1947), 38-43, 72; Gong Yin, Zhongguo tusi, 125, 133.

86. Lieberman, Burmese Administrative Cycles, 144, 153, 199, 203-206; Wyatt, Thailand, 109, 118-120. 87. QSL, vol. 3, 573-574; Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu, 240-242; PPK, 432-435. 88. Yongchang fuzhi (1702 edition) 3:20b; vol. (juan) 24; Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quanshu edition) 16.1:15b; Jiang, Daizu shi, 360. 89, John E. Herman, “National Integration and Regional Hegemony: The Po-

litical and Cultural Dynamics of Qing State Expansion, 1650-1750” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Washington, 1993), 39-41. 90. Dai, “The Rise of the Southwestern Frontier,” 113-120. 91. Note the comments in Li Fuyi, Leshi, 49, that as of the early eighteenth century, Sipsongpanna population and productivity had not recovered from Burmese invasion. 92. Wyatt, Thailand, 122-123.

2. New Frontier Militarism 1. Philippe Forét, Mapping Chengde: The Qing Landscape Enterprise (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2000), 14-26, 36-39, 46-51, 71-79. 2. Ibid., 32.

238 + Notes to Pages 43-46 3. Madeleine Zelin, “The Yung-cheng Reign,” in The Cambridge History of China, vol. 9, Part One: The Ch’ing Dynasty to 1800, ed. Willard J. Peterson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 183-229. 4. Beatrice S. Bartlett, Monarchs and Ministers: The Grand Council in MidCh’ing China, 1723-1820 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 55-56; Zelin, “The Yung-cheng Reign,” 197. 5. John Robert Shepherd, Statecraft and Political Economy on the Taiwan Frontier, 1600-1800 (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1993), 15-18. 6. Yingcong Dai, “The Rise of the Southwestern Frontier under the Qing, 1640-1800” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Washington, 1996), 113121. As Dai makes clear, Cai was not the only Kangxi-era official punished for pursuing a hard-line policy toward southwestern indigenes. 7. Shepherd, Statecraft and Political Economy on the Taiwan Frontier, 17; Claudine Lombard-Salmon, Un exemple d’acculturation chinoise: La province du Gui Zhou au XVIIlIe siécle (Paris: Ecole francaise d’ExtrémeOrient, 1972), 213-215. 8. This is a brief summary of Yingcong Dai’s strong thesis. See Dai, “The Rise of the Southwestern Frontier,” especially 300-305 where she links gaitu guiliu to overall strategic goals. 9. The mistaken conception is conveyed by Pei Huang, Autocracy at Work: A Study of the Yung-cheng Period, 1723-1735 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1974), 299-300; Herold J. Wiens, China’s March toward the Tropics (Hamden, Conn.: Shoe String Press, 1954), 233-234. Although

mainland Chinese scholars tend to explain removal as a product of changing economic relations, there is also the sense that tusi gradually and naturally “retreated from the historical stage.” Gong Yin, Zhongguo tusi zhidu (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1992), 146-152. 10. For the term “reckless opportunists,” see John E. Herman, “Empire in the

Southwest: Early Qing Reforms to the Native Chieftain System,” The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 56, no. 1 (February 1997): 47-50; for the reversal of pro-colonization policies on Taiwan, see Shepherd, Statecraft and Political Economy on the Taiwan Frontier, 267. 11. “New men” is Kent Smith’s apt term, coined to describe the Yongzheng emperor’s favorites who were, in many cases, recruited from outside the standard feeder systems. Kent Clark Smith, “Ch’ing Policy and the Development of Southwest China: Aspects of Ortai’s Governor-Generalship, 1726-1731” (Ph.D. dissertation, Yale University, 1970). 12. Pei Huang pointed out the connections between Yongzheng-era autocratic policies throughout the empire and the court’s desires to bring native official realms under stricter imperial control. Autocracy at Work, 285-286. 13. GZDYZ, vol. 1, 360-362, YZ 1/6/19, Li Wei. 14. See Li’s memorials in GZDYZ, vol. 1, 360-366, YZ 1/6/19 and Gao’s memorial (written with Yang Mingshi) in Yongzheng chao Hanwen zhupi

Notes to Pages 46-50 + 239

YZ 2/4/19.

zouzhe huibian, vol. 2, ed. Zhongguo di yi lishi dang’an guan (Nanjing: Jiangsu guji chubanshe, 1989), 437-444. 15. See the vermilion rescript to Gao’s memorial in GZDYZ, vol. 2, 496-501,

16. GZDYZ, vol. 2, 496-501, YZ 2/4/19, Gao Qizhuo; ZPZZ 1736-5; GZDYZ, vol. 2, 710-712, YZ 2/5/28; QSL, vol. 3, 643-644; Jiang Yingliang, Daizu shi (Chengdu: Sichuan minzu chubanshe, 1983), 365-366. 17. GZDYZ, vol. 2, 190-194, YZ 1/12/20, Gao Qizhuo and Yang Mingshi;

, Weiyuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 2:5b; Yunnan tongzhi (1574 edition; reprint, 1934) 16:2a; Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quanshu edition) 11:28a29b; Smith, “Ch’ing Policy and the Development of Southwest China,” 230-231. The tael might vary in its weight, depending on the province or type of ingot. Here I use the rough approximation of 1.3 ounces per tael. 18. Shepherd, Statecraft and Political Economy on the Taiwan Frontier, 398. 19. GZDYZ, vol. 6, 371-372, YZ 4/7/26, Changdeshou. 20. Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quanshu edition) 10:70a-72b; QSL, vol. 3, 643-644; GZDYZ, vol. 6, 422-424, YZ 4/8/6, E’ertai. 21. F’ertai’s involvement in violent conquest throughout the Southwest is well known, but Gao Qizhuo also directed other bloody campaigns against indigenous peoples. See Kano Naosada, “Chika Byo no heitei o megutte,” Toyoshi kenkyu, vol. 18, no. 3 (December 1959): 85-98. 22. GZDYZ, vol. 7, 453-455, YZ 5/2/10, E’ertai; Chen Han-seng, Frontier Land Systems in Southernmost China: A Comparative Study of Agrarian Problems and Social Organization among the Pai Yi People of Yunnan and the Kamba People of Sikang (New York: International Secretariat, Institute of Pacific Relations, 1949), 13; Jiang, Daizu shi, 367-368; Smith, “Ch’ing Policy and the Development of Southwest China,” 232-234. 23. GZDYZ, vol. 7, 453-455, YZ 5/2/10, E’ertai. 24. Ibid.; GZDYZ, vol. 7, 598-602, YZ 5/3/12, E’ertai. 25. See E’ertai’s report and the emperor’s vermilion rescript in GZDYZ, vol. 7, 453-455, YZ 5/2/10. 26. GZDYZ, vol. 7, 598-602, YZ 5/3/12, E’ertai; QSL, vol. 3, 645-646. 27. For E’ertai’s reports, see GZDYZ, vol. 7, 453-455, 598-602, 672-675,

840-842, 851-853. For the emperor’s acceptance, see vermilion rescript in GZDYZ, vol. 7, 598-602 and Smith’s comments in “Ch’ing Policy and the

Development of Southwest China,” 236-237. For Liu’s posthumous award, see Yunnan tongzhi (1736 edition) 19:62a-b. 28. E’ertai held a juren degree, which was actually a higher degree than other “new men” who became imperial favorites. See Smith, “Ch’ing Policy and the Development of Southwest China,” 15-16; Arthur W. Hummel, ed., Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing Period, 1644-1912, vol. 1 (Washington, D.C.: United States Government Printing Office, 1943), 601-603. 29. John E. Herman, “National Integration and Regional Hegemony: The Po-

litical and Cultural Dynamics of Qing State Expansion, 1650-1750”

240 - Notes to Pages 51-55 (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Washington, 1993), 10-11; Smith, “Ch’ing Policy and the Development of Southwest China,” 232. 30. For info on Zhongdian as a hedge, see QSL, vol. 1, 239. 31. GZDYZ, vol. 6, 422-424, YZ 4/8/6, E’ertai; Deliberation memorial (yifu zouzhe) of YZ 4/12/21, cited in QSL, vol. 3, 581-582.

32. PPK, 435-437; Dao Shuren, trans., “Sishisidai Zhaopianling shixi,” in Cheli xuanweishi shixi jijie, ed. Dao Shuren, Dao Yongming, and Kang Lang Zhuang (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1989), 253-254; Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu (Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe, 1993), 246. 33. PPK, 435-437; see also Dao Guanggiang and Zhu Depu, “Zhao Mengzhe suoxia dijie ji jiejue dijie jiufen jiyao (sanpian),” in Daizu shebui lishi diaocha (Xishuangbanna zhi er) (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1982), 106. For doubts about this, see Dao Yongming, “Cheli xuanweishi shixi jijie,” in Cheli xuanweishi shixi jijie, 143. 34. David K. Wyatt, Thailand: A Short History (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1982), 123. For information on holymen and rebellions, see Barbara Watson Andaya, “Political Developments between the Sixteenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” in The Cambridge History of Southeast Asia,

vol. 1, part 2, ed. Nicholas Tarling (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 78. 35. GZDYZ, vol. 11, 245-249, YZ 6/9/3, E’ertai. 36. Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 70:1b-3a; Wang Yizhi, “Yunnan Pu’er cha ji qi zai shijie chashi shang de diwei,” in Yunnan lishi wenbua xintan (Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe, 1993), 320, 328-329. 37. Wang Yizhi, “Yunnan Pu’er cha,” 328-329. 38. Smith, “Ch’ing Policy and the Development of Southwest China,” 241; Pwer fuzhigao (1902 edition) 28:8a. 39. GZDYZ, vol. 9, 286-289, YZ 5/11/11, E’ertai. 40. For rumors and reports of contacts with “Mangguo” see GZDYZ, vol. 9,

580-585, YZ 6/1/8, E’ertai; GZDYZ, vol. 10, 607-610, YZ 6/6/12, F’ertai. For the admission of communications with Zhenyuan, see GZDYZ, vol. 11, 245-249, YZ 6/9/3, E’ertai. 41. GZDYZ, vol. 9, 286-289, YZ 5/11/11, E’ertai; GZDYZ, vol. 11, 245249, YZ 6/9/3, E’ertai. 42. GZDYZ, vol. 9, 286-289, YZ 5/11/11, E’ertai; GZDYZ, vol. 9, 580-585, YZ 6/1/8, E’ertai. 43. GZDYZ, vol. 9, 795-797, YZ 6/2/10, E’ertai. 44. Ibid.; GZDYZ, vol. 9, 863-866, YZ 6/2/22, Hao Yulin; GZDYZ, vol. 10, 173-175, YZ 6/3/28, E’ertai; GZDYZ, vol. 10, 607-610, YZ 6/6/12, E’ertai. 45. GZDYZ, vol. 11, 245-249, YZ 6/9/3, E’ertai; GZDYZ, vol. 9, 286-289, YZ 5/11/11, E’ertai. 46. GZDYZ, vol. 10, 173-175, YZ 6/3/28, E’ertai; GZDYZ, vol. 10, 607610, YZ 6/6/12, E’ertai; Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 100:32a. 47. Dai, “The Rise of the Southwestern Frontier,” 248-325. 48. GZDYZ, vol. 10, 607-610, YZ 6/6/12, E’ertai.

Notes to Pages 56-58 + 241 49. According to E’ertai, the annual income of approximately 20,000 taels (approximately 26,000 ounces) was used for military pay and rations; see GZDYZ, vol. 7, 598-602, YZ 5/3/12. 50. Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quanshu edition) 11:31a—32b; Da Oing huidian shili (Jiaqing chao), in Jindai Zhongguo shiliao congkan sanbian, vols.

641-700, ed. Shen Yunlong (reprint, Taibei: Wenhai chubanshe, 19911992) 181:10a. 51. E’ertai planned for the tea industry to pay three gian of silver per tuo of tea sold (it is not clear how large or heavy a tuo was). If E’ertai was correct and the tea hills produced 6,000—7,000 tuo annually, then the government could earn up to 2,100 taels. Information from an E’ertai routine memorial cited in Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 100:32a—34b. 52. Wang Yizhi, “Yunnan Pu’er cha,” 318; Chen Han-seng, Frontier Land Systems, 12.

53. The annual salaries would have been approximately 53,494 taels, based on salaries quoted in the Kangxi, Qianlong, and Jiaqing editions of the Da

Oing huidian and cited in Luo Ergang, Luyingbing zhi (Chongqing: Shangwu yinshu guan, 1945; reprint, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1984), 341-345. This does not take into account provisions for troops and horses, pay raises for troops in battle, or other common expenses. 54. GZDYZ, vol. 8, 663-666, YZ 5/8/10, E’ertai; QSL, vol. 4, 11. 55. Mainland scholar Zhu Depu and Taiwan anthropologist Shih-Chung Hsieh claim that E’ertai’s reforms ultimately had little effect on traditional Tai authority. The Sipsongpanna ruler, Zhu argues, wielded despotic powers over his subjects both before and after 1729, the date when Pu’er Prefecture was Officially established. Hsieh suggests that Qing power expanded in

name but not in fact. Chen Han-seng and Hasegawa Kiyoshi provide a more compelling analysis: East of the Mekong, the Tai suffered as land tenure and political leadership reverted to Qing control, whereas in the west, there was little change. Chen Han-seng, Frontier Land Systems, 11, _ 13; Hasegawa Kiyoshi, “Sip Song Panna 6koku (Cheli) no seiji shihai soshiki to sono tochi rydiki—Unnan Daizoku kenkyi no ikkan toshite,” Tonan Ajia: Rekishi to bunka, no. 11 (1982): 132-134; Shih-Chung Hsieh, “Ethnic-Political Adaptation and Ethnic Change of the Sipsong Panna Dai:

An Ethnohistorical Analysis” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Wash-

, ington, 1989), 141-142; Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu, 83, 390. 56. PPK, 436; Li Fuyi, trans., Leshi (Kunming: Guoli Yunnan daxue Xinan wenhua yanjiu shi, 1947), 48. 57. YZ 12/5/8 report by Yinjishan in Ming Qing dang’an, vol. 59, ed. Zhang Weiren (Taibei: Zhongyang yanjiu yuan lishi yuyan yanjiusuo, 1987), doc. #B33837.

58. Li Fuyi, Leshi, 48-49; Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu, 247-248. For more on Sipsongpanna’s territorial administration and its relationship with Burma and China, see Hasegawa, “Sip Song Panna 6koku (Cheli) no seiji shihai soshiki to sono tochi ryoiki,” 125-141.

242 + Notes to Pages 58-65 59. Pu’er fuzhigao (1902 edition) 28:9a; Routine memorial (tiben) of YZ 13, Yinjishan, cited in Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quanshu edition) 29.6:29b54a; Dao Yongming, “Cheli,” 151. 60. GZDYZ, vol. 20, 171-182, YZ 10/6/28, Gao Qizhuo; GZDYZ, vol. 20, 283-284, YZ 10/7/18, Zhang Yunsui. 61. GZDYZ, vol. 20, 171-182, YZ 10/6/28, Gao Qizhuo. 62. GZDYZ, vol. 20, 98-108, YZ 10/6/16, Gao Qizhuo. 63. GZDYZ, vol. 20, 258-273, YZ 10/7/18, Gao Qizhuo. 64. Charles Patterson Giersch, Jr., “Qing China’s Reluctant Subjects: Indigenous Communities and Empire along the Yunnan Frontier” (Ph.D. dissertation, Yale University, 1998), 98-99. 65. Tau Siimuennaa’s domain, Muong Tsae, provided 400 of the 690 soldiers in the assault. GZDYZ, vol. 20, 669-671, YZ 10/10/21, Zhang Yunsui. 66. Giersch, “Qing China’s Reluctant Subjects,” 101-102. 67. Cai Chenggui report, cited in GZDYZ, vol. 21, 304-308, YZ 11/3/24, Zhang Yunsui. For a comparison to the ceremony with Burma, see Li Fuyi, Leshi, 22. 68. For use of native troops, see GZDYZ, vol. 22, 146-149, YZ 11/9/20, Cai Chenggui.

69. Gao Xiang, “Yinjishan shulun,” Oingshi yanjiu, vol. 17, no. 1 (1995): 2731. See also the brief biography in Hummel, Eminent Chinese, vol. 2, 920921.

70. GZDYZ, vol. 21, 174-177, YZ 11/2/26, Cai Chenggui; vol. 22, 146-149, YZ 11/9/20, Cai Chenggui. 71. GZDYZ, vol. 22, 385-387, YZ 11/11/29, Yinjishan. 72. GZDYZ, vol. 23, 819-820, YZ 12/11/27, Yinjishan. 73. For Yinjishan’s plan and E’ertai’s doubts, see Yinjishan’s routine memorial cited in Yunnan tongzhi (1736 edition) 29.6:29b-54a; for the Board of War’s approval see QSL, vol. 3, 24-25. 74. Copy of Yinjishan’s 1725 routine memorial, cited in Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quanshu edition) 29.6:29b-54a; Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 72:52b—-53a.

75. ZPZZ 889-1, QL 1/7/26, Yang Guohua.

3. Ambiguity of the “Barbarian” 1. For a superb critique of earlier approaches to the Qing empire, see James A. Millward, Beyond the Pass: Economy, Ethnicity, and Empire in Qing Central Asia, 1759-1864 (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1998), 5-10. For an introduction to excellent new work on the Qing, see The International History Review’s series of articles on “Comparing Empires: Manchu Colonialism,” vol. 20, no. 2 (June 1998): 253-504. 2. Mary Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation (London: Routledge, 1992), 30-31. 3. John G. Burke, “The Wild Man’s Pedigree,” in The Wild Man Within, ed.

Notes to Pages 66-69 + 243 Edward Dudley and Maximillian E. Novak (Pittsburgh: University of Pitts-

burgh Press, 1972), 266-267, cited in Pratt, Imperial Eyes, 32-33. For discussions of von Linné, see Pratt, Imperial Eyes, 30-33; Robert F. Berkhofer, Jr., The White Man’s Indian: Images of the American Indian from Columbus to the Present (New York: Knopf, 1978), 37-42. 4. Berkhofer, The White Man’s Indian, 114. 5. Emma Jinhua Teng, Taiwan’s Imagined Geography: Chinese Colonial Travel Writing and Pictures, 1683-1895 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Asia Center, 2004), chap. 4. 6. Pamela Kyle Crossley, A Translucent Mirror: History and Identity in Qing Imperial Ideology (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 246-— 257. 7. For information on this subject, see the following works. Crossley, A Translucent Mirror, 251; Millward, Beyond the Pass, 36-38; Teng, Taiwan’s Imagined Geography, chap. 4; Frank Dik6tter, The Discourse on Race in Modern China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1992), 25-30.

8. Teng, Taiwan’s Imagined Geography, chap. 4. ,

9. John E. Herman, “Empire in the Southwest: Early Qing Reforms to the Native Chieftain System,” The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 56, no. 1 (February 1997): 47, 70; QSL, vol. 3, 645-646. 10. For the culture of travel, see Teng, Taiwan’s Imagined Geography, 17-21; Andrea Riemenschnitter, “Traveler’s Vocation: Xu Xiake and His Excursion to the Southwestern Frontier,” in Political Frontiers, Ethnic Boundaries, and Human Geographies in Chinese History, ed. Nicola Di Cosmo and Don J.

Wyatt (London: Routledge Curzon, 2003), 292-295, 299-302. For the citation and reproduction of written accounts, see Teng, Taiwan’s Imagined Geography, 48-49 and John E. Herman, “The Cant of Conquest: Tusi Offices and China’s Political Incorporation of the Southwest Frontier,” in Empire at the Margins: Culture, Ethnicity and Frontier in Early Modern China, ed. Pamela Crossley, Donald Sutton, and Helen Siu (Berkeley: Uni-

versity of California Press, forthcoming). | 11. For a brief introduction to Guizhou gazetteers, see Laura Hostetler, Oing Colonial Enterprise: Ethnography and Cartography in Early Modern China (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), 128-132. 12. The information on Miao Albums is drawn from Hostetler, Oing Colonial Enterprise, chaps. 6 and 7. 13. Ibid., 41-49. 14. Laura Hostetler has argued empiricism and direct observation were so important by the eighteenth century that Chinese ethnography witnessed an epistemological transformation comparable to the rise of natural science in Europe; older approaches to portraying barbarians were replaced by an emphasis on precision, objectivity, and direct observation. Ibid., 1, 5, 81, 127128. 15. Teng, Taiwan’s Imagined Geography, 48-49.

16. Benjamin A. Elman, From Philosophy to Philology: Intellectual and Social

244 + Notes to Pages 69-75 Aspects of Change in Late Imperial China (Cambridge, Mass.: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University, 1984), 3, 5, 55, 62-64, 83-84. 17. Teng, Taiwan’s Imagined Geography, 48-49; Herman, “Cant of Conquest.” 18. Teng, Taiwan’s Imagined Geography, chaps. 1, 4, and 6. For the observation that drawings of indigenous peoples resembled drawings of ghosts, see Robert P. Weller, “Identity and Social Change in Taiwanese Religion,” in Taiwan: A New History, ed. Murray A. Rubenstein (Armonk, N.Y.: M. E. Sharpe, 1999), 348. 19. Berkhofer, The White Man’s Indian, 25-26. 20. Norma Diamond, “Defining the Miao: Ming, Qing, and Contemporary Views,” in Cultural Encounters on China’s Ethnic Frontiers, ed. Stevan Harrell (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1995), 103. 21. For the importance of rites, see James L. Watson, “The Renegotiation of Chinese Cultural Identity in the Post-Mao Era,” in Perspectives on Modern China: Four Anniversaries, ed. Kenneth Lieberthal (Armonk, N.Y.: M. E. Sharpe, 1991), 364-386. 22. Dikotter, The Discourse of Race in Modern China, 6, 8.

23. John E. Herman, “Amid the Clouds and Mist: China’s Conquest of a Southern Kingdom, 1250-1750,” unpublished manuscript, 340-341. 24. Yunnan tongzhi (1574; reprint, 1934) 5:60a—-b. 25. Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quanshu edition) 1:3b-4a; 24:1a—b, 9b-10a. 26. Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 172:1a—b.

27. Ibid., vols. (juan) 131-136. 28. Yunnan tongzhi (1574 edition; reprint, 1934) vol. (juan) 16. 29. Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quanshu edition) vol. (juan) 24. 30. Yunnan tongzhi (1574 edition; reprint, 1934) 16:4a. 31. See Wade’s wonderful introduction and translation: Geoff Wade, “The Baiyi zhuan: A Chinese Account of a Tai Society in the 14th Century” (paper presented at the 14th Conference of the International Association of Historians of Asia, Chulalongkorn University, Bangkok, 20-24 May 1996). For the texts in the original language, see Dao Yongming, ed., Zhongguo Daizu shiliao jiyao (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1989), 51-66. 32. It was included in the 1455 Yunnan tujing zhishu. 33. Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quanshu edition) 24:41b—43a. 34. Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 182:1a—b. For a detailed discussion of the Imperial Illustrations of Tributaries, see Hostetler, Qing Colonial Enterprise, 41-49. The edition referred to here is attributed to Fuheng, preface

date is 1777, publication date 1790. It is published in Quinding siku quanshu, vol. 594 (Taibei: Shangwu yishuguan, 1983). 35. Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 183:5a—13a. 36. Huang Qing zhigong tu 7:14a—-15b. 37. Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 183:5a—13a. 38. Hostetler, Qing Colonial Enterprise, 47-49. 39. Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 183:15a-16a; Yun zhouzhi (Kangxi edition), vol. (juan) 5 (no pagination).

Notes to Pages 75-83 + 245 40. Emma Jinhua Teng, “An Island of Women: The Discourse of Gender in Qing Travel Writing about Taiwan,” The International History Review, vol. 20, no. 2 (June 1998): 353-370; Diamond, “Defining the Miao.” The European studies apparently begin with Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Pan-

theon Books, 1978; reprint, New York: Vintage Books, 1979), although Berkhofer’s The. White Man’s Indian is contemporary to Said and provides

a thorough examination of the tropes of gender, sexuality, and nudity in European depictions of the “Indian.” 41. Yun zhouzhi (Kangxi edition), vol. (juan) 5. 42. The earliest reference to Baiyi/Tai bathing practices ve found is from the last quarter of the sixteenth century in the Yun zhouzhi. Dru Gladney documents Han males and their ongoing fascination and titillation about nude bathing by Tai women in “Representing Nationality in China: Refiguring Majority/Minority Identities,” The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 53, no. 1 (February 1994): 92-123. 43. Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 183:5a, 15a. 44, Said, Orientalism, 190. 45. Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 184:31a-b. 46. Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quanshu edition) 24:37b—38a; Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 183:23a—25a; 185:9a—10a.

47. Cited in ZPZZ 1685-1, QL 7/5/24, Zhang Yunsui. 48. Yunnan tongzhi (1736 edition) 24:33b. 49. GZDYZ, vol. 9, 286-289, YZ 5/11/11, E’ertai; GZDYZ, vol. 20, 165-171, YZ 10/6/28, Zhang Yunsui; Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 183:3Sa39b. 50. Sylvie Pasquet has detailed the relations between the Kawa of the “Gourd Kingdom” and the Qing empire, including Zhang’s ethnographic descriptions. Sylvie Pasquet, “Entre Chine et Birmanie: Un mineur-diplomate au

royaume de Hulu, 1743-1752 (premiére partie),” Etude chinoises, vol. 8,

| no. 1 (printemps 1989): 41-68; “Entre Chine et Birmanie: Un mineurdiplomate au royaume de Hulu, 1743-1752 (deuxiéme partie),” Etude chinoises, vol. 8, no. 2 (automne 1989): 69-98. 51. Compare ZPZZ 1733-1, QL 11/2/20, Zhang Yunsui; Yunnan tongzhi (1736 edition) 24:38a. 52. Shih-Chung Hsieh, “On the Dynamics of the Tai/Dai-Lue Ethnicity: An Ethnohistorical Analysis,” in Cultural Encounters on China’s Ethnic Frontiers, ed. Stevan Harrell (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1995), 308-310. 53. For the terms tsau lum faa and tsau faa vawng, see Gao Lishi, trans., “Xishuangbanna Zhaopianling shixi yizhu,” Minzu xuebao, no. 2 (1982): 83; Li Fuyi, trans., Leshi (Kunming: Guoli Yunnan daxue Xinan wenhua yanjiu shi, 1947), 1, appendix p. 14; Gao Lishi, trans., “Xishuangbanna Zhaopianling sishisishi shimo,” in Xishuangbanna Daizu de lishi yu wenhua (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1992), 133, 136; Sao Saimon Man-

grai, ed. and trans., The Padaeng Chronicle and the Jengtung State Chronicle Translated (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Center for

246 - Notes to Pages 83-86 South and Southeast Asian Studies, 1981), 199, 237 (hereafter cited as Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle); J. George Scott and J. P. Hardiman, Gazetteer of Upper Burma and the Shan States, part 1, vol. 1 (Rangoon: Superintendent, Government Printing, Burma, 1900; reprint, New York: AMS Press, 1983), 229. 54. Thomas John Hudak, ed., William J. Gedney’s The Lue Language: Glossary,

Texts, Translations (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Center for South and Southeast Asian Studies, 1996), 105, 198; David K. Wyatt, Thailand: A Short History (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1982), 7; Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle, 6. 55. Gao, “Xishuangbanna Zhaopianling sishisishi shimo,” 126; Dao Shuren, “Sishisidai Zhaopianling shixi,” in Cheli xuanweishi shixi fijie, ed. Dao Shuren, Dao Yongming, and Kang Lang Zhuang (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1989), 251-253. 56. The examples of this are numerous, but for Muong Haw, see PPK, 423; for Haw, see PPK, 437. 57. Compare Dao Shuren, “Sishisidai,” 244-250, 252, 253-254 to the original Tai Lue language he is translating, PPK 423, 431-432, 437. See Li Fuyi, who glosses Muong Haw (Meeng Ho) as “Tianchao” in Leshi, appendix p. 2. 58. PPK, 423, 438; Li Fuyi, Leshi, 21, appendix p. 20; Li Fuyi, trans., “Daile

wen Cheli xuanwei shixi (Hanwen duizhao),” in Cheli xuanwei shixi kaoding (Kunming: Guoli Yunnan daxue Xinan wenhua yanjiushi, 1947), 59; Gao, “Xishuangbanna Zhaopianling sishisishi shimo,” 130-131; Jinggu tusi shixi, comp. Zhan Da Hun Hong and Dao Yongming, trans. Xue Xian and Zhou Fengxiang (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1990), 33; Scott and Hardiman, Gazetteer of Upper Burma, 239. See Hudak, William J. Gedney’s The Lue Language, 557-558 for examples of Chinese, Thai, and Burmese place names—an entire political world—put in Sipsongpanna Tai form. 59. Sipsongpanna chronicles frequently use this title, as do Kengtung chronicles.

Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle, 265, 268, 277. 60. Ibid., 237, 265. 61. For one example of the use of the title as applied to the founder, see Li Fuyi, Cheli xuanwei shixi, 283. Dao Shuren explains that it is an anachronism. See Dao Shuren, trans., “Bazhen ji gi houdai de lishi sanji,” in Daizu shehui lishi diaocha (Xishuangbanna zhi er) (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1982), 97. 62. Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu (Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe, 1993), 183. 63. Based on Li Fuyi, Leshi, 5-6 and PPK, 389-391. Li romanizes Tsau Xan Muong as Chao Ham Meeng. 64. Li Fuyi, Leshi, 11; Dao Shuren, “Sishisidai,” 233. For a Tai version of these events, see Si xa but sam than, parts of which have been published in Gao, “Xishuangbanna Zhaopianling shixi yizhu,” especially 85. 65. Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle, 230-233.

Notes to Pages 86-96 + 247 66. Ibid., 233-234. 67. Li Fuyi, Leshi, 19. 68. The passage can be found in Li Fuyi, Leshi, 19-27 and Dao Shuren, “Shishisidai,” 244-250. See also PPK, 423. 69. Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu, 130-137. 70. In Burmese court language, the Tai are frequently referred to as “our sons” or “our royal nephews.” Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle, 204-205.

71. Zhang removed at least one indigenous ruler whom he thought could be replaced by Qing imperial officials and soldiers. QSL, vol. 3, 649-651. 72. ZPZZ 1746-2, QL 2/11/16, Zhang Yunsui. 73. Ibid. For the importance of manpower to the Tai polities as well as to Siam and Burma, see Wyatt, Thailand, 69, 100, 128, 132. When Burma invaded Sipsongpanna in the late sixteenth century and in the 1620s, they forcibly moved thousands of Tai from their homes to populate areas closer to Burma. See Li Fuyi, Leshi, 28. 74. Qing Fu cited in a deliberation memorial by the Board of War, in QSL, vol. 3, 586. 75. ZPZZ 889-2, QL 5/9/7, Qing Fu and vermillion rescript.

76. ZPZZ 1685-1, QL 7/5/24, Zhang Yunsui. 77. Ibid. 78. For the Grand Council’s deliberation memorial and the emperor’s endorsement, see ZPZZ 1685-2, no date, E’ertai et al.; Junjichu yifu dang QL 7, months 6-12, pp. 129-138. 79. ZPZZ 1737-4, QL 11/intercalary 3rd month/8, Zhang Yunsui. 80. The original chronicle was narrated by aristocrat Dao Paihan and recorded by Kang Lang Gang Yun. It was published as Menglian xuanfushi, comp.

Dao Paihan and Kang Lang Gang Yun trans. and annotated by Dao Yongming and Dao Jianmin (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1986). 81. Yongchang fuzhi (1702 edition), 24:9a. 82. GZDYZ, vol. 16, 254, YZ 8/4/20, E’ertai. 83. Menglian xuanfushi, 9.

84. Shelly Errington, Meaning and Power in a Southeast Asian Realm | (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1989), 94-95. 85. Gao, “Xishuangbanna Zhaopianling sishisishi shimo,” 152-153. 86. Edict of YZ 8/9/26, cited in QSL, vol. 3, 583. See also Vermillion rescript to GZDYZ, vol. 16, 254, YZ 8/4/20, E’ertai. 87. Menglian xuanfushi, 10. 88. ZPZZ 1736-1, QL 3/2/12, Zhang Yunsui; Menglian xuanfushi, 10-11. 89. Menglian xuanfushi, 12. 90. ZPZZ 1736-1, QL 3/2/12, Zhang Yunsui. 91. Ibid. 92. Menglian xuanfushi, 12-14. 93. ZPZZ 1735-2, QL 9/4/2, Zhang Yunsui. 94. ZPZZ 1735-3, QL 9/9/28, Zhang Yunsui; for more information on Miao law as well as Qing accommodations of indigenous law, see Donald S.

248 + Notes to Pages 97-100 Sutton, “Violence and Ethnicity on a Qing Colonial Frontier: Customary and Statutory Law in the Eighteenth-Century Miao Pale,” Modern Asian Studies, vol. 37, no. 1 (2003): 41-80.

4. Asian Empires 1. Yingcong Dai, “The Rise of the Southwestern Frontier under the Qing, 1640-1800” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Washington, 1996), 346347, 362-364; Da Qing Gaozong chun (Qianlong) huangdi shilu (reprint, Taibei: Hualian chubanshe, 1964) 422:6a. 2. Joanna Waley-Cohen, “Commemorating War in Eighteenth-Century China,” Modern Asian Studies, vol. 30, no. 4 (1996): 869-899. 3. On the general ineffectiveness of an aggressive military approach to rela-

1994).

tions with Southeast Asia, see Suzuki Chusei, “Shin-Biruma kankei—senso

to wahei, 1766-1790,” Tonan Ajia: Rekishi to bunka, no. 10 (1981): 3. 4. David K. Wyatt, Thailand: A Short History (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1982), 194; Thongchai Winichakul, Siam Mapped: A History

of the Geo-Body of a Nation (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 5. William J. Koenig, The Burmese Polity, 1752-1819: Politics, Administration, and Social Organization in the Early Kon-baung Period (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Center for South and Southeast Asian Studies, 1990), 14, 16; Wyatt, Thailand, 133-137; Zhuang Jifa, Oing Gaozong shi quan wugong yanjiu (Taibei: Gugong congkan, 1982; reprint, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1987), 269-330. 6. David K. Wyatt and Arronrut Wichienkeeo, trans., The Chiang Mai Chronicle (Chiang Mai: Silkworm Books, 1995), 132-133; Sao Saimon Mangrai, ed. and trans., The Padaeng Chronicle and the Jengtung State Chronicle

Translated (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Center for South and . Southeast Asian Studies, 1981), 254 (hereafter cited as Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle); David K. Wyatt, ed. and trans., The Nan Chronicle (Ithaca, N.Y.: Southeast Asia Program, Cornell University, 1994), 83-84. 7. ZPZZ 104-1, QL 23/8/21, Aibida; ZPZZ 104-2, QL 24/4/24, Aibida.

8. ZPZZ 106-1, QL 27/7/26, Wudashan; Menglian xuanfushi, comp. Dao Paihan and Kang Lang Gang Yun, trans. and annotated by Dao Yongming and Dao Jianmin (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1986), 15-17. See also “Hsenwi Chronicles,” in J. George Scott and J. P. Hardiman, Gazetteer of Upper Burma and the Shan States, part 1, vol. 1 (Rangoon: Superintendent, Government Printing, Burma, 1900; reprint, New York: AMS Press, 1983), 250, and Zhuang, Oing Gaozong, 282. 9. GZDQL, vol. 17, 113-115, QL 28/3/3, Wudashan and Liu Zao. See also

GZDQL, vol. 16, 546-548, QL 28/1/9, Wudashan et al.; GZDQL, vol. 17, 117-118, QL 28/3/3, Wudashan. 10. Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle, 255; Zhuang, Oing Gaozong, 283. 11. GZDQL, vol. 17, 113-115, QL 28/3/3, Wudashan and Liu Zao; GZDQL,

Notes to Pages 100-103 + 249 vol. 17, 117-118, QL 28/3/3, Wudashan; ZPZZ 889-3, QL 26/11/14,

Wudashan. .

12. ZPZZ 104-1, QL 23/8/21, Aibida; GZDQL, vol. 26, 843-844, QL 30/12/ 9, Liu Zao; GZDQL, vol. 26, 838-839, QL 30/12/9, Liu Zao and Chang Jun. 13. Although Burmese sources suggest that there was conflict over the caravan trade, Qing sources and other scholars present the overlapping claims of suzerainty as the major causes of conflict. H. Burney, “Some Account of the Wars between Burmah and China,” Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, vol. 6, no. 62 (February 1837): 128-129; GZDQL, vol. 17, 113115, QL 28/3/3, Wudashan and Liu Zao; Suzuki, “Shin-Biruma kankei,” 4-5, 14. Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle, 255; Li Fuyi, trans., Leshi (Kunming: Guoli Yunnan daxue Xinan wenhua yanjiu shi, 1947), 53; GZDQL, vol. 20, 594-597, QL 29/2/19, Wudashan. 15. ZPZZ 117-4, QL 31/3/19, Yang Yingju; ZPZZ 881-1, QL 31/3/22, Yang Yingju. The Qing referred to their Kengtung ally as Zhao Bing, also known as Prince Bin. See Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle, 255-256. 16. ZPZZ 117-4, QL 31/3/19, Yang Yingju; ZPZZ 881-1, QL 31/3/22, Yang Yingju; Mian dang QL 32 shang, 21-24, QL 32/1/26, Fu, Yin, Liu to Yang Yingju. 17. Scott and Hardiman, Gazetteer of Upper Burma, 251; Arthur W. Hummel,

ed., Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing Period, 1644-1912, vol. 1 (Washington, D.C.: United States Government Printing Office, 1943), 578; Zhuang, Oing Gaozong, 292-296. 18. Mian dang QL 32 shang, 171-173, QL 32/4/17, Fuheng; Court letter, copied in Mian dang QL 32 xia, 147-149, QL 32/1/26, Fu et al. to Mingrui.

19. Richard L. K. Jung, “The Sino-Burmese War 1766-1770: War and Peace Under the Tributary System,” Papers on China, no. 24 (1971): 87-88;

Zhuang, Oing Gaozong, 298-305; G. E. Harvey, History of Burma from : the Earliest Times to 10 March 1824 (London: Longmans, Green, 1925), 254-256. 20. Jung, “The Sino-Burmese War 1766-1770,” 88-89; Zhuang, Oing Gao-

zong, 306-314; Harvey, History of Burma, 254-256; Suzuki, “ShinBiruma kankei,” 3, 6-7. 21. Koenig, The Burmese Polity, 17-18; Jung, “The Sino-Burmese War 17661770,” 90-92. An excerpt of Fuheng’s memorial is in QSL, vol. 5, 749. See Yingcong Dai’s recent discussion of the controversy, “A Disguised De-

feat: The Myanmar Campaign of the Qing Dynasty,” Modern Asian Studies, vol. 38, no. 1 (2004): 167-169. 22. Dai, “The Rise of the Southwestern Frontier,” 394; Zhuang, Oing Gaozong, 323-324; Da Qing Gaozong chun (Qianlong) huangdi shilu 836: 24a—b, 848:5b-6a.

23. Roger Greatrex finds that the two Jinchuan campaigns cost a total of 61

250 + Notes to Pages 103-107 million taels; “A Brief Introduction to the First Jinchuan War (17471749),” in Tibetan Studies, Proceedings of the 6th Seminar of the International Association for Tibetan Studies, 1992, vol. 1, ed. Per Kvaerne (Oslo: The Institute for Comparative Research in Human Culture, 1994), 247. Hummel believes the Second Jinchuan campaign cost 70 million taels; Eminent Chinese, vol. 1, 8. 24. Sylvie Pasquet, L’évolution du systéme postal: La province chinoise du Yunnan a lépoque Oing (1644-1911) (Paris: Collége de France, Institut des hautes études chinoises, 1986), 189, 204-205. 25. Testimony of He Shishun, a soldier from Chuxiong, Yunnan held in Burma from 1766-1768. Mian dang QL 34 shang, 87-90. 26. Zhuang, Oing Gaozong, 323. 27. Waley-Cohen, “Commemorating War,” 809. 28. Koenig, The Burmese Polity, 19-21. 29. ZPZZ 117-4, QL 31/3/19, Yang Yingju; ZPZZ 881-1, QL 31/3/22, Yang Yingju; Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle, 255-256. 30. Menglian xuanfushi, 20; Li Fuyi, Leshi, 53-54. 31. JJCLF #012518. 32. ZPZZ 150-1, QL 34/4/15, Fuheng; ZPZZ 150-2, QL 34/4/21, Fuheng; ZPZZ 150-3, QL 34/5/18, Fuheng et al. 33. ZPZZ 150-2, QL 34/4/21, Fuheng. 34. Testimony of Hanchaoji, in Mian dang QL 33 xia, 63-68; ZPZZ 142-1, QL 35/1/19, Fuheng; Wang Chang, Zheng Mian ji lue, in Cong shu ji cheng xu bian, vol. 25 (Reprint, Shanghai: Shanghai shuju, 1994) 1:2a.

35. ZPZZ 1733-2, QL 11/5/9, Zhang Yunsui; GZDQL, vol. 29, 687, QL 33/2/16, E’ning; ZPZZ 135-2, QL 34/4/7, author unknown (damaged document); ZPZZ 144-7, QL 36/2/12, Agui and Zhangbao. 36. Dao Shuren, trans., “Sishisidai Zhaopianling shixi,” in Cheli xuanweishi

shixi jijie, ed. Dao Shuren, Dao Yongming, and Kang Lang Zhuang (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1989), 254-255; Li Fuyi, Leshi, 3033; Dao Yongming, “Cheli xuanweishi shixi jijie,” in Cheli xuanweishi shixi jijie, 149-150; Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu (Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe, 1993), 254-255.

37. QSL, vol. 5, 754; Zhao Paya Tanmatie Qiazhangjia, “Hei Meng Gu Meng—Mengmao gudai zhuwang shi,” trans. Gong Suzheng, in Mengguo zhanbi ji Mengmao gudai zhuwang shi (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1988), 162. 38. Bingke tiben Fangwu lei, QL 35/9/3, Zhangbao; Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 100:10b-12a, 14a-16b. Tuside increased Longling’s quota to 1,500 (from 600) and Tengyue’s to 3,000 (from 1,500). ZPZZ Junwu lei 9-11, QL 40/5/10, Tuside. 39. Luo Ergang, Luyingbing zhi (Chongqing: Shangwu yinshu guan, 1945; reprint, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1984), 65-67. 40. ZPZZ Junwu lei 11-12, QL 36/7/29, Zhangbao. 41. GZDQL, vol. 32, 42-47, QL 33/9/29, Aligun and Mingde; ZPZZ 112-9,

Notes to Pages 107-112 + 251 QL 31/7/4, Yang Yingju. Even long after the Burma campaigns, Tai leaders still sent people into Burma to bring back news for the Qing. See GZDQL, vol. 52, 56-57, QL 47/6/6, Fugang and Liu Bingtian.

42. GZDQL, vol. 30, 531-532, QL35/5/3, Aligun et al.; Grand Council memorial dated QL 33/9/7, cited in Mian dang, QL 33 xia, 121-125. 43. ZPZZ 141-21; ZPZZ 144-4, QL 35/6/13, Agui and Zhangbao. 44, QSL, vol. 5, 802-805; QSL, vol. 5, 815-816; QSL, vol. 4, 786; JJCLF #021048, QL 43/9/21, Li Shiyao; QSL, vol. 4, 784-785. 45. GZDQL, vol. 34, 124-128, QL 38/12/28, Zhangbao and Li Hu; ZPZZ 159, QL 55/7/25, Fugang. 46. For Burmese sources on the Gengma saw-bwa’s son arriving in Amarapura, see Than Tun, ed., The Royal Orders of Burma, A.D. 1598-1885, part 4, A.D. 1782-1787 (Kyoto: Center for Southwest Asian Studies, Kyoto University, 1986), 144-145; Burney, “Some Account of the Wars between Burmah and China,” 407-413. For a Qing document on the Burmese envoys, see QSL, vol. 5, 819-820. For assessments of Tai rulers roles in the trickery, see Suzuki, “Shin-Biruma kankei,” 10-12; Koenig, The Burmese Polity, 18.

47. ZPZZ 882-7, QL 55/4/15, Fugang; ZPZZ 882-8, QL 55/7/25, Fugang. 48. ZPZZ 142-1, QL 35/1/19, Fuheng et al.; ZPZZ Junwu lei 10-13, QL 35/3/

30, Zhangbao; GZDQL, vol. 41, 505-506, QL 41/12/21, Li Shiyao;

GZDAQL, vol. 43, 488-489, QL 43/6/16, Pei Zongxi. ,

49. Records of this case are found in the Board of Punishments documents at the Beijing Number One Archives. See Board of Punishments (Xingbu), Yunnan Department (Yunnan si) #21283. See also GZDQL, vol. 43, 173174, QL 43/5/21, Pei Zongx1. 50. ZPZZ 159, QL 55/7/25, Fugang. 51. Wyatt and Wichienkeeo, Chiang Mai Chronicle, 135-136, 142-152; Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle, 256; Wyatt, Nan Chronicle, 85-89. 52. I cover this incident in detail in C. Patterson Giersch, “The Sipsong Panna Tai and the Limits of Qing Conquest in Yunnan,” Chinese Historians, vol. 10, no. 17 (Fall 2000): 71-92. See also Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu, 259.

53. GZDQL, vol. 38, 711-713, QL 42/5/22, Agui and Li Shiyao, cited in Giersch, “The Sipsong Panna Tai,” 85. 54. PPK, 438-440; Li Fuyi, Leshi, 31-32. 55. Philip A. Kuhn, Rebellion and Its Enemies in Late Imperial China: Militarization and Social Structure, 1796-1864 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1970), 37-50. 56. GZDJQ, vol. 3, 389-390, JQ 1/7/26, Jianglan (#000971).

57. Yunnan tongzhi (1895 edition) 99:60a-62b, 67b-69a and 100:11a-13a, 38b-43b; Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 100:10b-12a, 15a—16b; Luo, Luyingbing zhi, 62, 64. 58. QSL, vol. 4, 746-747; Luo, Luyingbing zhi, 68-69; Kuhn cites Zuo Zongtang on the unreliability of Green Standards in 1840; see Rebellion and Its Enemies, 53.

252 + Notes to Pages 112-117 59. Chen Jiongguang and Li Guanghua, Labuzu jianshi (Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe, 1986), 1, 29; Peter Kunstadter, “Burma: Introduction,” in Southeast Asian Tribes, Minorities, and Nations, vol. 1 (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1967), 81-88; You Zhong, Yunnan minzu shi (Kunming: Yunnan daxue chubanshe, 1994), 542-544. 60. GZDJQ, vol. 3, 389-390, JQ 1/7/26, Jianglan (#000971); ZPZZ 1751-1,

JQ4/12/12, Fugang; GZDJQ, vol. 3, 478-479, JQ 1/8/16, Jianglan (#001041); vol. 5, 623-624, JQ 2/1/22, Jianglan (#001872). 61. GZDJQ, vol. 3, 478-479, JQ 1/8/16, Jianglan (#001041); GZDJQ, vol. 4, 559-560, JQ 2/1/11, Jianglan (#001821); GZDJQ, vol. 5, 712-713, JQ 2/ 2/6, Jianglan (#001954). 62. Pwer fuzhi (1851 edition) 17:10a—22a. 63. GZDJQ, vol. 11, 798-800, JQ 5/2/4, Shulin (#004958). 64. Xie Benshu et al., Yunnan jindai shi (Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe, 1993), 9. 65. GZDJQ, vol. 11, 798-800, JQ 5/2/4, Shulin (#004958); GZDJQ, vol. 12, 561-563, JQ 5/3/7, Shulin (#005308); Xie, Yunnan, 9; Jiang Yingliang, Zhongguo minzu shi, vol. 2 (Beijing: Minzu chubanshe, 1990), 318. 66. GZDJQ, vol. 12, 561-565, JQ 5/3/7, Shulin (#005308, #005300). 67. ZPZZ 1753-3, JQ 5/4/15, Shulin; ZPZZ 1754-4, JQ 8/6/4, Yongbao and Wudajing; ZPZZ 1754-6, JQ 8/6/4, Yongbao and Wudajing; ZPZZ 17549, JQ 8/7/8, Yongbao and Wudajing. 68. QSL, vol. 2, 194-195; ZPZZ 1754-2, JQ 8/5/14, Yongbao; ZPZZ 17546, JQ 8/6/4, Yongbao and Wudajing; ZPZZ 1754-9, JQ 8/7/8, Yongbao and Wudajing. 69. ZPZZ 1759-2, JQ 16/9/28, Bolin and Sun Yuting; ZPZZ 1760-1, JQ 17/ 1/25, Bolin and Sun Yuting. 70. Most details on this campaign come from a run of JQ 17-JQ 18 memorials from Bolin. See ZPZZ 1760, especially documents numbered 1, 6, 7, 9,

10, 14. |

71. GZDJQ, vol. 41, 779-781, JQ19/8/9, Bolin (#016252). 72. Gongzhong dang, JQ 19/12/27, Bolin and Sun Yuting (#017379); Shangyu

fangben, JQ 20, 4th month, xiaji dang, 341-343; Gongzhong dang, JQ 20/3/19, Bolin and Sun Yuting (#018107). 73. For Hu’s biography, policies, writings, and intellectual influences, see Li Huan, Guochao qi xian lei zheng chu bian, vol. (juan) 214 (Taibei: Wenhai

| chubanshe, 1966), 8a-9a; ZPZZ Junwu lei 11, DG 2/8/29, Shi Zhiguang and Han Kejun; Hu Qirong, “Tengyue tunfang ji,” in Yongchang fu wen zheng, vol. (wen juan) 13, ed. Li Genyuan (Kunming: Tengchong Li shi, 1941), 16a-17a; “Diao bao tushuo,” in Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 106:27b-36a. For Fu Nai and Yan Ruyi, see Kuhn, Rebellion and Its En-

: emies, 47.

74. PPK, 440; Li Fuyi, Leshi, 32. 75. GZDQL, vol. 47, 674-675, QL 44/5/8, Li Shiyao.

Notes to Pages 117-121 + 253 76. JJCLF #024883 (Taibei), QL 44/9/2, Li Shiyao; Edict of QL 44/9/20, in Da Qing Gaozong shilu 1091:10a—-11b.

77. Wyatt, Thailand, 149-160; Hans Penth, A Brief History of Lan Na (Chiang Mai: Silkworm Books, 1994), 31.

78. Wyatt, Thailand, 155; Wyatt and Wichienkeeo, Chiang Mai Chronicle, 167.

79. PPK, 441; Li Fuyi, Leshi, 32-33; Dao Shuren, “Sishisidai,” 256-258; Dao Yongming, “Cheli,” 169-72; Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu, 266-268. 80. Maha Nawi was most commonly called Dao Shengwu in Chinese, but also called Dao Shengzu or Dao Chunzu. 81. Compare the various versions of this tortured tale in PPK, 443-444; Dao Shuren, “Sishisidai,” 258-259; Li Fuyi, Leshi, 33-34; ZPZZ 1740-1, JQ 8/1/19, Langgan; ZPZZ 1740-3, JQ 8/6/4, Yongbao and Wudajing; Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu, 268-269; Dao Yongming, “Cheli,” 179. 82. ZPZZ 889-5, no date, addendum to a memorial (fupian) probably written by Yongbao and Wudajing on JQ 8/8/25. 83. Wyatt, Thailand, 156; Wyatt and Wichienkeeo, Chiang Mai Chronicle, 173.

84. ZPZZ 108, documents 4, 5, 6, 7, dated JQ 10/intercalary 6th month/2, JQ 10/intercalary 6th month/24, JQ 10/11/20, JQ 10/11/20, all by Bolin and Yongbao; Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle, 267.

85. ZPZZ 108-5, JQ 10/intercalary 6th month/24, Bolin; ZPZZ 108-8, JQ 11/2/9, Bolin and Yongbao; edict cited in ZPZZ 1692-4, JQ 11/5/12, Bolin and Yongbao. 86. Wyatt, Nan Chronicle, 100; Pierre-Bernard LaFont, ed. and trans., Le Royaume de Jyn Khen: Chronique d’un Royaume Tay Loe du Haut Mékong (xv°-xx° siécles) (Paris: UHarmattan, 1998), 133; Wyatt and Wichienkeeo,

Chiang Mai Chronicle, 173, 175, 176. :

87. For a Sipsongpanna source on Lue people being taken away to the Chiangmai area, see Dao Shuren, “Sishisidai,” 259. 88. ZPZZ 108-11, JQ 12/11/26, Bolin. For similarities in sources, see descrip-

tion of Burmese retreat cut off by Chiangmai in GZDJQ, vol. 25, 306309, JQ 13/1/13, Bolin (#009716); Wyatt and Wichienkeeo, Chiang Mai Chronicle, 183. 89. Dao Shuren, “Sishisidai,” 259-261; Li Fuyi, Leshi, 35-36; Dao Yongming, “Cheli,” 172-180; Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu, 270-272. 90. ZPZZ 108-15, DG 2/7/16 and ZPZZ 108-16, DG/2/9/9, Shi Zhiguang and Han Kejun; QSL, vol. 5, 846-847; ZPZZ 108-19, DG 3/4/26, Mingshan

and Han Kejun; ZPZZ 108-20, DG 3/9/16, Mingshan and Han Kejun. This view is shared by Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu, 276-278. 91. Ke Shuxun, Pu Si yanbian zhilue (Kunming: Yunnan kaizhi gongsi, 1915), 27b-28b. 92. ZPZZ 108-23, DG 14/6/3, Ruan Yuan and Yilibu; Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu, 273.

254 + Notes to Pages 121-128 93. ZPZZ 108-22, DG 14/4/6, Ruan Yuan and Yilibu. Wyatt, Nan Chronicle, 115, confirms marriage relations between Sipsongpanna and Luang Prabang, suggesting that Maha Vang had indeed reached out to this area. Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle, 261 also records a Kengtung-Sipsongpanna oath of friendship in 1818, taken at the Vat Yangban. 94. ZPZZ 108-23, DG 14/6/3, Ruan Yuan and Yilibu; Li Fuyi, Leshi, 35-36; Dao Shuren, “Sishisidai,” 259-261; QSL, vol. 3, 636. 95. The Jengtung Chronicle does not record these hostilities, but Muong Laem and Sipsongpanna sources do. Dao Shuren, “Sishisidai,” 261-270; Li Fuyi, Leshi, 37-39; Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu, 278-279, 283-284. 96. Dao Shuren, “Sishisidai,” 261-270; Li Fuyi, Leshi, 39-45; Shih-Chung Hsieh, Daile: Xishuangbanna de zuqun xianxiang (Taibei: Zili wanbao she, Wenhua chubanbu, 1993), 81; Wyatt, Nan Chronicle, 118-119; Wyatt, Thailand, 182. 97. Savéng Phinith, ed. and trans., “Bnsavtar m6eean jieyn run’ (Un texte Siamois relatif a l’histoire du sud des Sipsongpanna de 1836 a 1858 E.c.),” Bulletin de Ecole francaise d’Extréme-Orient, vol. 64 (1977): 116, 118119; Wyatt, Nan Chronicle, 119; Penth, A Brief History, 31. 98. Shih-Chung Hsieh, “Ethnic-Political Adaptation and Ethnic Change of the Sipsong Panna Dai: An Ethnohistorical Analysis” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Washington, 1989), 147-151; Kato Kumiko, Bonchi sekai no kokkaron: Unnan, Shipusonpanna no Tai zoku shi (Kyoto: Kydto daigaku, 2000), 49-52. 99. Pasquet, L’évolution du systéme postal, 182-183, 189, 197, 204-205, 225. 100. See Lieberman for a summary of these processes and comparison to other European and Asian states. Victor B. Lieberman, “Transcending East-West Dichotomies: State and Culture Formation in Six Ostensibly Disparate Areas,” Modern Asian Studies, vol. 31, no. 3 (1997): 463-546.

5. A Motley Throng 1. For information on Chinese miners and intermarriage, see ZPZZ 1733-2, QL 11/5/9, Zhang Yunsui; ZPZZ 142-1, QL 35/1/19, Fuheng et al. For Shi’s story, see GZDQL, vol. 27, 63, QL 30/12/19, Liu Zao and Daqi; JXD QL 31, QL 31/2/22, Fu, Yin, and Liu to Yang and Liu; ZPZZ 115-4, QL 31/3/29, Yang Yingju; ZPZZ 115-3, QL 31/7/20, Yang Yingju and Tang Pin.

2. In the Qing era, Hanjian had not yet been endowed with the modern connotation of one who betrayed the Chinese nation state. 3. Gong Yin, Zhongguo tusi zhidu (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1992), 602; Fred. W. Carey, “Journeys to the Chinese Shan States,” Geo-

graphical Journal, vol. 15, no. 5 (May 1900): 490; Wu Yutao, Chai Weiging, and Wang Fen, “Banna Mengwangxiangming (Yibang) shehui qingkuang diaocha,” in Daizu shebui lishi diaocha (Xishuangbanna zhi qi) (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1985), 152, 15S.

Notes to Pages 129-131 + 255 4. For banner affiliations of eighteenth-century Yun-Gui governors general and Yunnan governors, see Charles Patterson Giersch, Jr., “Qing China’s Reluctant Subjects: Indigenous Communities and Empire along the Yunnan Frontier” (Ph.D. dissertation, Yale University, 1998), 294-295. 5. Two studies that reveal such tensions include John Robert Shepherd, Statecraft and Political Economy on the Taiwan Frontier, 1600-1800 (Stanford,

Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1993) and Richard von Glahn, The Country of Streams and Grottoes: Expansion, Settlement, and the Civilizing of the Sichuan Frontier in Song Times (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Council on East Asian Studies, 1987), especially 3-4. James Millward notes that the mutual antagonism may have ended in the mid' nineteenth century. James A. Millward, Beyond the Pass: Economy, Ethnicity, and Empire in Qing Central Asia, 1759-1864 (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1998), chap. 6 and concl. 6. James Lee, “The Legacy of Immigration to Southwest China, 1250-1850,” Annales de démographie historique (1982): 285, 293-298; Lee, “Food Supply and Population Growth in Southwest China, 1250-1850,” The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 41, no. 4 (August 1982): 720. 7. This point is made by Millward, “New Perspectives on the Qing Frontier,” in Remapping China: Fissures in Historical Terrain, ed. Gail Hershatter et al. (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1996). 8. Qin Shucai, “Qingdai Yunnan luyingbing yanjiu—yi xuntang wei zhongxin” (Ph.D. dissertation, Yunnan University, 2002), 78; Robert Eric Entenmann, “Migration and Settlement in Sichuan, 1644-1796” (Ph.D. dissertation, Harvard University, 1982), 118. 9. Qin, “Qingdai Yunnan luyingbing,” 59, 62, 78-79, 82. 10. Fang Guoyu and Miao Luanhe, “Qingdai Yunnan ge zu laodong renmin dui shanqu de kaifa,” Sixiang zhanxian, no. 7 (1976): 70; Fang Guoyu, Zhongguo xinan lishi dili kaoshi, vol. 2 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1987; reprint, Taibei: Tatwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1990), 1218-1219, 12281229. The place name “tangfang” or tang building, for example, is found in several places in Weiyuan. See Yunnan sheng Jinggu Daizu Yizu 2zizhixian di ming zhi (Kunming: Xinxing yishua chang, 1986). 11. GZDYZ, vol. 18, 20-22, YZ 9/4/9, E’ertai; QSL, vol. 1, 242; Fang and Miao, “Qingdai Yunnan,” 70. 12. ZPZZ Junwulei 11-12, QL 36/7/29, Zhangbao; QSL, vol. 1, 486; Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 46:2b-—3b, 22b—23a; JJCLF #029803 (Taibei),

QL 45/12/26, Fukang’an; GZDQL, vol. 49, 248-249, QL 46/10/15, Liu Bingtian.

13. Weiyuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 2:13a-b; Fang and Miao, “Qingdai Yunnan,” 70; Yunnan sheng Jinggu Daizu Yizu zizhixian di ming zhi, 2930, 36-38, 74; Tengchong Cunshi zong pu, “Chang zhi Cheng gong shixi,” 3a, 16a; Tengchong Cunshi zong pu, “Wu zhi Yi gong puxi,” 44a, 45a,

- 62a-64a; Tengchong xian Menglian cun Yinshi pu lue, 1a. 14. The original sources for these numbers include Pu’er fuzhi (1851 edition)

256 + Notes to Pages 132-135 7:1b-2b and the Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) vol. (juan) 7. Fang discusses them in Zhongguo xinan, 1231-1232. See also Lee, “The Legacy of Immigration,” 294-295. 15. Qin, “Qingdai Yunnan luyingbing,” 82.

16. Claudine Lombard-Salmon, Un exemple d’acculturation Chinoise: La province du Gui Zhou au XVIIle siécle (Paris: Ecole francaise d’ExtrémeOrient, 1972), 174; Entenmann, “Migration and Settlement in Sichuan,”

118.

17. Yongchang’s registered inhabitants rose from 87,709 in number (1625) to 350,300 (1775). Shunning’s rose from 15,695 to 68,730. In Yongchang, during the 33 years from 1742 to 1775 alone, the registered population more than doubled from 152,065 to 350,300. See Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 56:18a; Lee, “Food Supply and Population Growth,” 718, 721, 725, 726; Lee, “The Legacy of Immigration,” 283-284; ZPZZ Neizheng lei 2-6, DG 16/12/20, Yilibu and He Xuan. 18. Entenmann, “Migration and Settlement in Sichuan,” 177, 181-182, 188189; Fang, Zhongguo xinan, 1231; Lee, “The Legacy of Immigration,” 301-302; ZPZZ Neizheng lei 2-6, DG 16/12/20, Yilibu and He Xuan. 19. Fang and Miao, “Qingdai Yunnan,” 71; Entenmann, “Migration and Settlement in Sichuan,” 177, 187-188. 20. ZPZZ 1736-1, QL 3/2/12, Zhang Yunsui; Da Qing Gaozong shilu 393:69; Sylvie Pasquet, “Entre Chine et Birmanie: Un mineur-diplomate au roy-

, aume de Hulu, 1743-1752 (premiére partie),” Etude chinoises, vol. 8, no. 1 (printemps 1989): 57, 62; Zhuang Jifa, Oing Gaozong shi quan wugong yanjiu (Taibei: Gugong congkan, 1982; reprint, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1987), 270. 21. ZPZZ 1733-2, QL 11/5/9, Zhang Yunsui. 22. For information on mine organization and native place, see David Atwill, “Rebellion South of the Clouds: Ethnic Insurgency, Muslim Yunnanese, and the Panthay Rebellion” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Hawai’i, 1999), 78-82. 23. Sylvie Pasquet’s two-part article entitled “Entre Chine et Birmanie: Un mineur-diplomate au royaume de Hulu, 1743-1752,” in Etudes Chinoises, vol. 8, nos. 1 and 2 (1989), investigates the career of Wu. She has pains-

takingly re-created the details of his life and surroundings. See also Zhuang, Oing Gaozong, 270, 275. Important document groups related to the case include ZPZZ 1733-1, 1733-2, 1733-3. 24. Yinjishan’s contribution to the Grand Council’s deliberation memorial of QL 16/7/7, cited in Da Qing Gaozong shilu 394:13b. 25. Pasquet, “Entre Chine et Birmanie (deuxiéme partie),” 82; Da Qing Gao-

zong shilu 394:13b-14b; 400:4b-6a; GZDQL, vol. 28, 833-836, QL 32/12/9, E’ning. 26. For closure of Maolong, see Pasquet, “Entre Chine et Birmanie (deuxiéme

partie),” 86-87. 27. Tengchong xian Menglian cun Yinshi pu lue, “Tengchong Hexi Menglian

Notes to Pages 135-139 + 257 cun Yin shi shixi tu,” la. Tengchong Cunshi zong pu, “Chongxiu zongpu fanlie shier tiao,” 4a; Tengchong Cunshi zong pu, “Wu zhi Yi gong puxi,” 44a, 62a-64a; ZPZZ 147-17, QL 36/3/20, Agui et al.; GZDQL, vol. 41, 505-506, QL 42/12/21, Li Shiyao; ZPZZ Neizheng lei 3, JQ 21, Li Shiyao;

Zhangbao. ZPZZ 147-6, QL 37/2/21, Zhangbao; ZPZZ 147-8, QL 37/2/21,

28. “Menglie shenmin bing,” dated Guangxu 13/12/30, preserved in Jiangcheng xianzhi chugao (no pagination, no date). 29. ZPZZ Neizheng lei 2-6, DG 16/12/20, Yilibu and He Xuan. 30. For “filling up a blank,” see Lieutenant W. C. McLeod’s journal, found in the House of Commons Parliamentary Papers, 1868-69, vol. 46, section 420 (hereafter cited as McLeod, Journal). For the influence of mapping and natural history on European travel writing, and travel writing and

natural history on the European worldview, see Mary Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation (London: Routledge, 1992), chaps. 2 and 3. 31. Pratt, Imperial Eyes, especially chap. 7 and chap. 9, p. 203. The culture of exploration was institutionalized and integrated. British explorers often presented papers to the Royal Geographical Society, and French and British read each other’s publications. 32. Nicholas J. Clifford, “A Truthful Impression of the Country:” British and American Travel Writing in China, 1880-1949 (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2001), 12-15. 33. E. A. Blundell, Commissioner in the Tenasserim Provinces, to Lieutenant W. C. McLeod, 25 November 1836, in House of Commons Parliamentary Papers, 1868-69, vol. 46, section 420, 6-8. 34. Pratt, Imperial Eyes, 64-65. 35. John Anderson, A Report on the Expedition to Western Yunan via Bhamo (Calcutta: Office of the Superintendent of Government Printing, 1871), 100.

36. For instance, McLeod’s journal gives a good account of Sipsongpanna’s complicated contemporary leadership struggles. 37. McLeod, Journal, 26, 36, 43, 56-57, 59. 38. McLeod, Journal, 68-69, 80. This evidence disproves earlier arguments that Sipsongpanna remained untouched by Chinese immigration until the early twentieth century. 39. Deng Qing’an, aka “Deng Lao Mian,” appears in Mian dang QL 34 shang, 199-201. Another eighteenth-century man also testified to the existence of Han Market in Mian dang QL 33 xia, 203-205. Anderson, A Report, 51, 216-217; Dr. Richardson, unpublished journal in the House of Commons Parliamentary Papers, 1868-69, vol. 46, section 420, 125; Survey report , by Captain J. M. Williams, 18 June 1868, in House of Commons Parliamentary Papers, 1868-69, vol. 46, section 251, 85-92. 40. The quote is from the survey report by Captain J. M. Williams; see also Anderson, A Report, 216-217.

258 + Notes to Pages 139-143 41. Anderson, A Report, 216-217, 219; Richardson, unpublished journal, 125.

42. For the Husa-Lasa tradition of migrant metal work from 1771 to 1868, see ZPZZ 147-15, QL 36/2/6, Agui and Zhangbao and ZPZZ 147-16, QL 36/2/6, Agui and Zhangbao; JJCLF #013438 (Taibei); Anderson, A Report, 54-55, 221. For jade mine labor, see Anderson, A Report, 66-67.

43. Anderson, A Report, 136-137; Huang Bingkun, “Xuncha_ bianjiang qingxing shang Wang Zhijun shu,” in Yongchang fu wen zheng, vol. (jizai juan) 22, ed. Li Genyuan (Kunming: Tengchong Li shi, 1941), S5a—6a. 44. Louis de Carné, Travels in Indo-China and the Chinese Empire (London:

Chapman and Hall, 1872), 201-202, 205. 45. E. B. Sladen, “Burma: Exploration via the Irrawaddy and Bhamo to South-

Western China,” Proceedings of the Royal Geographical Society of London, vol. 15, no. 5 (1871): 356. 46. Much thanks to Tim Brooks, who challenged me to think more carefully about these issues. I hope this information answers at least some of his questions.

47. Anderson, A Report, 136-137, 289-292, 297, 318, 350. 48. McLeod, Journal, 68. 49. Fred. W. Carey, “A Trip to the Chinese Shan States,” The Geographical Journal, vol. 14, no. 4 (October 1899): 383-384; Carey, “Journeys to the Chinese Shan States,” The Geographical Journal, vol. 15, no. 5 (May 1900): 487, 490, 497, 498, 499. 50. Peter Kunstadter, “Introduction,” in Southeast Asian Tribes, Minorities, and Nations, vol. 1 (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1967), 3132; Leo Alting von Geusau, “Akha Internal History: Marginalization and the Ethnic Alliance System,” in Civility and Savagery: Social Identity in Tai States, ed. Andrew Turton (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon, 2000), 122158.

51. Anderson, A Report, 94; Francis Garnier, Further Travels in Laos and in Yunnan: The Mekong Exploration Commission Report, 1866-1868, trans. Walter E. J. Tips (Bangkok: White Lotus, 1996), 98-99, 129; Carné, Travels in Indo-China, 238. 52. ZPZZ Neizheng lei 2-6, DG 16/12/20, Yilibu and He Xuan. 53. Entenmann, “Migration and Settlement in Sichuan,” 221-222; Fang, Zhongguo xinan, 1221-1225; Qin, “Qingdai Yunnan luyingbing,” 91-92; ZPZZ, Neizheng lei 2-6, DG 16/12/20, Yilibu and He Xuan. 54. Anderson, A Report, 70, 83, 93, 110-111; Carey, “A Trip to the Chinese Shan States,” 383; Weityuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 3:38b; Longling xianzhi (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2000), 712-713. 55. Huang Huikun et al., Daizu jianshi (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1985), 115 56. Shepherd, Statecraft and Political Economy on the Taiwan Frontier, chap. 9.

57. ZPZZ 1685-4, QL 8/9/21, Zhang Yunsui; Gong Yin, Zhongguo tusi zhidu, 139-140.

Notes to Pages 143-149 + 259 58. ZPZZ 142-1, QL 35/1/19, Fuheng et al.; QSL, vol. 3, 63-65. 59. ZPZZ 1744-2, QL 36/5/12, Defu. 60. Wu Daxun, Diannan wen jian lu, vol. 1 (n.p., 1782), 42a—43a. 61. Edict of DG 18 (1839/1/15) in QSL, vol. 3, 572; Gong Yin, Zhongguo tusi zhidu, 140-141; Qin, “Qingdai Yunnan luyingbing zhi,” 93-94. 62. Liu Jing, “Shunning zazhu,” in Xiao fang hu zhai yu di cong chao, vol. 7, ed. Wang Xiqi (Shanghai: Zhuyi tang, 1877; reprint, Taibei: Guangwen shuju, 1962), 337b. 63. Weiyuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 3:13a, 21b; Carey, “A Trip to the Chinese Shan States,” 383-384. 64. Anderson, A Report, 84. 65. For Zhao Jinsheng’s views of Longling’s location, see “Longling jiangyu xu,” in Yongchang fu wen zheng, vol. (wen juan) 14, 1b; for his belief in unused land, see “Nanhuang tushuo,” in Yongchang fu wen zheng, vol. 14 (wen juan), 1b—2a.

66. Garnier, Further Travels, 98-99. 67. Lee, “The Legacy of Immigration,” 300-301.

68. Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 36:34a-35a; 90:5b-6a; “Chongxiu huiguan,” cited in Zhao Guoxing, Yunnan sheng di zhi—Simao xian (n.p., 1921), 1-2. 69. For Sicheng Academy (Sicheng shuyuan), see Pu’er fuzhi (1851 edition) 10: 8a. For the two temples, see Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 90:5b-6a. 70. Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 36:25b, 34a-35a. 71. Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quanshu edition) 7:57b; Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 86:7a—9a. 72. Tengyue zhouzhi (1790; reprint, 1931) 4:10a—11a. 73. Pwer fuzhi (1851 edition) 3:15b-16b; Pu’er fuzhigao (1902 edition) 11: 1b—3b.

74. Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quanshu edition) 15:35b—26a. For more on the City God, see Angela Zito, “City Gods and Their Magistrates,” in Religions of China in Practice, ed. Donald Lopez, Jr. (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1996), 72. 75. Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quanshu edition) 15:25b—26a. 76. In Turfan, Millward notes how the Manchu city was separated from the

| East Turkestani suburbs, and in Kashgar, the Qing built a new city outside old Kashgar. Millward, Beyond the Pass, 129 (Turfan), 143 (Kashgar); Lombard-Salmon, Un exemple, 252. 77. Millward, Beyond the Pass, 127, 143; Lombard-Salmon, Un exemple, 198. 78. Tengchong Cunshi zong pu; Tengchong Dieshuibe Li shi zu pu. 79. Lee, “The Legacy of Immigration,” 301-302. 80. Entenmann, “Migration and Settlement in Sichuan,” 187~189. 81. Pu’er fuzhi (1851 edition) 1:16b.

82. Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quanshu edition) 15:25b-26a; Longling xianzhi (1917 edition) 7:2a. 83. Shi Yuangao, “Longling Wenchanggong beiji,” in Yongchang fu wen zheng, vol. (wen juan) 11, 13a.

260 - Notes to Pages 149-157 84. Millward, Beyond the Pass, 133. 85. Fang Zhenkui, “Longling chongjian Guandi miao bei,” in Yongchang fu wen zheng, vol. (wen juan) 13, 17a-b. 86. For spotting the Muong Long thaat from a distance, see Francis Garnier, Voyage d’exploration en Indo-chine, vol. 1 (Paris: Librarie Hatchette et cie, 1873), 399. For the importance of the temple to a village, see Nicola Tannenbaum, “The Heart of the Village: Constituent Structures of Shan Communities,” Crossroads, Special Thai Issue (Part Two), vol. 5, no. 1 (1990): 31-32. 87. On gilded thaat in Ganyai and the Lasa valley, see Archibald R. Colquhoun, Across Chrysé: A Journey of Exploration through the South China Border Lands from Canton to Mandalay, vol. 2 (London: Sampson Low, Marston, Searle and Rivington, 1883; reprint, Singapore: Graham Brash, 1988), 327-328, 343. Garnier muses about the Sipsongpanna thaat paintings in Voyage d’exploration, vol. 1, 406-407. 88. Dehong Daizu shehui lishi diaocha, vol. 1 (Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe, 1984), S.

89. T’ien Ju-K’ang, Religious Cults of the Pai-i along the Burma-Yunnan Border (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Southeast Asian Program, 1986), 15.

90. Garnier, Voyage d’exploration, vol. 1, 399-400, 402. 91. Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quanshu edition) 7:54a; Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 86:2a—b.

92. Louis de Carné, Voyage en Indo-Chine et dans Pempire chinois (Paris: Librarie de la société des gens de lettres, 1872), 292. 93. Tien, Religious Cults, 9. 94. Weiyuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 2:5a—9b; Pu’er fuzhigao (1902 edition) 11: 5a; Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quan shu edition) 18 xia.2:42b; Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 39:21a—-b. 95. For the dates of the wall, see Wetyuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 2:16a—b. For the building of the granary, see Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 39:21a— 22b. The City God Temple existed as early as the 1730s; Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quan shu edition) 15:23a—b. 96. Pu’er fuzhi (1851 edition) 7:2b; Yunnan tongzbigao (1835 edition) 86:3a. 97. Thanks to Rick Belsky for explaining the regional significance of the temples to me. James Lee also notes these two temples as crucial to Hunan and Jiangxi merchant life; Lee, “The Legacy of Immigration,” 301-302. 98. Weiyuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 3:45b, 8:73a; Yunnan sheng Jinggu Daizu Yizu zizhixian di ming zhi, 13, 229, 231. 99. Weiyuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 2:16b—17a. 100. Weiyuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 5:12a—15b; Pu’er fuzhi (1851 edition) 17: 17a-22a. 101. GZDJQ, vol. 4, 93-95, JQ 1/11/1, Jianglan.

102. William T. Rowe, “Education and Empire in Southwest China: Ch’en Hung-mou in Yunnan, 1733-1738,” in Education and Society in Late

Notes to Pages 157-160 + 261 Imperial China, 1600-1900, ed. Benjamin A. Elman and Alexander Woodside (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 417-457; John E.

Herman, “Empire in the Southwest: Early Qing Reforms to the Native Chieftain System,” The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 56, no. 1 (February 1997): 65. 103. Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quan shu edition) 7:52b; Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 86:3a—4a; Pu’er fuzhi (1851 edition) 10:9a—10a. 104. From the description of the Muang Jia tusi yamen given in the Weiyuan gazetteer’s map section. For the Weiyuan Indigenous Lieutenant’s building, see Weiyuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 2:9b. For a more complete description of traditional Tai houses, see Li Fuyi, Cheli (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1933), 90. 105. Dao Yongming, ed., Zhongguo Daizu shiliao jryao (Kunming: Yunnan

minzu chubanshe, 1989), 13; Zhao Shilin and Wu Qionghua, Daizu wenhua zhi, ed. Huang Huikun (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1997), 348-349.

106. Wu Kai, “Nandian yuan ji,” in Yongchang fu wen zheng, vol. (wen juan) 11, ed. Li Genyuan (Kunming: Tengchong Li shi, 1941), 11a—b. 107. J. McCarthy, “Across China from Chin-kiang to Bhamo, 1877,” Proceedings of the Royal Geographical Society, vol. 1, no. 9 (1879): SOS.

6. A Song for Tea 1. Lieutenant W. C. McLeod’s full journal (hereafter, McLeod, Journal) is ‘ available in House of Commons Parliamentary Papers, 1868-69, vol. 46, section 420. An abstract journal, confusingly attributed to Lieutenant T. E. MacLeod (hereafter, MacLeod, Abstract Journal), is available in Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, vol. 6, no. 72 (December 1837): 989-1005. 2. McLeod, Journal, 57, 80. 3. Louis de Carné, Voyage en Indo-Chine et dans Pempire chinois (Paris: Librarie de la société des gens de lettres, 1872), 292; Francis Garnier, Voyage d’exploration en Indo-chine, vol. 1 (Paris: Librarie Hachette et cie, 1873),

401-402. 4. Cao Shuqiao, Diannan za zhi, in Xiao fang hu zhai yu di cong chao, ed. Wu Xiqi (Shanghai: Zhuyi tang, 1877; reprint, Taibei: Guangwen shuju,

1962), 12a; John Anderson, A Report on the Expedition to Western Yunan | via Bhamo (Calcutta: Office of the Superintendent of Government Printing,

1871), 291, 297, 300-301, 318, 349.

5. Anthony Reid summarizes many of the key developments in “Economic and Social Change, c. 1400-1800,” in The Cambridge History of Southeast Asia, vol. 1, part 2, ed. Nicholas Tarling (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 116-135. 6. A point eloquently made by Sun Laichen, “Shan Gems, Chinese Silver, and the Rise of Shan Principalities in Modern Northern Myanmar, c. 14501526” (paper presented to An International Symposium on China and

262 + Notes to Pages 161-163 Southeast Asia: Historical Interactions, Centre of Asian Studies, The University of Hong Kong, 19-21 July 2001), 2-3. 7. Key studies in English include Andrew D. W. Forbes, “The ‘Cin-Ho’ (Yunnanese Chinese) Caravan Trade with North Thailand,” Journal of Asian History, vol. 21, no. 1 (1987): 1-47; Chiranan Prasertkul, Yunnan Trade in the Nineteenth Century: Southwest China’s Cross-Boundaries Functional System (Bangkok: Institute of Asian Studies, Chulalongkorn University, 1989); Ann Maxwell Hill, Merchants and Migrants: Ethnicity and Trade among Yunnanese Chinese in Southeast Asia (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Southeast Asia Studies, 1998). 8. Reid, “Economic and Social Change,” 135. 9. G. E. Harvey, History of Burma From the Earliest Times to 10 March 1824 (London: Longmans, Green, 1925), 258. 10. This helps explain why the best work on the caravans focuses on the 1880s through 1940s. Besides Forbes, Hill, and Chiranan, see also Wang Mingda and Zhang Xilu, Mabang wenhua (Kunming: Yunnan renmin, 1993); Katé Kumiko, “The Main Trade Routes between China and Burma through Sipsongpanna before the 1950s,” in Shan bunkaken ni okeru gengogakuteki, bunka jinruigakuteki chésa, ed. Shintani Tadahiko (Tokyo: Tokyo gaikokugo daigaku Ajia Afurika gengo bunka kenkyijo, 1999), 199-218. 11. A. Bowers, Bhamo Expedition: Report on the Practicability of Re-Opening the Trade Route, between Burma and Western China (Rangoon: The Mission Press, 1869), intro.; Victor Lieberman, “Secular Trends in Burmese Economic History, c. 1350-1830, and Their Implications for State Formation,” Modern Asian Studies, vol. 25, no. 1 (February 1991): 15. 12. In addition to Sun, “Shan Gems,” excellent English-language work includes Christian Daniels, “The Role of Technological Transfer in the Formation of Dai Polities; 13th to 16th Centuries,” in Shan bunkaken ni okeru gengogakuteki, 181-198; for a wonderful overview of the English-language sources on the Burma-Yunnan trade, see Victor Purcell, The Chinese in Southeast Asia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1951), 67-78. 13. G. William Skinner, “Marketing and Social Structure in Rural China,” part 1, reprinted from The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 24, no. 1 (November 1964), in Marketing and Social Structure in Rural China (Association for Asian Studies Reprint Series No. 1, n.d.), 6-7. 14. Edmund R. Leach, Political Systems of Highland Burma: A Study of Kachin Social Structure (London: G. Bell and Sons, 1954), 22. 15. Weityuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 2:17a—b; 3:46a, 47a. 16. McLeod, Journal, 57-84. 17. Bowers, Bhamo Expedition, 19-22, 34, 54, 122; Anderson, A Report, 84, 93, 111, 291. 18. For grain, see GZDQL, vol. 31, 356, QL 33/8/10, Aligun and Mingde; Zhou Yu, Cong zheng Miandian ri ji, in Ming Qing shiliao huibian, vol. 8, ed. Shen Yunlong (Wenhai chuban she, 1967), 1b—2a. For embroideries, see Tan Cui, Dian hai yu heng zhi, in Wen ying lou yu di congshu, vols. 8-

Notes to Pages 164-166 + 263 9 (Jiangxi Hu shi, 1908) 5:5a. For Longling, see Fang Hui and Xu Zhong-

qi, “Qingdai giangi Xinan bianjiang diqu shangpin jingji de fazhan,” Minzu yanjiu, no. 2 (1997): 100. 19. Wu Daxun, Diannan wen jian lu (n.p., 1782) 1: 41a—42a; Lin Wenxun, “Ming Qing shiqi neidi shangren zai Yunnan de jingji huodong,” Yunnan shehui kexue, no. 1 (1991): 59, 61, 63-64; Fang and Xu, “Qingdai gianqi Xinan bianjiang diqu,” 96-97; Claudine Lombard-Salmon, Un exemple d’acculturation chinoise: La province du Gui Zhou au XVIIle siécle (Paris: Ecole francaise d’Extréme-Orient, 1972), 174. 20. For army relatives, see ZPZZ Junwu lei 11-12, QL 36/7/29, Zhangbao; Qin Shucai, “Qingdai Yunnan luyingbing yanjiu—yi xuntang wei zhong-

: xin” (Ph.D. dissertation, Yunnan University, 2002), 94, 96. For settlement and marrying locally, see Wu Daxun, Diannan wen jian lu 1:41a—42a. For trekking into remote settlements, see McLeod, Journal, 42, 45; Archibald

, R. Colquhoun, Amongst the Shans (London: Field & Tuer, 1885; reprint, New York: Paragon Book Reprint Corp., 1970), 50-51. 21. Pu’er fuzhi (1851 edition) 8:7b; McLeod, Journal, 45, 53, 57-58, 68, 80; Pu’er fuzhigao (1902 edition) 19:7b; Carné, Voyage en Indo-Chine, 292; Garnier, Voyage d’exploration, 401-402. 22. Bowers, Bhamo Expedition, 26, 34-36, 75, 118, 120; Anderson, A Report,

111. On cowries as adornment in early nineteenth century, see Cao, Diannan za zhi, 12b; in 1860s, see Bowers, Bhamo Expedition, 19. 23. Many sources attest to this including Tan, Dian hai yu heng zhi 5:Ab; Weiyuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 3:45b; Anderson, A Report, 111. 24. ZPZZ 1759-2, JQ 16/9/28, Bolin and Sun Yuting. 25. The key piece of evidence is a routine memorial by Yinjishan, YZ 13/10/

: 9, cited in Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quanshu edition) 29.6:29b—S4a. , Chen Han-seng, Frontier Land Systems in Southernmost China: A Comparative Study of Agrarian Problems and Social Organization among the Pai Yi People of Yunnan and the Kamba People of Sikang (New York: International Secretariat, Institute of Pacific Relations, 1949), 12, 59; Weiyuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 3:4a. 26. Several sources attest to this, including ZPZZ 1759-2, JQ 16/9/28, Bolin and Sun Yuting; McLeod, Journal, 42, 45, 62, 64. 27. Guizhou officials taught some Miao communities to produce silk, and the Miao silks gained an excellent reputation. Lombard-Salmon, Un exemple, 179-180. 28. GZDJQ, vol. 39, 488-492, JQ 14/9/24 Bolin (#015470). 29. For the basics and small luxuries, see Bowers, Bhamo Expedition, 70-73; for grain, see Tengyue zhouzhi (1790; reprint, 1931) 5:5a. For cotton, jade, and gems, see Zhou, Congzheng Miandian ri ji, 9a; Fang Guoyu, Yunnan shiliao mulu gai shuo, vol. 3 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1984), 1291-1294; Tan, Dian hai yu heng zhi 2:4a, 4b, Sa—6b, 9Ya—b; Anderson, A Report, 66-67, 327-328. Muslim-Chinese ran some jewelry shops in Tengyue. See David Atwill, “Rebellion South of the Clouds: Ethnic Insurgency, Muslim

264 - Notes to Pages 166-168 Yunnanese, and the Panthay Rebellion” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Hawai’i, 1999), 68. 30. Pu’er fuzhi (1851) 8:7b; McLeod, Journal, 68; Louis de Carné, Travels in Indo-China and the Chinese Empire (London: Chapman and Hall, 1872), 220; Francis Garnier, Further Travels in Laos and in Yunnan: The Mekong

Exploration Commission Report, 1866-1868, trans. Walter E. J. Tips (Bangkok: White Lotus, 1996), 112. 31. McLeod, Journal, 50, 57-59, 60. 32. One similarity that may prove to be true, however, is that marketing in the Sino-Southeast Asian borderlands, like Luzhou in von Glahn’s study, de-

veloped according to different patterns in different parts of the region. Richard von Glahn, The Country of Streams and Grottoes: Expansion, Settlement, and the Civilizing of the Sichuan Frontier in Song Times (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Council on East Asian Studies, 1987),

173-202, 219-220. 33. For Southwest China 12-day cycles, see Cao, Diannan za zhi, 12a; Skinner,

“Marketing and Social Structure,” 13; Lombard-Salmon, Un exemple, 206-207. 34. The late-Ming Xinan yi fengtu ji records that the native official areas to the west of Tengyue (i.e., Nandian, etc.) had periodic markets every 5 to 10 days. See it quoted in You Zhong, Yunnan minzu shi (Kunming: Yunnan daxue chubanshe, 1994), 366-367. For Tengyue’s difference from the rest of Yunnan, see Cao, Diannan za zhi, 12a; for Longling and Baoshan, see Yongchang fuzhi (1885; reprint 1936) 8:1b—2a. For Weiyuan market schedules, see Weiyuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 2:17a—b. 35. Hans Ulrich Vogel, “Cowry Trade and Its Role in the Economy of Yiinnan: From the Ninth to the Mid-Seventeenth Century,” part 1, in Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient, vol. 36, no. 3 (August 1993):

221, 243, 250. 36. See Bowers, Bhamo Expedition, 38-40, 70-73, 90, for explanation and evidence; McLeod, Journal, 81. 37. GZDQL, vol. 29, 344-345, QL 33/1/16, E’ning; ZPZZ 135-1 QL 34/4/7, Fuheng, Aligun, Agui, Mingde. For the campaigns of 1766-1767 and 1767-1768, the Board of Revenue allotted 3 million taels each year for purchases of grain from native official territories. Mian dang, QL 32 xia, 103-104, QL 32/6/14, Court letter to Mingrui and E’ning; GZDQL, vol. 28, 24-26, QL 32/8/25, E’ning; GZDQL, vol. 28, 357, QL 32/10/12, F’ning.

38. Dai Yi and Zhang Shiming, 18 shiji de Zhongguo yu shijie, junshi juan (Shenyang: Liaohai chubanshe, 1998), 85-86; Qin, “Qingdai Yunnan luyingbing,” 94, 96. 39. ZPZZ 1733-2, QL 11/5/9, Zhang Yunsui. 40. GZDYZ, vol. 16, 254, YZ 8/4/20, E’ertai; ZPZZ 1736-1, QL 3/2/12, Zhang Yunsui. 41. Fang Guoyu, Zhongguo xinan lishi dili kaoshi, vol. 2 (Beijing: Zhonghua

Notes to Pages 169-171 + 265 shuju, 1987; reprint, Taibei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1990), 1256; John Deyell, “The China Connection: Problems of Silver Supply in Medieval Bengal,” in Precious Metals in the Later Medieval and Early Modern Worlds, ed. J. F. Richards (Durham, N.C.: Carolina Academic Press, 1983),

| 222-223, cited in Anthony Reid, Southeast Asia in the Age of Commerce, 1450-1680, vol. 1 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1988), 99.

42. In his memorial, Zhang used the term yifang. Trading in “barbarian regions” became so common that the phrase “go to barbarian regions” (zou yifang) became a common phrase in southern Yunnan into the twentieth century.

43. ZPZZ 1733-3, QL 11/no date, Guanglu; QSL, vol. 4, 240-241. 44. Lu Ren, Yunnan dui wai jiaotong shi (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe,

1997), 14-15, 27, 61-62; Wang and Zhang, Mabang wenhua, 21; You, Yunnan minzu shi, 394; Geoff Wade, “The Bai-yi zhuan: A Chinese Account of a Tai Society in the 14th Century” (paper presented at the 14th Conference of the International Association of Historians of Asia, Chulalongkorn University, Bangkok, 20-24 May 1996). 45. Sun, “Shan Gems”; Lu, Yunnan. dui wai jiaotong, 265; Cui Jingming and Lu Ren, “Yuan, Ming, Qing shiqi Yunnan bianjiang minzu diqu de duiwai

jingji jiaowang,” Sixiang zhanxian, no. 4 (1998): 39; Jiang Yingliang, Daizu shi (Chengdu: Sichuan minzu chubanshe, 1983), 336-337; Daniels, “The Role of Technological Transfer,” 192-194; R. Fitch, “The Voyage of Master Ralph Fitch, Merchant of London,” in Hakluytus Posthumus, or Purchas His Pilgrimes, vol. 10 (Glasgow: Hakluyt Society, 1905), 195, cited in Forbes, “The ‘Cin-Ho’,” 3-4. 46. Lu Ren, Yunnan dui wai jiaotong, 247-255, 265; Forbes, “The ‘Cin-Ho’,” 7-15; Hill, Merchants and Migrants, map, p. 39; Chiranan, Yunnan Trade, map 7, p. 12. 47. Hu Yangquan, Yunnan mabang (Fuzhou: Fujian renmin chubanshe, 1999), 28.

48, Unless otherwise noted, the information in this and the following two paragraphs comes from Forbes, “The ‘Cin-Ho’ ”; Hill, Merchants and Migrants, chap. 2; and Wang and Zhang, Mabang wenhua. 49, J. McCarthy, “Across China from Chin-kiang to Bhamo, 1877,” Proceedings of the Royal Geographical Society, vol. 1, no. 9 (1879): 500-501. 50. Hu, Yunnan mabang, 92. 51. J. George Scott and J. PR. Hardiman, Gazetteer of Upper Burma and the Shan States, part 1, vol. 2 (Rangoon: Superintendent, Government Printing, Burma, 1900; reprint, New York: AMS Press, 1983), 464.

52. Chiranan, Yunnan Trade, 50-55, 75. 53. This point is generally not acknowledged. Forbes notes that not much has been done to study pre-1850 caravanning and acknowledges the difficulty of the source base, yet goes on to suggest that the trade of earlier eras was probably quite similar to that of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. (“The ‘Cin-Ho’,” 3—4); Victor Purcell claims “the caravans... were essen-

266 « Notes to Pages 171-173 tially the same in the fifteenth as in the nineteenth century.” See The Chinese in Southeast Asia, 65-66. 54. Chusit Chuchart, “From Peasant to Rural Trader: The Ox-Train Traders of Northern Thailand, 1855-1955,” Thai-Yunnan Project Newsletter, no. 7 (December 1989), 2-8; Wang and Zhang, Mabang wenhua, 89-91, 104. 55. Sun, “Shan Gems,” 4, 21; Zhu Mengzhen, Xinanyi fengtu ji, in Shiliao sanbian, vol. 28 (Taibei: Guangwen shuju, 1969), 6:11b-12a; Lu, Yunnan dui wai jiaotong, 263; Purcell, The Chinese in Southeast Asia, 67; Jiang, Daizu shi, 336-337; Daniels, “The Role of Technological Transfer,” 188-195.

56. Fitch, “The Voyage of Master Ralph Fitch,” 195, cited in Forbes, “The ‘Cin-Ho’,” 4—S.

57. Numerous sources present these lists, so I will only mention a few sources

for each period. Before 1765: GZDQL, vol. 30, 531-532, QL 33/5/3, Aligun, Shuchide, and Ening; Zhang Hong, Diannan xin yu, in Xiao fang hu zhai yu di cong chao, vol. 7, 233a; Wang Chang, Zheng Mian ji lue, in Cong shu ji cheng xu bian, vol. 25 (Shanghai: Shanghai shuju, 1994), 1b. For 1790-1855: R. Boileau Pemberton, “Abstract of the Journal of a Route Traveled by Capt. S. E Hannay,” Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, vol. 6, no. 64 (April 1837): 250-251, 276-277; Peng Songyu, “Mian shu,” in Yongchang fu wen zheng, vol. (jizai juan) 20, ed. Li Genyuan (Kunming: Tengchong Li shi, 1941), 10b. 58. A sampling of sources, includes: (Before 1765) GZDQL, vol. 30, 531-532, QL 33/5/3, Aligun, Shuchide, and E’ning; GZDQL, vol. 34, 124-128, QL 38/12/28, Zhangbao and Li Hu; (After 1790) Michael Symes, An Account of an Embassy to the Kingdom of Ava, Sent by the Governor-General of India, in the Year 1795, vol. 2, 2nd ed. (London: Printed for J. Debrett by Wilson, 1800), 231-232, 376-378; Purcell, The Chinese in Southeast Asia, 68-69; Howard Malcom, Travels in South-Eastern Asia, vol. 1 (Boston: Gould, Kendall, and Lincoln, 1839), 224-225. 59. Laocheng deposition in JJCLF #13438 (Taibei); Pemberton, “Abstract of the Journal,” 261. 60. For cotton markets, see ZPZZ 112-7, QL 31/3/29, Yang Yingju; ZPZZ 1733-2, QL 11/5/9, Zhangbao; Zhou, Congzheng Miandian ri ji, 9a; ZPZZ 142-1, QL 35/1/19, Fuheng et al. For three cases of smugglers who were caught, see GZDQL, vol. 31, 579-580, QL 33/8/16, Aligun and Mingde;

Depositions in JJCLF #013438 (Taibei); ZPZZ 147-9, QL 37/3/7, Zhangbao.

61. McLeod, Journal, 36, 53, 57, 59-60, 74; MacLeod, Abstract Journal, 1003; Forbes, “The ‘Cin-Ho’,” 11; Pu’er fuzhi (1851 edition) 8:7b; Pemberton, “Abstract of the Journal,” 258-259; John Crawfurd, Journal of an Embassy from the Governor General of India to the Court of Ava, vol. 2, 2nd ed. (London: Henry Colburn, 1834), 191-192. 62. ZPZZ 1733-2, QL 11/5/9, Zhang Yunsui; GZDQL, vol. 30, 531-532, QL 33/5/3, Aligun, Shuchide, E’ning; Mian dang, QL 33 xia, 121-125, Grand Council memorial; ZPZZ 142-1, QL 35/1/19, Fuheng et al.

Notes to Pages 173-178 + 267 63. The best list that predates 1855 is in Crawfurd, Journal of an Embassy, vol. 2, 192-194, but see also Symes, An Account of an Embassy to the Kingdom of Ava, vol. 2, 376-378; Purcell, The Chinese in Southeast Asia, 68-69; Henry Burney, Journal of Henry Burney in the Capital of Burma, 1830-1832, ed. Nicholas Tarling (Auckland: The University of Auckland, New Zealand Asia Institute, 1995), 90-91; Malcom, Travels in SouthEastern Asia, vol. 1, 224-225; and Bowers, Bhamo Expedition, appendix. 64. GZDQL, vol. 47, 674-675, QL 44/5/8, Li Shiyao and Pei Zongxi; Tan,

Dian hai yu heng zhi 4:1a—3b; ZPZZ 159, QL 55/7/25, Fugang. , 65. McLeod, Journal, 36, 59-60 66. H. Burney, “Some Account of the Wars between Burmah and China,” Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, vol. 6, no. 62 (February 1837): 128-129; Tin (of Mandalay), comp., Kon-baung-zet maha ya-zawin-dawgyi (Rangoon, 1967-1968), vol. 1, 419-421, cited in William J. Koenig, The Burmese Polity, 1752-1819: Politics, Administration, and Social Organization in the Early Kon-baung Period (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Center for South and Southeast Asian Studies, 1990), 56. Koenig claims the caravan sizes were 400 oxen and 1,000 ponies, respectively. 67. The documents for this case include ZPZZ 147-5, QL 36/2/6, Agui and Zhangbao; JJCLF #13438 (Taibei). Boli was probably a Tai commoner; the first part of his and his father’s name were both “Bo,” which probably meant paw or “father,” a standard Tai prefix for married men with children.

68. ZPZZ Junwu lei 10-13, QL 35/3/30, Zhangbao; ZPZZ 147-9, QL 37/3/ 7, Zhangbao. 69. Cun Xiusheng, “Chongxiu Heshun xiang Zhongtian si Huangge bejji,” in Yongchang fu wen zheng, vol. (wen juan) 11, 12b. 70. When the British envoy, Michael Symes, arrived in Amarapura in 1795, he frequently saw the Bhamo governor squiring three Yunnan representatives around the city. Symes, An Account of an Embassy to the Kingdom of Ava,

vol. 2, 231-232, 283-285, 376-378; vol. 3, 104. 71. Malcom, Travels in South-Eastern Asia, vol. 1, 224-225; Burney, Journal of Henry Burney, 90-91.

72. For Bowers’s estimate, see Bowers, Bhamo Expedition, 76. For the constant | trade with Bhamo, see Anderson, A Report, 51; Purcell, The Chinese in Southeast Asia, 67, 71-72. For Mogaung, see Pemberton, “Abstract of the Journal,” 276-277. 73. Crawfurd, Journal of an Embassy, vol. 1, 160-161; vol. 2, 191-194. 74. Beginning in 1854, there was a Kon-baung royal monopoly on cotton sales in sovereign territory, and Yule seems to have drawn on the court’s figures for his estimates for central Burma. It is not clear how he estimated the Tai territory figures. Henry Yule, A Narrative of the Mission Sent by the Governor-General of India to the Court of Ava in 1855 (London: Smith, Elder, 1858), 144, 148, 149. 75. McLeod, Journal, 36, 41-42, 44, 50, 59, 66, 74, 77.

268 + Notes to Pages 178-180 76. Da Qing huidian shili (Jiaqing chao), in Jindai Zhongguo shiliao congkan sanbian, vols. 641-700, ed. Shen Yunlong (Taibei: Wenhai chubanshe, 1991-1992), 438:Sa—12a.

77. Yinjishan routine memorial in Yunnan tongzhi (1736 Siku quanshu edition) 29.6: 29b-54a. 78. Pu’er fuzhigao (1902 edition) 17:1b—2a. See also Yang Yucai, Yunnan ge minzu jingji fazban shi (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1989), 302303; GZDQL, vol. 43, 488-489, QL 43/6/16, Pei Zongxi. 79. See references to planting and weeding in Pu’er fuzhi (1851 edition) 8:6b7a; Pw’er fuzhigao (1902 edition) 19:2b. For cultivation and expansion, see Yang, Yunnan ge minzu jingji fazhan, 298-300; Xishuangbanna Daizu zizhizhou renmin zhengfu, ed., Zhongguo Pu’er cha (Kunming: Yunnan meishu chubanshe, 1995), 224-225; 80. Tan, Dian hai yu heng zhi 11:3a-b.

81. Pu’er fuzhigao (1902 edition) 17:1b-2a; C.H. Desgodins, Le Thibet d’aprés la correspondance des missionnaires, 2nd ed. (Paris: Librairie Catholique de I’ cevre de Saint-Paul, 1885), 347-350. 82. For transcripts of the stele, see Mengla xian zhi (Kunming: Yunnan renmin

chubanshe, 1994), 770-771; Xishuangbanna zhengfu, Zhongguo Pu’er cha, 228. 83. Zhao Guoxing, Yunnan sheng di zhi—Simao xian (n.p., 1921), 5-6; G. W. Clarke, The Province of Yunnan (Shanghai: Shanghai Mercury, 1885), 38. For the figure of 15,000 mule loads, see H. R. Davies, Yunnan: The Link Between India and the Yangtze (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1909; reprint, Taibei: Ch’eng Wen Publishing, 1970), 97, cited in Chiranan, Yunnan Trade, 69. In the 1720s, Hao Yulin estimated 1 million jin per year, which, at about 1.3 pounds per jin, is roughly 1.3 million pounds. GZDYZ, vol. 9, 863-866, YZ 6/2/22, Hao Yulin. E’ertai’s estimated 6,000 to 7,000 pony or mule loads, which, at about 170 pounds per load, totals 1.02-1.2 million pounds. E’ertai routine memorial, cited in Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 100:32a—-34b. 84. Paragraph based on Fred. W. Carey, “A Trip to the Chinese Shan States,” The Geographical Journal, vol. 14, no. 4 (October 1899): 388-389; Carey, “Journeys to the Chinese Shan States,” The Geographical Journal, vol. 15,

no. 5 (May 1900): 489-490; McLeod, Journal, 68; Hill, Merchants and Migrants, 73-80; Liu Minjiang, “Yiwu shangye ziben de tedian,” Xishuangbanna Daizu shehui zonghe diaocha, vol. 1 (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1983), 57.

85. McLeod, Journal, 61, 84; Malcom also notes that Tai (Shan) caravans, numbering about 1,000 animals total, came to the market town north of Amarapura in the 1830s. Malcom, Travels in South-Eastern Asia, vol. 1, 224-225. Chusit Chuchart, “From Peasant to Rural Trader.” 86. For stall fees, see Song Enchang, “Jinghong he Menghai de Daizu jishi,” Xishuangbanna Daizu shehui zonghe diaocha, vol. 1, 62; Bowers, Bhamo

Expedition, 26. For mining, see ZPZZ 142-1, QL 35/1/4, Fuheng et al. |

Notes to Pages 180-186 + 269

66, 68, 77. |

For tolls, protection money, and licenses, see McLeod, Journal, 56-57, 60,

87. Anderson, A Report, 303, 318-319; Bowers, Bhamo Expedition, 89. 88. Hill, Merchants and Migrants, 47, 59-60. 89. Hill emphasizes this important point. Ibid., 36. 90. Ibid., 35-36, 61. 91. ZPZZ 159, QL $5/7/25, Fugang. 92. Lieberman, “Secular Trends in Burmese Economic History,” 16-17, 24. 93. Reid, “Economic and Social Change,” 137; Robert E. Elson, “International Commerce, the State, and Society: Economic and Social Change,” in The Cambridge History of Southeast Asia, vol. 2, part 1, ed. Nicholas Tarling (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 128-129. 94. Yule describes this population in some detail. Yule, A Narrative, 142-150. 95. ZPZZ 886-2, DG 29/10/28. , 96. L. Eve Armentrout Ma, “Fellow-Regional Associations in the Ch’ing Dynasty: Organizations in Flux for Mobile People. A Preliminary Survey,” Modern Asian Studies, vol. 18, no. 2 (1984): 307-325; Robert Eric Entenmann, “Migration and Settlement in Sichuan, 1644-1796” (Ph.D. dissertation, Harvard University, 1982), 187-190. 97. Lin, “Ming Qing shiqi neidi shangren zai Yunnan,” 61; Fang, Yunnan shiliao, vol. 3, 1291-1294; Ho Ping-ti, Zhongguo huiguan shi lun (Taibei: Taiwan xuesheng shuju, 1966), 52. 98. Yule, A Narrative, 143. See also Pemberton, “Abstract of the Journal,” 248, 257, 259; Anderson, A Report, 219; Peng, “Mian shu,” 10b. 99. McLeod, Journal, 36, 56-57, 59. 100. Yule, A Narrative, 144, 150. Although Yule never gives an exchange rate for the tikal, a weight of silver, at one point he does mention that 150,000 tikals were worth more than £18,000. 101. Anderson, A Report, 51. 102. Yule, A Narrative, 150. 103. Clement Williams, Through Burmah to Western China, Being Notes of a Journey in 1863 (Edinburgh: William Blackwood and Sons, 1868), 77-78, 96-97. 104. On Dali infrastructure, see Hu, Yunnan mabang, 96-97. 105. James A. Millward, “New Perspectives on the Qing Frontier,” in Remapping China: Fissures in Historical Terrain, ed. Gail Hershatter et al. (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1996), 123-124. 106. Atwill, “Rebellion South of the Clouds,” 86-100. 107. The stele, known as the Yiwu Tea Case Stele (Yiwu cha an bei) was set up in 1838 next to the Shiping native place association. It is transcribed in Mengla xian zhi, 771-772. 108. JJCLF (Beijing) Minzu lei 77-2; QSL, vol. 2, 152-153; QSL, vol. 2, 153154.

109. For European and Japanese goods, see Forbes, “The ‘Cin-Ho’,” 22.

270 + Notes to Pages 187-191

7. “Barbarians” Still? 1. ZPZZ 1733-1, QL 11/2/20, Zhang Yunsui; Fang Guoyu, Dian xi bian qu kaocha ji (Kunming: Guoli Yunnan daxue Xinan wenhua yanjiu shi, 1943), 6-7.

2. G.E. Harvey and G. E. Barton, Mengmao Succession (Rangoon: Burma Secretariat File; Imprint No. 99 H. P. D. 29.10.30), cited in Edmund R. Leach, Political Systems of Highland Burma: A Study of Kachin Social Structure (London: G. Bell and Sons, 1954), 2. 3. Leach, Political Systems of Highland Burma, 2, 8-9, 123, 172, 224-225. 4. Ibid., 221-223. 5. For the long process of assimilation in Miao areas of western Hunan and eastern Guizhou, see Donald S. Sutton, “Violence and Ethnicity on a Qing Colonial Frontier: Customary and Statutory Law in the Eighteenth-Century Miao Pale,” Modern Asian Studies, vol. 37, no. 1 (2003): 77; for the “long route” of assimilation on Taiwan (and also an explanation of how assimilation might be rapid in some cases), see Melissa J. Brown, “On Becoming Chinese,” in Negotiating Ethnicities in China and Taiwan (Berkeley: Insti-

tute of East Asian Studies, University of California, Center for Chinese Studies, 1996), 46. 6. John Robert Shepherd, Statecraft and Political Economy on the Taiwan Frontier, 1600-1800 (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1993), 362-363, 377; Brown, “On Becoming Chinese,” 62. 7. Shen Haimei discusses the geographical influence of Chinese culture in Ming Oing Yunnan funu shenghuo yanjiu (Kunming: Yunnan jiaoyu chubanshe, 2000), 62-64. Sutton also finds the 1720s to be a transitional moment in Chinese cultural influence on the western Hunan frontier. “Violence and Ethnicity on a Qing Colonial Frontier,” 57-63. 8. ZPZZ 142-1, QL 35/1/19, Fuheng et al. 9. Mian dang QL 33 xia, 187-190; Mian dang QL 34 shang, 199-201. 10. For the seventeenth century, see John E. Herman, “Empire in the Southwest: Early Qing Reforms to the Native Chieftain System,” The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 56, no. 1 (February 1997): 56. For the eighteenth century, see ZPZZ 142-1, QL 35/1/19, Fuheng et al. For Tsau Maha Nawi’s family, see ZPZZ 108-23, DG 15/6/3, Ruan Yuan and Yilibu; Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu (Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe, 1993), 273. 11. Liu Jing, “Shunning za zhu,” in Xiao fang hu zhai yu di cong chao, vol. 7, ed. Wu Xiqi (Shanghai: Zhuyi tang, 1877; reprint, Taibei: Guangwen shuju, 1962), 337a—338b. 12. Francis Garnier, Further Travels in Laos and in Yunnan: The Mekong Ex-

ploration Commission Report, 1866-1868, trans. Walter E. J. Tips (Bangkok: White Lotus, 1996), 96. 13. Zhao Duanli, “Yongfu qie ji lu can gao,” in Yongchang fu wen zheng, vol. (wen juan) 16, ed. Li Genyuan (Kunming: Tengchong Li shi, 1941), 19b. 14. ZPZZ 881-1, QL 31/3/22, Yang Yingju; Lieutenant W. C. McLeod’s full

Notes to Pages 191-193 + 271 journal (hereafter, McLeod, Journal) is available in House of Commons Parliamentary Papers, 1868-69, vol. 46, section 420. See p. 71 for Tai elite dress and queue. 15. JJCLF #012699 (Taibei), QL 35/10/8, Agui and Zhangbao; Dao Yuechun,

| “Nandian tusi cheng ging gai fu Gong xing wen,” in Yongchang fu wen zheng, vol. (wen juan) 29, 11b; Jiang Yingliang, “Dian xi Boyi de tusi zhengzhi” (Kunming, 1938), reprinted in Xinan bianjiang minzu lun cong (Taibei: Xin wen feng chuban gongsi, 1978), 116, 133; Beatrix Metford, Where China Meets Burma: Life and Travel in the Burma-China Border Lands (London: Blackie & Son, 1935), 97. 16. ZPZZ 894-1, QL 23/11/7, Wu Shaoshi; ZPZZ 881-1, QL 31/3/22, Yang Yingju; ZPZZ 881-3, QL 31/4/11, Yang Yingyju. 17. Archibald Colquhoun, Across Chrysé: A Journey of Exploration through the South China Border Lands from Canton to Mandalay, vol. 2 (London: Sampson Low, Marston, Searle and Rivington, 1883; reprint, Singapore:

Graham Brash, 1988), 328-329. For the turban as Tai headgear in the eighteenth century, see the interrogation with Boli, who admitted to wrapping his head with a kerchief so he would pass as a local Tai in the HusaLongchuan area. JJCLF #013438 (Taibei). 18. McLeod, Journal, 80. 19. William T. Rowe, “Education and Empire in Southwest China: Ch’en

Hung-mou in Yunnan, 1733-1738,” in Education and Society in Late Imperial China, 1600-1900, ed. Benjamin A. Elman and Alexander Woodside (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 429-432, 439-443;

ZPZZ 1685-1, QL 8/9/21, Zhang Yunsui; ZPZZ 1685-5, QL 14/6/25, Tu’erbing’a; Herman, “Empire in the Southwest,” 65.

20. There are reports that some Hani learned to speak and read Chinese, as well. Wetyuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 3:46a. 21. Shepherd, Statecraft and Political Economy on the Taiwan Frontier, 372373; Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 86:2a—b. 22. Confession of Wu Dagui in JJCLF #013366 (Taibei). Francis Garnier, Voyage d’exploration en Indo-chine, vol. 1 (Paris: Librairie Hachette et cie, 1873), 402. For examples of hill women in the markets, see Colquhoun, Across Chrysé, vol. 2, 333; Fred. W. Carey, “Journeys in the Chinese Shan States,” The Geographical Journal, vol. 15, no. 5 (May 1900): 509-511. 23. For Yunnanese, see Garnier, Voyage d’exploration, vol. 1, 402. For Tai and Kachin, see John Anderson, A Report on the Expedition to Western Yunan via Bhamo (Calcutta: Office of the Superintendent of Government Printing, 1871), 100; P. Bons d’Anty, Excursions dans le pays Chan chinois et dans les montagnes de thé (Shanghai: La presse orientale, 1900), 62; and Mrs. Leslie Milne (Mary Lewis Harper), Shans at Home (London: John Murray,

1910), 132. For standard Jinghpaw, see Leach, Political Systems of Highland Burma, 44-50. 24. Weiyuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 3:45b; Bons d’Anty, Excursions, 39; Carey, “Journeys in the Chinese Shan States,” 492.

272 + Notes to Pages 193-195 25. Tien Ju-k’ang, Mangshi bianmin de Bai (Chongqing: Shangwu yin shu guan, 1946), 2; Fang, Dian xi bian qu kaocha ji, 6-7; Milne, Shans at Home, 101-102. 26. Sao Saimon Mangrai, ed. and trans., The Padaeng Chronicle and the Jengtung State Chronicle Translated (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Center for South and Southeast Asian Studies, 1981), 52-57 (hereafter cited as Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle); Gao Lishi, trans., “Xishuangbanna Zhaopianling shixi yizhu,” Minzu xue bao, no. 2 (1982): 90, notes 7, 8. 27. For details of how Theravada Buddhism was linked to ritual and political power in Sipsongpanna, see Hasegawa Kiyoshi, “ ‘Fu’ naru Chugoku, ‘Bo’ naru Biruma—Shippu s6n pan na dken to sono ‘gaibu’,” in Oken no iso,

ed. Matsubara Masatake (Tokyo: K6bund6, 1991), 380-414. For a more general discussion of Tai cultural links to Burma, including Theravada Buddhism, see Geoff Wade, “The Spread of the Theravada Tradition in the

Tai Polities of Yun-nan, 14th to 18th Centuries” (paper delivered at the Third Euro-Japanese Symposium on Southeast Asian History, University of Hamburg, 7~9 September 1998), 17-22, 24; Victor B. Lieberman, Bur-

mese Administrative Cycles: Anarchy and Conquest, c. 1580-1760 (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1984), 37-38; Lieberman, “Transcending East-West Dichotomies: State and Culture Formation in Six Ostensibly Disparate Areas,” Modern Asian Studies, vol. 31, no. 3 (1997):

486. For example of oaths, see Li Fuyi, trans., Leshi (Kunming: Guoli Yunnan daxue Xinan wenhua yanjiushi, 1947), 22. 28. Dao Shuren, trans., “Sishisidai Zhaopianling shixi,” in Cheli xuanweishi shixi jijie, ed. Dao Shuren, Dao Yongming, and Kang Lang Zhuang (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1989), 248-249; Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu, 230.

29. David K. Wyatt and Arronrut Wichienkeeo, trans., The Chiang Mai Chronicle (Chiang Mai: Silkworm Books, 1995), 84, records the drinking of water as a ceremony of allegiance. For the symbolism of the parasol within Southeast Asian polities, see Shelly Errington, Meaning and Power in a Southeast Asian Realm (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1989), 3-4, 94-95. For Rama I’s funerary procession, see Sumet Jumsai, Naga: Cultural Origins in Siam and the West Pacific (Singapore: Oxford University Press, 1988), 131. 30. David K. Wyatt, ed. and trans., The Nan Chronicle (Ithaca, N.Y.: Southeast Asia Program, Cornell University, 1994), 100. 31. Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle, 264-268. 32. Ibid., 261, 267. 33. Dao Shuren, “Sishisidai,” 261-270; Li Fuyi, Leshi, 37-39; Zhu Depu, Leshi yanjiu, 278-279, 283-284. 34. McLeod, Journal, 80; Colquhoun, Across Chrysé, vol. 2, 327-328. 35. Zhu Liangwen, The Dai or the Tai and Their Architecture and Customs in South China (Bangkok: D D Books and Kunming: The Science and Technology Press of Yunnan, 1992), 53-60, Figure 75, Figure 77. For the

Notes to Pages 195-198 + 273 importance of parasol symbol in Tai and Thai architecture, see Sumet Jumsai, Naga, 131. For an example in Thailand, see Ruethai Chaichongrak, Somchai Nil-athi, Ornsiri Panin, and Saowalak Posayanonda, The Thai House: History and Evolution (Trumbull, Conn.: River Books, 2002), 114. 36. Sumet, Naga, 133-134.

37. Carey, “Journeys in the Chinese Shan States,” 494, 508; Yao Hesheng, Shui Baiyi feng tu ji (Shanghai: Da dong shuju, 1948), 70. 38. Mangrai, Jengtung Chronicle, 4. 39. Wetyuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 3:45a-b; Yos Santasombat, Lak Chang: A Reconstruction of Tai Identity in Daikong (Canberra: Pandanus Books, 2001), 114-123; Zhu, The Dai or the Tai and Their Architecture, 34-37; Milne, Shans at Home, 121. 40. Zhang Jingqiu, Bian huang (Shanghai: Zheng zhong shu ju, 1946), 97, 100-101, 104-106. 41. Hasegawa Kiyoshi, “Budhhism and Spirit Cults among the Tai Liiii in Yunnan,” Tai Culture, vol. 4, no. 1 (1999): 34-35, 48; Zhu Liangwen, The Dai or the Tai and Their Architecture, 40-41; Guan Jian, The Indigenous Religion and Theravada Buddhism in Ban Da Tiu—A Dai Lue Village in Yunnan (China) (Gaya, India: Centre for Southeast Asian Studies, 1993), 8-9. 42. This touched off the “Luohei” uprisings. 43. Hasegawa, “Budhhism and Spirit Cults,” 36; Ruethai, The Thai House,

74-75, 156-157, 242. 44. Sumet Jumsai, Naga, 86-88; Zhu Liangwen, The Dai or the Tai and Their Architecture, 87, 102-103, 109-110; Yos, Lak Chang, 36-37; Ruethai, The Thai House, 92, 159. For visiting a traditional Tai Lue stilt house

Bian huang, 84-85. before the revolution and making it past the guard dog, see Zhang Jinggqiu,

45. Georges Condominas, “A Few Remarks About Thai Political Systems,” in Natural Symbols in South East Asia, ed. G. B. Milner (London: School of

| Oriental and African Studies, University of London, 1978), 105-112. 46. Yos, Lak Chang, 47; Zhu Liangwen, The Dai or the Tai and Their Architecture, 15; Hasegawa, “Budhhism and Spirit Cults,” 36; Guan, The Indigenous Religion and Theravada Buddhism, 25-26. 47. The French Mekong expedition encountered just such a phii muong ceremony, with closed domain, on their trip into Sipsongpanna in 1868; signs along the road warned travelers from entering the domain. Garnier, Further Travels, 75. 48. Hasegawa, “ ‘Fu’ naru Chugoku, ‘Bo’ naru Biruma,” 381-402; Ronald D. Renard, “Tai Lii Self, House, Village, and Moeng,” Crossroads, Special Thai Issue (Part Two), vol. 5, no. 1 (1990): 51; Shigeharu Tanabe, “Spirits and Ideological Discourse: The Tai Lii Guardian Cults in Yunnan,” Sojourn, Social Issues in Southeast Asia, vol. 3, no. 1 (February 1988): 1114; Hasegawa, “Budhhism and Spirit Cults,” 43-48; Ratanaporn Sethakul, “Tai Lue of Sipsongpanna and Miiang Nan in the Nineteenth Century,”

274 + Notes to Pages 198-200 in Civility and Savagery: Social Identity in Tai States, ed. Andrew Turton (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press, 2000), 327. 49. Grant Evans introduces this wonderful idea of intermediate space in his

article on the Black Tai relations with the Vietnamese and local highlanders. Grant Evans, “Tai-ization: Ethnic Change in Northern IndoChina,” in Civility and Savagery: Social Identity in Tai States, ed. Andrew Turton, 282. See also Maran La Raw, “Toward a Basis for Understanding the Minorities in Burma: The Kachin Example,” in Southeast Asian Tribes, Minorities, and Nations, ed. Peter Kunstadter (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1967), vol. 1, 135-136. 50. Leach, Political Systems of Highland Burma, 30. 51. For Kachin, see A. Bowers, Bhamo Expedition: Report on the Practicability of Re-Opening the Trade Route, between Burma and Western China (Rangoon: The Mission Press, 1869), 21; Leach, Political Systems of Highland Burma, 111-112. For Hani, see Weiyuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 3:46a. For

Akha, see Song Enchang, Yan Da, Luo Ge, and A Hai, “Menghai xian Hani zu shehui diaocha,” in Hani zu shehui lishi diaocha (Kunming: Yunnan minzu chubanshe, 1982), 118, 123. 52. This continued into the twentieth century. See Chen Bisheng, Dianbian sanyi (Chongqing: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1941), 16-17, 39-42. 53. The classic study of the Torch Festival is You Guo’en’s “Huoba jie kao” (1942), reprinted in You Guo’en xue shu lun wen ji (Being: Zhonghua shu ju, 1989), 449-465. For postrevolutionary accounts, see Mo Fushan, ed., Zhongguo minjian jieri wenhua cidian (Beying: Zhigong jiaoyu chubanshe, 1990), 146-147, 375-376; Qiao Jitang and Zhu Ruiping, eds., Zhongguo sui shi jie ling cidian (Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe, 1998), 366-369; Zhou Yiping and Shen Chaying, eds., Sui shi ji shi cidian (Changsha: Hunan chubanshe, 1991), 105. 54. There are two main legends about virtuous “barbarian” women, and it was said that the torches of the Torch Festival were lit in their memories. During the Han invasions, the soldiers slew a “barbarian” leader, and the Han general tried to force the widow, Anan, to marry him. She demanded

that a mourning hall be built for her dead husband and that all of her clothing, which were gifts from her husband, be burned; as the fire was ignited, she slit her throat and jumped into the flames. The second legend describes the era when Piluoge first conquered the six kingdoms (liu zhao) to create Nanzhao; in order to do so, he organized the murder of his rivals, burning them to death in Songming pavilion. One of the wives came to search for the corpse of her husband, and, hearing of her loyalty, Piluoge wanted to marry her. Instead, she died a chaste widow. For the legends as told in Qing sources, see Yunnan tongzhigao (1835 edition) 30:7a—b. 55. Shen Haimei has also concluded that Chinese celebrated the Torch Festival. See Ming Oing Yunnan funu shenghuo yanjiu, 154-157. 56. Peter Kunstadter, “Introduction,” in Southeast Asian Tribes, Minorities, and Nations, vol. 1, 31-32 57. Sara Davis, Song and Silence: Ethnic Revival on China’s Southwest Borders

Notes to Pages 201-205 + 275 (New York: Columbia University Press, forthcoming); Siraporn Nathalang, “Tai Creation Myths: Reflections of Tai Relations and Tai Cultures,” Tai

Culture, vol. 2, no. 1 (1997): 56-66. 58. David G. Atwill, “Blinkered Visions: Islamic Identity, Hui Ethnicity, and the Panthay Rebellion in Southwest China,” The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 62, no. 4 (November 2003): 1083-1087. 59. Metford, Where China Meets Burma, 95; Milne, Shans at Home, 135; Bowers, Bhamo Expedition, 25. 60. Bowers, Bhamo Expedition, 18-20; Milne, Shans at Home, 133. 61. Ratanaporn, “Tai Lue of Sipsongpanna and Miiang Nan,” 327-329. 62. The work of James L. Watson has focused on death ritual and other crucial rituals that Chinese recognized as civilized. He brings these ideas together in “The Renegotiation of Chinese Cultural Identity in the Post-Mao Era,” in Perspectives on Modern China: Four Anniversaries, ed. Kenneth Lieberthal (Armonk, N.Y.: M. E. Sharpe, 1991), 364-386. For an argument that descent was also important to Chinese identity, see Brown, “On Becoming Chinese,” 42-43. 63. See Tengyue gazetteers on orthodoxy. Tengyue zhouzhi (1790; reprint, 1931) 3:25a—b; Tengyue tingzhi (1887 edition) 7:1b. See also Shen, Ming Oing Yunnan funu shenghuo, 111-118. 64. Weiyuan tingzhi (1839 edition) 3:45b—46a; Bons d’Anty, Excursions, 39; Carey, “Journeys in the Chinese Shan States,” 492. To some degree this corresponds to Shepherd’s argument that family customs were among the last to change among Taiwan aborigines. Shepherd, Statecraft and Political Economy on the Taiwan Frontier, 383-386. 65. J. McCarthy, “Across China from Chin-kiang to Bhamo, 1877,” Proceedings of the Royal Geographical Society, vol. 1, no. 9 (August 1879): 505. For more on Tai marriage, see Milne, Shans at Home, 70, 76; Metford, Where China Meets Burma, 199; Li Fuyi, Cheli (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1933), 92-94; Shen Baoyun, Yunnan sheng di zhi—Zhenkang

| xian (Kunming: Yunnan guan yin ju, 1921), 14; Yos, Lak Chang, 67, 7577.

66. For an early-twentieth-century reference to free marriage (ziyou hunpei), see Shen, Yunnan sheng di zhi—Zhenkang xian, 14. For Tai as suibian or loose, see Dru Gladney, “Representing Nationality in China: Refiguring Majority/Minority Identities,” The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 53, no. 1 (February 1994): 92. Also see Zhang Nuanxin’s Oing chun ji (Beijing: Distributed by China Film Export & Import; Los Angeles: China Film Import & Export, 1993) for a movie that depicts a strong fascination with Tai courting, which is depicted as natural and free in contrast with a selfconsciously conservative approach to love and marriage taken by Chinese (Han) youth. 67. Chuan-kang Shih, “Genesis of Marriage among the Moso and EmpireBuilding in Late Imperial China,” The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 60,

no. 2 (May 2001): 381-412.

68. For remote areas of Yunnan with footbinding, see Garnier, Further Travels,

276 + Notes to Pages 205—210 80; for Bai footbinding, see Shen, Ming Oing Yunnan funu shenghuo, 93-

94. For lack of highlander and Tai footbinding, see Garnier, Further Travels, 125-126; Bowers, Bhamo Expedition, 25; Li Fuyi, Cheli, 99. 69. Metford, Where China Meets Burma, 165; Chen Bisheng, Dianbian sanyi, 41-42. 70. Dao Yuechun, “Nandian tusi,” 11b; Jiang, “Dian xi Boyi,” 116; Metford, Where China Meets Burma, 190-191. 71. The Ganyai ruler was not the only northern Crescent Tai noble to collect automobiles. See Metford, Where China Meets Burma, 80-81, 94, 197.

} 72. Yao, Shui Batyi feng tu fi, 147. 73. Evans, “Tai-ization,” 284; Hasegawa, “Budhhism and Spirit Cults,” 4950; Ratanaporn, “Tai Lue of Sipsongpanna and Miiang Nan,” 328-329.

Conclusion 1. ZPZZ 895-2, Xuantong 1/4/11, Shen Bingkun. 2. Joseph FE. Fletcher, “Ch’ing Inner Asia c. 1800,” in The Cambridge History

of China, vol. 10, Late Ch’ing, 1800-1911, part 1, ed. John K. Fairbank (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 49-53; Peter C. Perdue, “Empire and Nation in Comparative Perspective: Frontier Administration in Eighteenth-Century China,” Journal of Early Modern History, vol. 5, no. 4 (2001): 291; Ma Ruheng and Zhao Yuntian, “ ‘En wei bing shi’ yu ‘yin su er zhi’ de zhi bian fangzhen,” in Qing dai de bianjiang zhengce, ed. Ma Ruheng and Ma Dazheng (Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe, 1994), 67. 3. John EF Richards, The Mughal Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University

Press, 1995), 79-91, 192.

4. See Peter Perdue’s discussion of Qing and Ottoman negotiation with “vernacular systems of power,” a phrase borrowed from Ariel Salzman and cited in “Empire and Nation in Comparative Perspective,” 285-286. 5. Luciano Petech, China and Tibet in the Early Eighteenth Century: History

of the Establishment of the Chinese Protectorate in Tibet, 2nd rev. ed. (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1972), 66-67. 6. Ibid., chap. 16.

7. David M. Farquhar, “Emperor as Bodhisattva in the Governance of the Ch’ing Empire,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies, vol. 38, no. 1 (June 1978): 5-34.

| 8. For Mongol law, see Dorothea Heuschert, “Legal Pluralism in the Qing Empire: Manchu Legislation for the Mongols,” The International History Review, vol. 20, no. 2 (June 1998): 310-324. For Muslim law, see James A. Millward, Beyond the Pass: Economy, Ethnicity, and Empire in Qing Central Asia, 1759-1864 (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1998), 121-122. For Red Miao law as well as the insightful point that the secret memorial system allowed for flexibility from frontier to frontier, see Donald S. Sutton, “Violence and Ethnicity on a Qing Colonial Frontier:

Notes to Pages 210-214 + 277 Customary and Statutory Law in the Eighteenth-Century Miao Pale,” Modern Asian Studies, vol. 37, no. 1 (2003): 41-80. 9. Millward, Beyond the Pass, 45-48, 71-72, 80-91. 10. Robert Eric Entenmann, “Migration and Settlement in Sichuan, 16441796” (Ph.D. dissertation, Harvard University, 1982), 80, 85, 118; Millward, Beyond the Pass, 51. 11. John Shepherd notes that spatial segregation was common Qing policy not only on frontiers but in the cities where bannermen were segregated from the Chinese population. John Robert Shepherd, Statecraft and Political Economy on the Taiwan Frontier, 1600-1800 (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1993), 332. 12. Ibid., chaps. 6 and 9. 13. Shepherd has an extended discussion of indigenous military settlements. Ibid., 333-337. For the hui tun see Millward, Beyond the Pass, 50. 14. He Zikai, “Tengyue bianwu de shi lun,” in Yongchang fu wen zheng, vol. (wen juan) 14, ed. Li Genyuan (Kunming: Tengchong Li shi, 1941), 4a—b.

David Bello has also commented on He’s criticisms of Hu Qirong. See David A. Bello, “To Go Where No Han Could Go for Long: Malaria and

the Qing Construction of Ethnic Administrative Space in Frontier

, Yunnan,” Modern China, forthcoming. , 15. Victor B. Lieberman, “Transcending East-West Dichotomies: State and Cul-

, ture Formation in Six Ostensibly Disparate Areas,” Modern Asian Studies, vol. 31, no. 3 (1997): 473-482, 494, 496, 510, 514-517, 533-534, 545. 16. Joseph E Fletcher, “Integrative History: Parallels and Interconnections in the Early Modern Period, 1500-1800,” in Studies in Chinese and Islamic Inner Asia, ed. Beatrice Forbes Manz (Aldershot, Hampshire: Variorum, 1995), 2-4. 17. Sylvie Pasquet, L’évolution du systéme postal: La province chinoise du Yunnan a Pépoque Qing (1644-1911) (Paris: Collége de France, Institut des hautes études chinoises, 1986), 182-183, 189, 197, 204-205, 225. 18. Scholars are just now exploring imperial rivalry, military mobilization, and frontier geopolitics in order to understand how it transformed the Qing. Some of the best efforts to date are Peter Perdue’s studies of Qing rivalry with the Zunghar Mongols and Romanovs in Central Asia. It is probably

safe to say that the changes engendered by engagements on the SinoSoutheast Asian frontier did not have as profound an effect as the Qing’s great rivalries in Central Asia. Perdue, “Boundaries, Maps, and Movement: Chinese, Russian, and Mongolian Empires in Early Modern Central Eurasia,” The International History Review, vol. 20, no. 2 (June 1998): 263286. In general, early modern empires throughout Eurasia were subject to rivalry and conflict along mutual frontiers, and such conflicts profoundly influenced developments. For an analysis of Ottoman, Hapsburg, and Romanov rivalry in the Danubian and Black Sea frontiers, see Virginia H. Aksan, “Locating the Ottomans among Early Modern Empires,” Journal of Early Modern History, vol. 3, no. 2 (1999): 103-134.

278 + Notes to Pages 216-219 19. Millward, Beyond the Pass, 125-152. 20. Christian Daniels, “Environmental Degradation, Forest Protection and Ethno-History in Yunnan: (1) The Uprising by Swidden Agriculturalists in 1821,” Chinese Environmental History Newsletter, vol. 1, no. 2 (November 1994): 10.

21. ZPZZ 1739-4, QL 38/4/10, Zhangbao; ZPZZ 1739-6, QL 38/4/28, Zhangbao. 22. John F. Richards, The Unending Frontier: An Environmental History of the Early Modern World (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 618-620. 23. See, for example, John E Richard’s recent synthesis of the material on Guizhou and the Miao, in The Unending Frontier, 132-138. 24. Niu Hongbin, “Jindai waidi yimin ru Dian gaiyao,” Zhongguo Xinan wenhua yanjiu, no. 2 (1997): 76. 25. Tengchong Dieshuibe Li shi zu pu, “Shixi biao,” 4a—Sa; “Xian de ji,” 4ab. Flight to Longling was common at this time. The Longling County gazetteer notes that the Panthay uprising led to a significant migration wave. Longling xianzhi (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2000), 712-713. 26. John Anderson, A Report on the Expedition to Western Yunan via Bhamo (Calcutta: Office of the Superintendent of Government Printing, 1871), 89-

90, 312-318. |

27. Louis de Carné, Travels in Indo-China and the Chinese Empire (London: Chapman and Hall, 1872), 219-220; Francis Garnier, Further Travels in Laos and in Yunnan: The Mekong Exploration Commission Report, 18661868, trans. Walter E. J. Tips (Bangkok: White Lotus, 1996), 106, 109, 118.

28. Archibald R. Colquhoun, Across Chrysé: A Journey of Exploration through the South China Border Lands from Canton to Mandalay, vol. 2 (London: Sampson Low, Marston, Searle, and Rivington, 1883; reprint, Singapore: Graham Brash, 1988), 100-102. 29. James Lee, “The Legacy of Immigration in Southwest China, 1250-1850,” _ Annales de démographie historique (1982): 301; George V. H. Moseley, Ill, The Consolidation of the South China Frontier (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1973), 110. 30. David G. Atwill, “Blinkered Visions: Islamic Identity, Hui Ethnicity, and the Panthay Rebellion in Southwest China, 1856-1873,” The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 62, no. 4 (November 2003): 1092. 31. It is possible that the effects of the Panthay Rebellion in Yunnan were comparable to the “polarizing” effect of the Taiping in eastern China’s

Jiangnan region. Pamela Crossley argues that this was the era when Manchu ethnic consciousness arose. Although there are those who disagree

with her, further research is necessary before the full impact of the midnineteenth century on racial and ethnic identity in China can be fully appreciated. Pamela Kyle Crossley, “Thinking About Ethnicity in Early Modern China,” Late Imperial China, vol. 11, no. 1 (June 1990): 1-34.

2a. :

Notes to Pages 219-223 + 279

32. See for example, He, “Tengyue bianwu de shi lun,” 4a—b; Zhao Jinsheng, “Nanhuang tushuo,” in Yongchang fu wen zheng, vol. (wen juan) 14, 1b-

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Index

Note: Page numbers in italics refer to figures.

“Account of the Bai Barbarians” (Batyi 203. See also “Account of the Bai

zhuan), 72, 74 Barbarians”; “Boyi”; Tai

Acculturation, 7, 203-204, 217; and Batyi zhuan. See “Account of the Bai power, 188-189, 193-194; on Taiwan, Barbarians” 188-189; and intermarriage, 189-190; Bannermen, as elite officials in Yunnan,

to Chinese ways, 190-193; and 87, 102, 129

language, 192-193; to Southeast Asian “Barbarians”: as derogatory stereotype, 49-

ways, 193-195; to Tai ways, 198-199 50, 54, 114, 143-144; as Qing subjects, Achang, 22, 174-175; as skilled metal 61, 219; and debate over human nature,

workers, 139, 164 66-67; concepts and images of, 70-82,

Agriculture: swidden, 115, 141; 99-100, 203, 219; Qing cooperation intensification of, 128, 141-142, 145, with, 88-96, 123, 214. See also , 216; cash cropping, 142, 185, 216-217 Ethnography

Agui, 211-212 Berkhofer, Robert, 65, 69 Akha, 22, 23, 52, 140, 141; adoption of Bhamo: Chinese community in, 138-139, select Tai practices, 199. See also Hani 181, 183; and trade, 164, 170, 172-

Anderson, John, 137, 141, 180, 183 177, 180; Tai communities of, 194, 200 Architecture: Tai and Chinese, 138, 140, Borderlands, definition of, 3—4

157, 200; similarities between Bowers, Alexander, 176, 180 Sipsongpanna and Southeast Asia, 195- “Boyi,” images of, 72-75, 76, 77, 78. See

196, 197; of highlanders, 199 also “Baiyi”; Tai Assimilation, 188, 199, 203-204 British: in Burma, 29, 122, 124, 171;

Atwill, David, 219 expeditions to Yunnan, 136-137, 159, Ava: Chinese community in, 138-139, 181, 162; textiles, 159, 173. See also

183; and trade, 170, 172-173, 176-177 Imperialism

Ayudhya. See Siam Buddhism: and highlanders, 22, 188, 199; Theravada and Tai, 26, 37, 199, 204;

“Baiyi”: Chinese images of, 72, 75, 79, and political rituals, 37, 59-60, 19380, 100; as Chinese term for the Tai, 195; Tibetan, 43, 45, 210, 221-222;

304 + Index

Buddhism (continued ) 166, 169, 171-173, 183; smuggling of, and resistance, 51-52, 58-60; conflicts 175-176; estimate of imports from over Mahayana and Theravada, 113- Burma, 177. See also Caravans,

114, 197; Theravada religious merchandise

architecture, 149, 150, 151, 155, 157, Crawfurd, John, 177 195-196; and Communist Party, 222 Crescent: definition of, 4; map of, 6 Bulang (Palaung), 22-23, 128. See also

Highlanders Dai. See Tai

Burma: relations with Tai domains, 4, 36— Dalai Lama, 45, 210, 221 38, 86-87, 99, 122-124; invasions of Dali (city): and caravan trade, 139, 159,

Tai territory, 10, 24, 36-37, 98-101, 166, 170; and urbanization, 145 110; territory of, 11-12; Kon-baung Dali kingdom, 29, 31-32, 169

dynasty, 98; warfare with Qing, 101- Davis, Sara, 33 .

105; tribute to Qing, 108; warfare with Disease, tropical, 20-21, 101-103, 109. Siam, 117-120; and caravan trade, 170, See also Malaria 174-175, 177; competition with China

and Siam, 212-215 F’ertai, 48-52, 54-57, 60-63, 64, 92-93 Ethnic group. See Nationality

Canton. See Guangdong Ethnic identity, 128, 206

Caravans: and commercial growth, 160- Ethnography, 65, 67-69, 70-82, 209; and

161; trade, 161-162, 168-171, 219; empiricism, 68-69 merchandise, 171-180; size of, 174-176; Ethnology, modern, 220-221 estimates of annual merchandise volume _—_Euro-centrism, in history, 9, 98

and value, 177-178. See also Tea Europeans: and mercantilism, 47; and

Chen Hongmou, 192 “Indian” policy, 65-66; and

Chiangmai, 26; and Sipsongpanna, 32-33, classification of humans, 65; influence 35, 196-197, 201; and Burma, 36-37, on Chinese scholarship, 69; and 98; alliance with Siam, 117-120, 124; depictions of Native Americans, 70, 75;

Chinese community in, 138; and and “Orient,” 80; merchandise, 160,

caravan trade, 161, 169-174 186, 218. See also British; French;

Chinese: migrants and settlers, 7, 24-25, Imperialism; Travel writing 34, 127-129; and Qing administration, Evidential scholarship (kaozheng), 69 108-109, 135-136, 211, 220; and intermarriage, 127, 139, 190; military Fang Guoyu, 168, 187

migrants, 129-132, 147; civilian Fletcher, Joseph FE, 214 migrants, 132-135; origins of (native Footbinding, as ethnic marker, 74, 189,

place), 132-133; settlement patterns, 203, 205 138-141, 144-145; in Southeast Asia, French: in Indochina, 10, 122, 171; 138-139, 181, 183-184; and impact on Mekong expedition, 29, 137, 159, 218; frontier economy, 141-144, 163-164, gunners under Burmese, 102. See also 184-185, 215-216; and urbanization, Garnier, Francis; Imperialism; Travel

152-158; and caravan trade, 161, 180- writing 184; and indigenes’ cultural change, Frontier: North American scholarship on, 193, 203-204; identity and culture, 201- 3, 9, 69, 226n7; definitions of, 3-4, 9-10

202 Fuheng, 102-106, 108

Chiranan Prasertkul, 171 Fu Nai, 116 “Civilization,” Chinese concepts of, 66—

67, 70, 82, 202 Gao Qizhuo, 46-48, 50, 61-62

Clifford, Nicholas, 136 Garnier, Francis, 141, 145, 151

Communist Party, and frontiers, 222 Gazetteers, 67-68, 70-75, 100; as Confucianism, 74, 80, 100, 190, 192, 217 governing tools, 80, 82. See also

Corruption, 49, 58, 108, 111 Ethnography

Cotton: cultivation, 142; trade, 163-164, Gender, and empire, 75, 80

Index - 305 Gengma: as Qing native official and Imperialism: European, 8, 10, 47, 65-66, Burmese saw-bwa, 99-100, 108; native 75, 136; Qing, 47-48, 75, 217. See also

militia of, 112, 114-115 British; French; Travel writing

Green Standard army, 39-40, 97, 102; Inner Asia: Qing conquest of, 44-45; and expansion, 46-48, 106; and direct Qing origins in, 64; Qing control of,

frontier rule, 51, 108, 110, 123-124; 210 funding of, 56; decline of, 111-113,

115, 124, 215. See also Chinese, Jade, 139, 165-166. See also Caravans,

military migrants merchandise Guangdong, and Burma cotton trade, 107, | Jebtsundamba Khutughtu, 221 176 Jiangxi: merchants from, 52-53, 164, 174, Gu Yanwu, 66 178; migrants from, 109, 132-133, 163;

native place association, 146, 148, 154-

Han empire, 30 155, 182-183

Hani, 23, 53; and tea, 23, 52; resistance Jiang Yingliang, 28-29 against Qing, 49, 54; and trade, 163; Jingpo, 22, 23-24. See also Kachin adoption of select Tai practices, 199. Jinuo, 22, 23; and tea trade, 52-53 See also Akha; Highlanders

Hasegawa Kiyoshi, 229n37 Kachin, 23, 139-140, 142; intermarriage Haw, 14, 36, 91, 203; misleading with Tai, 27-28; and trade, 160, 163-

translation of, 84 164, 185; adoption of Tai practices, 187Herman, John E., 50 188, 199; clothing styles of, 201. See

Highlanders (hill people), 21-22; also Jingpo

resistance against Qing, 48-50, 52, 58; Kangxi emperor, 42, 43-44, 64, 66-67 Qing stereotypes of, 49-50, 54; conflicts | Kaozheng. See Evidential scholarship

with Tai, 113-115; and segregated Kato Kumiko, 229n37 living patterns, 138, 140; under Tai Kazakhs, 119, 210, 215 control, 141, 144; and trade, 160, 161, Kengtung, 26, 32, 104, 203; and 163-166; and Yunnanese language, 192; Sipsongpanna, 35, 86, 122, 194-195; adoption of select Tai practices, 199, and Burma, 37, 83, 98, 100, 121; and 204. See also Achang; Akha; Bulang; China, 86, 101; and Siam, 118; Chinese Hani; Jingpo; Jinuo; Kachin; Lahu; Lisu; in, 138, 183; and regional marketing

Wa system, 159, 162-163, 164, 166-167;

Hill, Ann Maxwell, 229n37 and caravan trade, 170, 172, 177-178; Hill tribes. See Highlanders and regional Tai culture, 196, 200 Historical Atlas of China, inaccuracies of, Kida Mikio, 11

12-13 Kunming: and trade, 139, 166, 170, 182-

Hostetler, Laura, 68 183; and urbanization, 145 Hsieh, Shih-Chung, 13

Huang Oing zhigong tu. See Qing Lahu, 22, 24, 140; resistance against Imperial Illustrations of Tributaries Qing, 49, 112-115; and trade, 163. See

Hui. See Muslim-Chinese also “Luohei”

Hui Rebellion. See Panthay Rebellion Land: as commodity, 142, 216; indigenous Human nature (xing): Qing debates over, possession of, 142-144, 158, 185, 216-

66-67, 72, 90, 100; belief in 217; conflicting views on use, 144-145

universality of, 209 Leach, Edmund, 11, 23, 188

Hunan: merchants from, 52-53, 164, 174; Lee, James, 145 migrants from, 109, 132-133, 156-157, Leshi. See Sipsongpanna, historica] 163; native place associations (buiguan), chronicles

148-149, 154-155, 182-183; and Lieberman, Victor B., 162, 212-213

mining, 168 Lineage: Tai, 53, 191; Chinese, 148

Huoba jie. See Torch Festival Linné, Carl von, 65

Hu Qirong, 116, 212 Lisu, 22, 24, 116, 140, 142, 212

306 - Index

Li Wei, 46, 50, 55, 60, 61 Burma, 104, 119-120, 214; and “Luohei,” 112-114, 142, 156, 215. See highlander uprisings, 112-115

also Lahu Muong Mau (Mengmao), 19, 21, 26, 27, 72, 104; wars with Ming, 24, 35; as

Macroregion, 171 standard market, 162; and influence of

Malaria, 20-21, 102-103 Chinese culture, 191; and regional Tai Manchus, 64, 102, 129; anti-Manchu culture, 194, 200

sentiment, 67 Muslim-Chinese (Hui), 25, 154, 217; and

Markets: as common ground, 140; caravan trade, 161, 170; and

periodic, 159-160, 162-168; increasing acculturation, 201; atrocities against,

importance of, 165, 216 219

Marriage: between ethnic groups, 24, 28, Myanmar. See Burma 127, 134, 137, 139, 141; and political

alliance, 27-28, 37, 51, 86, 99, 194; Nan, 120, 170, 173, 178, 201

and cultural change, 189-190; Nanzhao kingdom, 31, 83, 169, 200 differences in customs, 193, 201-202, Nationalism: and history, 11, 13, 14;

203 ethno-nationalism, 222 178 controversies over, 22 Mekong River, 18-19, 54, 115 Nation building, and frontiers, 11, 220-

McLeod, W. C., 137-140, 159, 161, 177- Nationality (minzu): studies of, 21-22;

Mencius, 66 223

Menglian. See Muong Laem Native Americans, 9; Euro-American Mengmao. See Muong Mau policies toward, 65-66; Euro-American

Metford, Beatrice, 205 images of, 70, 75, 82

Miao (Hmong), 68, 96, 204, 210; “Native militia” (tulian), 51, 59, 60, 100-

rebellion of, 111, 113, 116 101, 123-124, 208; increasing Qing

Miao Albums, 68. See also Ethnography; reliance on, 112—117, 156, 209, 215

Hostetler, Laura “Native officials” (tusi), 2, 11, 34, 49,

“Middle ground,” definition of, 3-4 155~156; in Sipsongpanna, 29, 53, 59, Military. See Green Standard army 110; Qing regulation of, 40-42, 51, 70Military agricultural colonies (tuntian), 72, 93, 208; removal of (gaitu guiliu),

24, 34, 131, 211-212 45, 46-47, 48, 105, 219; Qing reliance Millward, James A., 210 on, 61, 63, 88-91, 99-101, 123-124,

Mines, 25, 92, 127, 133-134; and frontier 127; allegiance to Burma or Siam, 100, - security, 99-100, 134; Maolong Mine, 108, 119; opposition to, 129; control 133-134, 168; Bawdwin (Bolong) Mine, over land, 142-144, 216; and imperial

168, 170; and sworn brotherhoods, culture, 190-191, 204. See also “Native

182. See also Wu Shangxian militia”

Ming empire: rule on Yunnan frontier, 12— Native place, 132-133; associations

13, 24, 29, 34-36; conquest of Muong (huiguan), 146, 148-149, 154-155,

Mau, 24, 27; decline and fall, 37-40; 157, 182-183 and trade, 169

Mingrui, 102, 103 Opium, 111, 142, 163, 171, 173, 216 Mongols: and Yuan empire, 27, 29, 33-34;

Qing control of, 44-45, 208, 210; Panthay Rebellion, 10, 122, 140, 217-219;

Zunghars, 98; soldiers, 102; and impact on trade, 171, 179 declaration of Mongolian nation, 221 Pratt, Mary Louise, 136

Moso, 203 Pu’er (town): Qing occupation of, 41;

Mughal empire, 208-209 siege of, 58~59; and urban growth, 147, Muong Laem (Menglian), 26, 203; 148, 149 relations with Qing, 91-96; relations Pwer Prefecture, establishment of, 54-55,

with Tai states, 94, 122, 194; and 56, 62-63, 71

Index + 307 Qianlong emperor, 45-46, 68, 90, 108, 214-215; early history, 32-36; and 191; frontier policies of, 97, 101-102, Burma, 36-38, 86-87, 99-101, 117219-220; military campaigns of, 97-98, 122, 194; relations with Qing, 41-42,

103 57, 59-63, 84-88, 91, 117-120, 209;

Qin empire, 30 Qing invasions of, 51-52, 58-60;

Qing empire: conquest and expansion, 1- historical chronicles, 84-87; relations

2, 10, 38-40; comparison to other with other Tai states, 86, 194-195;

empires, 47, 64-67, 208-209; removal of ruler, 105, 110; and Siam, adaptation to non-Chinese cultures, 59- 117-122, 194; civil war, 121-122; 60, 92-93, 95-96, 209-210; Burma Chinese residents in, 138; schools, 151, campaigns, 101-105, 123; formulation 192; and regional marketing system,

of frontier policies, 210-212 162-163, 164; and caravan trade, 178-

Qing Fu, 88-89 180, 185; and regional Tai culture, 196, Oing Imperial Illustrations of Tributaries, 200. See also Architecture; “Native

68, 73-74, 76, 77, 80 militia”; Tai; Tai Lue .

Qin Shucai, 132 Smith, Kent, 50, 238n11

Smuggling, 107, 117, 172, 173, 174-176

Royal Geographical Society, 136 Songkran, 196

Ruan Yuan, 121 Spies, 107, 176 Sutton, Donald S., 8

Said, Edward, 80 Systema Naturae, 65 Salt: revenue and Qing conquest, 46-48,

55-57, 61; and indigenous resistance, Tai, 4, 7, 13, 26-27; historical chronicles, 48-50; merchants, 154, 157; and long- 8, 82-83, 91-92; rule over highlanders, distance trade, 169, 173; smuggling, 22-23, 115, 141; women’s political

175-176 power, 27-28; history to 1644, 32-33,

Salween River, 17, 18-19, 100 34-38; and intermarriage, 37, 99, 139;

Schools: charity (yixue), 146, 151, 156- resistance against Qing, 48-49, 51-52,

157, 192; Tai, 196 53-55, 58-59, 219; cooperation with

Segregation: in towns and villages, 140, Qing, 59-60, 63, 88-89, 90-91; view of 141, 200-201; Qing efforts to promote, relations with Qing, 82-87; and

211 Burmese expansion, 98-99, 104-105;

Sex, and empire, 53, 75, 80 relations with regional powers, 122Shepherd, John Robert, 8 124, 198, 213-216; and segregation,

Siam, 4, 11, 98, 104, 212, 213; war with 140, 201; and economy, 143-144, 161, Burma, 110-111; expansion into Tai 163-167, 179-180, 184; influence on territories, 117-122, 123-124, 214-215; highland culture, 187, 198-199; influence on Tai culture, 193, 194, 197, adoption of Chinese and imperial

204 culture, 190-193, 201, 204, 217;

Silk, 163, 164, 166, 176; estimates of adoption of Southeast Asian ritual, 193-

exports to Burma, 177 195; religion and political power, 196-

Simao, 21; Qing occupation of, 55-56, 199; regional cultures of, 196, 200; and

57, 62; sieges of, 58-59; Chinese guardian spirit cults, 197-198, 201, settlement of, 131, 148; and urban 206, 222; marriage customs, 202; growth, 145-146; as central market, claims of Chinese identity, 205; and 162, 166; and trade, 170-171, 178-179; modern nation states, 206, 222-223; impact of Panthay Rebellion on, 217- definition of, 227n11. See also

218 Buddhism, Theravada and Tai;

“Sinicization,” 14, 188 Chiangmai; Kengtung; Sipsongpanna; Sipsongpanna (Xishuangbanna), 13, 19- Tai Lue; Tai Yai; Weiyuan

20, 124; political and social Tai Khun, 26, 203. See also Kengtung organization, 26, 28-29, 53, 57, 198, Tai Laem, 26, 203. See also Muong Laem

308 - Index Tai Lue, 26-27, 28-29, 140, 203; Qing Turner, Frederick Jackson, 3, 213 representations of, 75, 80; resistance Tusi. See “Native officials”

against Qing, 110; communities in a

modern Thailand, 120, 201; culture, Urbanization, 145-152, 157, 184 193, 196-197; as minority nationality, Usury, 53, 143-144, 178, 220

206. See also Sipsongpanna

Taiwan: Qing policies for, 44, 132,142, Vietnam, 26, 98, 170, 171, 206, 212-213 211-212, 220; Qing perceptions of aborigines on, 67; and usury, 185; and Wa, 24, 113 W115, 187, 203

; Wang Yizhi, 52

acculturation, 188-189, 202 Water Splashing Festival. 196

Tai Yai, 26, 27-28, 72, 83, 104, 140; aber opiasming festival

é Weiyuan Baw):201; conquest clothing styles(Muong of, 191-192, and . of, es 46— 50, 61-63; indigenous militias from, 55, Chinese customs, 193; culture of, 196,

oyminority ; . 112, 115-116; salt revenue 56; 200, 202; as nationality, 206. : ; 130,from, : and military migrants, 131-132;

See also Muong Mau f ; ;

Tai Yuan. 26. 201. 203. See also transformation of towns in, 147, 152-

Chian ° 158;Lotus and trade, 162-163, ema° ai White rebellion, 111167

Tang empire, 30-31 Wudashan. 100 Tau Siimuennaa, 57, 59-60, 63, 91, 151 i

or Wu and Sangui,22,38-39, Tea: cultivation 23, 142, ; 42, 44 , Wu trade, Shangxian, 133-134, 168 165, 178~-180; Pu’er tea industry, 52- Wyatt. David K.. 32

53, 178; taxation of, 56,178,211 yas Me Se

Tea Hills (Sipsongpanna), 19, 52, 161, Xinjiang (East Turkestan), 97, 132, 147-

165, 178-179 | 148, 210, 212, 220

Temples: God of War (Guandi), 146, 149, Xishuangbanna. See Sipsongpanna

153, 155; Wenchang, 146, 149, 155; Xunzi, 66 Qing imperial, 147, 153; in Xinjiang Xu Xiake (Xu Hongzu), 17-19, 25, 34,

and Guizhou, 147, 149. See also 37-38 Buddhism; Native place, associations

Teng, Emma Jinhua, 69 Yang Yingju, 101-102, 103, 191 Tengyue, 17-18, 21; in Ming era, 24-25; Yan Ruyi, 116

and Qing military, 106; and Yibang, 128, 179

urbanization, 145-147; and regional Yinjishan, 60-61, 62, 64, 88, 134 marketing system, 162-166, 167; and Yongbao, 118-119 caravan trade, 169-1 70, 176-177; and Yongzheng emperor, 2, 43, 207; frontier

Panthay Rebellion, 217-218 policies of, 44-45, 61, 64, 93, 97; and Thailand, 194, 196, 206, 223. See also “new men,” 45; and F’ertal, 49, 50;

Siam death of, 61; and debates on human

Thongchai Winichakul, 11 nature, 66-67

Tibet, 31, 45, 55, 97, 209-210; and Yuan empire. See Mongols caravan trade, 161, 170, 179; and Yule, Henry, 177, 183 independence, 221; and Communist Yunnan Province: frontier landscape and

Party, 222 climate, 18-21; origins in Yuan period,

Tibeto-Burman language family, 23, 24, 29 199

T’ien Ju-K’ang, 151 Zhangbao, 106, 108, 110

Torch Festival, 199-200, 218 Zhang Yunsui, 60, 82, 129, 143; and policy Trade, embargo on Burma, 106-109, 172, of accommodation, 87-91, 97, 190, 219; 174-176. See also Caravans; Cotton; and Muong Laem, 93-96, 134; and

Tea Yunnan economy, 105, 168-169

Travel writing: Qing, 67-68; European, Zhongguo lishi dituji. See Historical Atlas

136-137, 162. See also Ethnography of China