Meeting the Hmong

Posted on 06. Feb, 2009 by Kerry Banks in International

The black-haired tribesman in the tasselled skullcap was intent on selling me his wooden crossbow. “Special deal for you. Only 600 baht,” he announced, brandishing the weapon in my face. When I failed to display the expected enthusiasm, he increased the advertising pressure. “Kill squirrel! Kill bird! Kill anything!” It was certainly not your ordinary sales pitch, but then this was not your ordinary sales setting. We were several kilometres deep in the highlands of northern Thailand, a group of Canadian tourists come to meet the Hmong, a fiercely indpendent hill tribe that migrated into Thailand in the 1950s and 1960s, fleeing civil war in Laos.

The Hmong are the second largest of six different hill tribes that inhabit the mountainous border regions of Laos, Burma and Thailand, an area popularly known as “the Golden Triangle.” Each of these tribes is distinct in language, dress and culture, but all share some basic traits. They subsist on a primitive, slash-and-burn agriculture. Their religion is animist. They sew and weave with genius. And they grow smoke and sell opium. The Thais have initiated educational programs aiming at weaving these mountain folk away from opium to other cash crops such as coffee, tea, cabbages and strawberries. In the process they have discovered something else about the tribes—they are a major tourist attraction.

Dozens of companies specializing in hill-tribe expeditions operate out of Chiang Mai, Thailand’s second-largest city, located 710 kilometres north of Bangkok. The tours, which can last anywhere from two to 10 days, offer such enticements as elephant rides, river rafting and overnight stays in rural villages. Our tour, arranged by the Tourist Authority of Thailand, was chosen with practicality in mind. It was the most convenient excursion available, a mere 20-kilometre drive from Chiang Mai, a viable option for travellers lacking the time or fortitude to spend a week dealing with mud, mosquitoes and tropical humidity.

We began our journey after breakfast, rolling out of Chiang Mai in an air-conditioned bus. The road wound sharply upward through a series of hairpin switchbacks leading to the 14th century Wat Prathat Doi Suthep, one of the most revered Buddhist temples in the entire country. The temple’s entrance is flanked by a pair of snarling nagas, mythical serpents whose ceramic tails undulate up 309 steps to the summit. At an elevation of 1,300 metres, near the winter palace of King Bhumibol, we transferred to a mountain taxi, a modified pickup truck painted in an array of kaleidoscopic colours. The mountain taxi negotiated the last leg of the rugged climb through the forest with us jolting along in back like a crew of combat soldiers.

It was 11:00 a.m. when we reached our destination, a sleepy collection of tin-roofed shanties perched on the rim of a mist-shrouded valley. As we disembarked we could see Hmong women in pleated black dresses and chunky silver jewellery appraising us from the doorways. There were a few barefoot children playing in the laneways and huge, grey pigs slumbering beside the houses. From somwhere in the forest came the sound of someone chopping wood.

Our arrival prompted an immediate change in the pace of village life. Shutters suddenly flew open revealing shelves lined with handicrafts-–vests, hats, dolls, jewellery and ceramic goods. Women wearing turbans festooned with beaten silver, coins, beads, feathers and monkey fur emerged from their homes to attend to the souvenir stalls. A refreshment stand with padded stools and a Formica counter opened for business, selling soft drinks, snacks and cigarettes.

Within the hour, half a dozen more mountain taxis had joined ours in the clearing at the edge of the village. A stream of tourists began to filter through the streets, transforming the remote outpost into an international bazaar. The English, the Germans, the French, the Americans and the Japanese were all here. The collision of cultures resulted in some odd exchanges. Rounding a corner I came across two American women fussing over a dozing hog. “Look at this pig thang, Ella,” said one in a thick, corn-pone drawl. “Gawd, it’s ugly! Y’all got to get a picture of this with me.”

The Hmong children proved even more popular photographic subjects. A battery of cameras followed their every move. Most of the youngsters were unfazed by the attention; some actually posed. They were not all as innocent as they first appeared. No sooner had you taken their picture than they demanded payment. I watched an embarassed Frenchman, trying to beat a dignified retreat from a gang of young money-seekers. “Baht! Baht! Baht!” they chanted, clutching imploringly at the man’s trouser pockets.

Everywhere we went we accosted by Hmong salesmen. One man carried a satchel full of tin hookah pipes, another guy in a newsboy cap sold sapphires. “Smuggled in from Burma,” he claimed. He carried the coloured stones in a velvet-lined folding case. To prove a gem’s authenticity he would club it with a rock. If you remained unconvinced, he would douse the gem with lighter fluid and set it aflame.

One home in the village attracted more attention than the others. A gaunt man in a rumpled grey fedora, loose cotton shirt and sandals, squatted outside puffing on a bamboo pipe that had the dimensions of a small bazooka. A gaggle of wide-eyed onlookers debated his brand of smoking material. “It cannot be opium,” insisted a portly German in flowery shorts. “Opium is illegal.”

The pipe-smoker’s wife stood behind him in the doorway, collecting 200 baht a head from the tourists lined up to view the interior. It was a short tour; the house consisted of a single room. Out on the porch, cameras continued to zoom in on the man with the pipe. With each shutter click, his hand would slowly uncoil and extend forward, palm up. He accepted the proffered coins wordlessly, his features set in an impassive mask.

The Hmong with the crossbow approached our party just as we preparing to depart. Unlike the other men in the village, we wore full tribal regalia—an embroidered black waistcoat, leggings, a tasselled skullcap and a beaded shoulder bag. As he launched into his sales pitch, I heard someone behind me say, “I think he’s the chief. He’s the only one wearing Nikes.”

Chief or no chief, the man was a consummate showman. To secure our attention he arranged a demonstration, propping a discarded Pepsi can against the rear tire of a nearby truck. Retreating 20 paces, he tethered one of his tiny arrows and let fly, neatly puncturing the soda can, while miraculously sparing the tire. “Only 600 baht,” he intoned, offering me the bow. “You try.”

The Hmong were masters of the hard sell. Everyone in our group bought something: toys, beadwork, story cloths, carvings, phony sapphires. One fellow even purchased the can-killing crossbow. The irony was inescapable. Here we were, supposedly sophisticated western travellers, exchanging cold, hard cash for useless trinkets in a complete reversal of stereotypical roles.

Clearly, this Hmong village had discovered a viable alternative to opium. Foreign tourists were the new cash crop, and an apparently lucrative one at that. Later the same day, while cashing our depleted stock of traveller’s cheques at a bank in downtown Chiang Mai, we came upon one of the Hmong families from the mountain. They were parked outside in a shiny yellow Toyota truck. The children were happily eating ice cream. Their father was inside making deposits.

Photo Credits:

#1: flickr.com

#2: goseasia.com

#3: flickr.com

#4: freenc.biz

Tags: Thailand, The Hmong, Westworld writers