by
Jim Goodman
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| Xóm Mô Mường village, HJoà Bình |
The Mường people of Vietnam
are the country’s third largest ethnic minority, behind the Tày and the Thái,
and numbering 1,268,000 in the 2009 census. They mainly inhabit the low hills around the western
boundaries of the Red River Delta: Phú Thọ, Hoà Bình, Ninh Bình and Thanh Hoá
provinces. The Mường language,
though split into several distinct dialects, is related to Vietnamese. Since the grammar, syntax and much of
the vocabulary is similar to Vietnamese, some scholars speculate that the Mường
language is actually ancient Vietnamese, unchanged since antiquity because of
the Mường people’s separation from the main body of what was to become the
Vietnamese people.
Exactly when this
happened is not certain. Some say
it occurred when some of the original inhabitants of these hills moved into the
Red River Delta to clear the swamps and established settlements, which would be
prior to the foundation of the first indigenous state. Those who stayed put became the Mường. Others contend it was more recently,
during the aftermath of the 9th century invasion of northern
Vietnam, then under Chinese rule, by the Nanzhao Kingdom northwest of Vietnam.
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| Mường woman |
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| Xóm Mô village |
Many northern Vietnam
inhabitants supported Nanzhao and when the Chinese were able to expel the
invaders and re-establish control, parts of the plains population, fearing
retaliation, fled to the nearest hills, remained aloof from the plains people
and thus, according to this more plausible theory, evolved into the Mường
nationality.
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| typical Mường stilted house |
This sense of a separate
identity has persisted because, though the Mường are linguistically close to
the Vietnamese, by living outside the perimeter of direct Chinese influence,
they were less influenced by it culturally. Materially speaking, they more resemble their western neighbors
the Thái, living in stilted houses in villages surrounded by forests.
I first visited the Mường in
the village of Xóm Mô, about 13 km north of Hoà Bình. This was over a dozen years ago, when there were still
restrictions on foreigners staying overnight in rural villages. Xóm Mô was the officially designated Mường
minority village for tourists, so it was permissible, after paying the entrance
fee, to stay overnight. I opted
for this, hoping to at least get some insight into the Mường lifestyle, however
commercial the arrangement might turn out.
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| filling the rice mortar |
In general, villages that
authorities choose to promote as cultural attractions for foreigners meet
specific requirements. The
architecture, layout and basic domestic lifestyle of the village must still
conform to traditional norms. In
the Mường case, that meant stilted wooden houses with thatched roofs. No modern concrete houses stand in Xóm
Mô. As for the village layout, Xóm
Mô’s houses lie behind a relatively flat set of rice fields and in front of
slopes of hills used for slash-and-burn farming. A concrete path runs from one end of the village to the
other, but other than electricity, this is the only major modern innovation.
On the other hand, being
designated the official minority tourist village adds a whole new dimension to
the local lifestyle. Every house
becomes a shop and the whole purpose of inviting in a stranger is to sell something. I was prepared for this and had actually
brought along a load of Vietnamese currency in hopes of finding an interesting
Mường artifact or antique. But all
the items on display in the houses I visited, generally after vigorous
importuning, were identical to products sold in Hanoi shops. While they were certainly disappointed
that I didn’t find anything worth buying
(so was I), they were more than mollified by my willingness to exchange
the small denomination of dollars they had gotten from tourists for Vietnamese đồng. At the end of my stay, I returned to Hanoi with over $150 in
$1 and $5 bills.
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| Mường villagers planting rice |
The same monetary
preoccupation prevailed at the house of my hostess, who wanted to fix the price
of my meals, depending upon what I wanted to eat, the bed, the activities, etc.
before she even found out from what country I came. Nevertheless, once that was fixed things went well. I was put in a separate building to
sleep, smaller than the main house, but in the company of the very congenial
husband. It had its own hearth but
we didn't use it, instead consuming a small bottle of liquor instead.
The next day I explored the
area, hiked to a nearby Dao village, watched the fieldwork around Xóm Mô and
enjoyed another simple but filling evening meal. On my final morning my hostess dressed her daughter in full
Mường garments, assuming I wanted some photos. This consists of a black sarong, tied with a multi-colored
belt, a long-sleeved jacket and a wide headband.
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| Mường house in Thành Sơn district |
I can’t say I had a bad time
in Xóm Mô, but left it feeling I didn't really have an authentic Mường experience. Advised by friends at the Ethnology
Museum in Hanoi, I headed by motorbike, with a Vietnamese guide along, for
Thành Sơn, in Phú Thọ province. After a night there, folks informed us of a market day about
15 km west into the rolling hills, passing tea gardens and lots of flooded
fields full of farmers transplanting rice seedlings.
The market activity was mildly
interesting, mostly for the reactions of the people to seeing a foreigner for
the first time. My guide got a lot
of questions about me and when one man found out I was American he shook my
hand and asked me if I would like to meet his village’s heroine. Why is she your heroine? Because she captured the American pilot shot down over the
village. Lead the way.
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| threshing indoors |
So we took our motorbikes on a
half hour ride across inter-village footpaths to a large Mương settlement, one
of about thirty in the district, with about 75 traditional stilted houses, and
straight to the home of the heroine.
By chance, she was just returning from the field. After our new friend introduced us,
delighted by the attention, she scurried to make tea and settle us in
comfortably in the middle of the capacious room, with baskets filled with the
winter rice harvest and a threshing machine to our side. Then she joined us and recounted her
story.
Aged 22 at the time, she was
in the field on 30 July 1967, when an American plane crashed into a nearby hillside. The pilot ejected, but got caught in a
tree, injured and in no condition to resist when, armed with a long chopping
knife, she arrested him and marched him off to the nearest military unit. She didn’t know what happened after
that.
The room soon filled with
neighbors of all ages curious to see the first American in their village since
that fateful day of the plane crash.
They were all polite but had lots of questions. One asked me if I had come here because
I was the pilot’s son, which was rather flattering since I was nearly as old as
the heroine.
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| weaving cloth on a traditional loom |
We couldn’t stay too long, for
a messenger soon arrived with an invitation to meet the headman. Our host led the way. The headman’s house resembled all the
others in the village with one difference: inside hung a huge drum, which the headman beats when
summoning people to an assembly. All
smiles and handshakes, the headman greeted us warmly, then asked to see our
documents. Pronouncing himself
satisfied, he invited us to enjoy a welcoming feast and asked me to choose
between duck and chicken. I
replied I’d like duck, just to see how they prepared it.
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| the village heroine |
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| village scene, Thành Sơn district |
Portions of the duck they
skewered and stood upright next to the fire, leaning slightly towards the
flames. The rest they deep-fried or
stir-fried. The meal also included
pork and bamboo shoots and cabbage steamed with plum. When the Mường have guests, the men dine with them and the
women and children eat separately.
They all eat at the same time, but the men take longer because they
often interrupt the repast with almost ceremonial shots of rice liquor.
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| Mường house, Khảnh village |
The headman started with me,
the special guest, pouring shots for each of us. Then, to honor the guest with the highest respect, he
clicked the rim of his cup to the bottom of mine before we drank. When it came time for me to drink a cup
with each of the other dinner guests, I found them waiting for me to click
their cups. I thought by clicking
the rim of mine to the bottom of theirs, as the headman had done with me, that would
make me appear to regard them as more deserving of respect than our host. To click the bottom of my cup against
the rim of theirs seemed to force acknowledgment of my higher status. So I clicked the rim of mine against
the rim of theirs, as my way of declaring equality with the other guests. The headman commented that I knew about
Mường customs. Not really. I just guessed right.
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| cutting cassava |
After our meal and a brief
examination of the weaving on the family loom, our friend from the market
offered to take us to a nearby waterfall.
After that, we would return for dinner and a song and dance show the
headman promised to organize for us.
Unfortunately, on our way two local policemen stopped us and informed us
that foreigners were not permitted here, for security reasons. The told us to return to Thành
Sơn. Hearing of that, the headman
told us not to fret, for he would take care of everything. So off we went to the police station at
the market venue we’d been to in the morning,
Proper credentials, arguments,
the headman’s intervention—none of this worked. To every point raised, the police responded that it was
unsafe for foreigners to be here, so for security reasons we had to leave. I couldn’t fathom what danger I could
possibly face in the village. In
the end, the headman, having failed to right the situation, left without saying
goodbye. He’d obviously lost face
and I speculated that he had had some recent quarrel with the local police and
this was their way of getting back at him and it had nothing to do with my
safety. Our friend from the
morning market saw us off, apologizing and wishing us well.
Travel restrictions relaxed
somewhat over the next several years, but I haven’t returned to Thành Sơn. My interests took me elsewhere, but
some years later, while visiting Cúc Phương National Park in Ninh Bình
province, I learned there were Mường villages just northwest of the park
boundary. A common trekking route
was from the center of the park to a Mường village just inside Hoà Bình
province. This was going to be a
village well used to foreigners, but, if only to compare it with Xóm Mô, I
decided to have a look.
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| freshly woven Mường waistband |
Mường villages in this area
are rather small, of 20-25 houses.
Our stop was at Khảnh, along the Bưởi River, backed by wooded
hills. The streams running down
the slope flowed into pipes, both metal and bamboo, that channeled the water to
the fields and houses. These have
replaced the water-wheels that once lined the river.
Houses were all stilted,
traditional types, big interiors, with a two-shaft loom near the hearth. The first woman who saw us invited us
inside, but not to sell us something, just to have tea and chat. No Hanoi craft
products on display, though in the end I bought one of the colorful waistbands
she was weaving. In the yard
outside a cage held a pair of roe deer that the family raises to harvest its
antlers every year, used for medicine.
We called on a couple other
families, bought cassavas from one, and n general enjoyed typical Mường
hospitality. It reminded me more
of Thành Sơn, where I was the first foreigner since the captured pilot, though
in Khảnh I was probably just the first one this week. Uncontaminated by the up-front commercialism of a place like
Xóm Mô, this is the Mường norm for dealing with outsiders—polite,
accommodating, warm and good-natured—qualities prominent throughout the country
among so many communities, waiting to be discovered and appreciated.
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| Mương village, southern Hoà Bình province |
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