On_the_Margins_Case_Studies_GZ_QH_SC

CASE STUDY I: MIAO PEOPLE IN GUIZHOU
Overview of the Miao people
Since the early 1960s the Miao people have
undergone something of a demographic
renaissance, overtaking both the Yi and Tibetan
populations to become the fourth largest of
China’s 55 officially recognised ethnic minority
groups (after the Zhuang, Manchu and Hui). By
the time of the 2000 census, their numbers had
quadrupled to 9 million—larger than the
population of Sweden—but fertility rates are
now starting to drop as more families comply
with family planning policies, which have
tended to be more loosely enforced in ethnic
minority areas.1
(Table I.)
Like many of China’s ethnic minorities, the Miao are heavily concentrated in western
provinces. Over 60% live in Guizhou.2
The remainder are dispersed in the adjacent
provinces of Yunnan, Hunan, Guangxi and Chongqing (the latter is officially a
“municipality”) with some also in Hubei and Hainan island. Another ethnic group
related to the Miao—the Hmong—are also found across Vietnam, Laos, Burma and
Thailand.
Table I: Miao, Yi and Tibetan Populations,
1953-2000
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
1953 1964 1982 1990 2000
Millions
Tibetan
Miao
Yi
Source: National Statistical Bureau
Guizhou’s central position in the distribution of the Miao population appears to
suggest that Miao civilization originated there, but this is still debated by scholars.
1 Family planning policy for ethnic minorities is that families in agricultural and pastoral areas may have two children,
with “flexibility for those in difficulties” (http://news.xinhuanet.com/employment/2002-11/18/content_633186.htm) It
transpired during field trips to Liangshan and Qinghai that families there were allowed to have three children and only
risked fines for a fourth.
2
According to official data, given at: www.gzgov.gov.cn/enggov/pages/compass4.htm
JUNE 2006 CDB SPECIAL REPORT: MIAO, YI AND TIBETAN MIGRATION Page 1 of 65
Figure 1: Miao Woman, Lusheng Village

Figure 2: Map of Guizhou Province shows Tongren in the north-east, in the midst of the Wuling
Mountains, and Kaili, the Prefecture Capital of Qiandongnan Miao and Dong Autonomous Prefecture.
Source: www.maps-of-china.com (Edited by China Development Brief)
Chinese records dating back to the Qin and Han dynasties note the presence of the
Miao in the far west of Hunan and eastern Guizhou. One expert in this field,
Professor Jia Zhongyi ( 贾仲益 ) of the Central University of Nationalities
(Zhongyang Minzu Daxue) believes the Miao originate from the Wuling Mountain
range (武陵山) straddling western Hunan, parts of Guizhou and parts of Hubei.3
However, others maintain that the Miao originated much further north, in what is
now Hebei Province, but were gradually forced southwards and into less hospitable
and less productive, mountain areas by successive waves of Han Chinese expansion
during the third, fifth, ninth and 16th
centuries CE.4
Today’s Miao share Guizhou with the Han majority population and numerous other
minorities that include the Dong, Buyi, Tujia, Yi, Gelao, Shui and Hui. Together, the
minorities make up around 35% of the province’s 39 million inhabitants. The Miao
population is most heavily concentrated in the south-east of the province, especially
Qiandongnan Miao and Dong Autonomous Prefecture (黔东南苗族侗族自治州), where
Miao and Dong people together account for 61% of the total population.
The Miao were originally believers in animism, but no longer practice a distinct form
of religion. Nineteenth century Christian missionaries had some success in
3
Interview, December 3, 2005
4
Eg, Yuepheng L. Xiong, an ethnic Hmong researcher from Laos, claims that “close to six thousand years ago, the
Hmong lived in Zhuolu, some 80 miles northwest of Beijing.’’
ww.hmongtribe.com/2005/10/11/hmong-history-in-china/ (Accessed 2w
nd
March 2006)

recruiting new believers among the Miao: for example, as many as 70% of the
300,000 Flowery Miao (huamiao) in Yunnan are believed to still practice Christianity.
There are three distinct and mutually unintelligible dialects of the Miao language.
Chinese putonghua, although taught in school and understood by some adults, is
rarely spoken in Miao communities.
Livelihoods of the Guizhou Miao
Guizhou’s karst limestone topography—characterised by steep, sharp hills with very
little flat land—offers a low endowment of arable land and poor soils that do not
make for easy or profitable farming.
Nevertheless, the Guizhou Miao remain
primarily reliant on subsistence, rain-fed
agriculture. Because they invariably inhabit
upland areas, the Miao have little
opportunity to grow paddy rice and instead
plant maize and potatoes as staples. Arable
land in the province as a whole is a mere 0.8
mu (533 square metres) per capita. Miao
farming is distinctly low-tech and most
produce is grown for home consumption
rather than for sale.
Throughout the “reform and opening” period, Guizhou has languished at the bottom
of the national league tables in terms of GDP per capita. The province’s rural GDP
per capita reached only CNY 2,042 (USD 252) in 2004, compared to a national figure
of CNY 5047.5
The provincial average is of course itself an aggregate figure that
disguises significant disparities within Guizhou: the actual income of many rural
families is much lower. Moreover, the calculation of rural incomes generally takes
into consideration food grown and consumed at home: cash incomes are lower. In
the four Miao villages visited during this study, cash incomes were extremely low:
CNY 800 (USD 100) per year for an entire family appeared typical. Beyond
reasonable doubt, the Guizhou Miao are among the very poorest people in China.
Table II: Comparative Per Capita
Urban and Rural GDP, 2004
TOTAL URBAN RURAL
CHINA 9101 16307 5047
GUIZHOU 3603 8573 2042
QINGHAI 7277 13956 3712
5
These are the figures reported in the 2005 China Human Development Report (UNDP, Beijing), based on data from the
National Bureau of Statistics.
Figure 3: Karst mountains hems in farmland

SICHUAN 6418 12859 4072
Source: UNDP China Human Development Report, 2005
Sale of traditional handicrafts such as batiks, embroidered clothing and silver
jewellery offer some alternative income streams, mainly through tourism, which the
provincial government is keen to promote, but traditional Miao skills offer few entry
points to new labour markets.
Ongoing infrastructure development—such as the recent completion of the
Zunyi-Chongqing section of the Guiyang-Chongqing inter-provincial highway and a
new airport at Tongren (铜仁市)—is expected to improve access to markets,
stimulate the tourist industry and improve the prospects of attracting commercial
investment from eastern China and overseas. However, rural infrastructure lags a
long way behind the development of the inter-provincial highway system, and many
ethnic minorities remain remote and difficult to reach. This adds to the cost and
difficulty of outward migration.
Overview of Miao migration
Intending Miao migrants are, in general, handicapped by language barriers, low
educational attainment, lack of marketable skills and remoteness from labour
markets. Despite this (and in the absence of reliable statistical data) it is clear that
many Miao people have participated in the reform-era migration wave.
However, Professor Jia describes their participation as uneven. Miao migration
began in the second half of the 1980s, he says, primarily from communities in
Chongqing (due to its comparatively high level of development) and Hunan (which
is also mountainous and remote, but less so than Guizhou). Hunan has since also
benefited from labour export schemes (劳动输出) promoted by local government.
The relative proximity of labour markets in Guangdong also gave natural
momentum to outward migration from Guangxi. By contrast, says Jia, the Guizhou
Miao have only recently joined the flow, despite their chronic shortage of arable land,
which Jia (like many others) takes to be a major “push-factor” in migration.
Jia explains the late departure of the Guizhou Miao in terms of their low levels of
education and the difficulty they have in making the initial investment (in travel
expenses, ‘introduction fees’ and living costs before finding employment). Jia also
describes the Guizhou Miao as having “poor social ability” and “a negative attitude
to communication.” (The latter factors, of course, may have much to do with
discriminatory attitudes towards ethnic minority groups.)
Nevertheless, and despite the almost certain prospect of low or irregular
wages—our field survey shows that most migrants earn less than CNY 500 (USD
62.5) per month, and one third have no regular income—the survey also shows that
willingness to migrate is high, especially amongst the young (80%).

The four villages surveyed
All of the villages are within the administrative district of Kaili City. Two of them,
Yangxiao (养小) and Lusheng (芦笙) are in Kaitang township (凱棠乡) Part of the 45
kilometre road connecting the township centre to Kaili is still unpaved, making the
township as a whole relatively inaccessible. The other two villages visited are Jidao
(季刀) and Shiqing (石青), close to Zhouxi town (舟溪) town, and only about 20
kilometres from Kaili, with relatively good transport connections. Jidao is adjacent
to a main road.
Taken together, therefore, the four villages are fairly representative of those within
a 50 kilometre radius of Kaili. But the prefecture itself covers an area of 30,300
square kilometres and is home to 3.8
million people—roughly the size of
Belgium, but with only a third of
Belgium’s population. Clearly, the
prefecture includes many
communities that are much more
remote and isolated. It is very likely
that living conditions and basic
services in many of those
communities are even poorer than in
the villages described in this report;
and it is also likely that migration is
even more difficult for their
inhabitants.
Figure 4: Typical Kitchen Scene, Yangxiao
Basic information about the four villages is presented in Table III. According to
village leaders, the annual cash income of entire households in the four
communities seldom approaches the CNY 2,042 (USD 252) per capita average
income for rural Guizhou as a whole. In three out of four cases, the village leaders
said, household cash incomes were unlikely to exceed CNY 800 (USD 99) per year.
Household visits confirmed that
ownership of consumer durables was
very low. Household fuel use also
reflected very low cash incomes. Coal is
abundant and relatively inexpensive in
the area, but used by only a handful of
villagers. Most use charcoal, which is
cheaper, but provides less heat. One
household could not even afford charcoal.
Figure 5: Woman carrying water, Lusheng

More than 90% of households in the villages had no means of dealing with waste
water, which simply collects in pools close to the houses. Most families have latrines,
but these are extremely primitive, well below government standards for “improved”
sanitation coverage. Tongliu hamlet (‘natural village’), part of Yangxiao village, does
not even have piped water.
Table III: Population, Services, Income and Assets
In Jidao, Yangxiao, Lusheng and Shiqing villages
(Source: Interviews with village leaders)
Village Population
(percentage
who have
migrated)
Village level services Annual household
income in CNY
(proportion from
remittances) and
ownership of
appliances
Jidao
(季刀)
1,035 in 244
households. (75%
of young people
equivalent to 300)
Primary school: 50 students, 4
teachers. Attendance 99%,
graduation rates 100%. Nearest
middle school: 15 minute walk.
Medical Services: 1 doctor, a
zhongzhuan (basic level vocational
school) graduate. Shops: 2 kiosks
(xiaomaibu)
Income: CNY 1,000 (30%)
Telehone landline: 70%
Fridge: 10%
TV: 90%
Motorbike: 8%
Septic tank: 60%
Yangxiao
(养小)
1,844 in 344
households. (60%
have migrated)
Primary school: 18 teachers.
Attendance 99%, graduation rates
100%. Nearest middle school:
Kaitang, (2 kms). Medical Services:
1 doctor, a zhongzhuan graduate
Shops: Nearest is in Kaitang.
Income: CNY 600 (50%)
Landline: 60%
Fridge: Only the families of
teachers
TV: 45%
Motorbike: 6%
Septic tank: 8%
Lusheng
(芦笙)
1,565 in 295
households (40%
have migrated)
Primary school: nearest is Kaitang,
a 10-minute walk. Attendance
98%, graduation rates 100%.
Medical services: 1 doctor,
self-taught, has migrated. Some
children are still delivered at home
without a doctor in attendance.
Shops: Kaitang is the nearest.
Income: CNY 750 (80%)
Landline: 30%
Fridge: 1%-2%.
TV: 80%-90%.
Motorbikes: 6-7 total in the
village.
Septic tank: 10%
Shiqing
(石青)
2,058 in 450
households. (25%
of the total
population has
migrated, 60% of
18-25s.)
Primary School: 130+ students, 12
teachers. Attendance 99%,
graduation rates 100%. Nearest
middle school: 5 kms (Zhouxi)
Medical services: 1 doctor, a
zhongzhuan graduate Shops: All 7
hamlets have a kiosk
Income: CNY 800 (mostly
from remittances)
Landline: 2%. (20% own
mobiles)
Fridge: 2%
TV: 90%.
Motorbike: 22%
Septic tank: 1%

Interview sample
The information presented below was collected during a six-day field trip in February
2006 to four villages in Guizhou’s Qiandongnan Miao and Dong Autonomous
Prefecture (黔东南苗族侗族自治州), whose administrative centre is the city of Kaili (凯
里).
In-depth interviews were conducted, through a Miao interpreter, with 22 villagers
who had migrated. (Because the visit took place during the Spring Festival, many
migrants had returned to the village to spend the holiday with their families). In
some, but not all, cases, village leaders were present during the interviews. Some of
the interviewees provided information not only about their own experiences of
migration, but also about the experiences of close relatives who had not come home.
This information has been incorporated into some tables.
The 22 interviewees (8 from Jidao, 5 from Yanxiao, 4 from Lusheng and 5 from
Shiqing) were identified by, in the first place, asking the village leader (村长) for
introductions to people who had migrated, and then by walking through the villages
and enquiring of passers by, who invariably either made time themselves to talk or
made introductions to other families. The interviews do not, therefore, constitute a
“scientific” sample; but nor were they in any obvious way “controlled” or contrived.
A minimum of one day was spent in each of the villages. Care was taken to visit
more than one part of each village—including walking to outlying hamlets (“natural
villages” [天然村] in the jurisdiction of each village)—and to avoid speaking only to
families who were all neighbours and friends or kin.
MAIN FINDINGS
Mass exodus . . .
If migration from this part of Guizhou
started late, it is certainly now widespread.
Village leaders in each location estimate
that 25%-40% of the total village
population, and as many as 75% of
able-bodied young people, have gone out to
work elsewhere. This is higher than the
migration rates recently recorded by a Plan
International survey of villages across
Ningxia and Shaanxi provinces. 6
China’s
total “floating population” is commonly
put—for example, by the 2005 UNDP China
6
Ye Jingzhong, James Murray and Wang Yihuan (2005), Left-behind children in rural China, Social Sciences Academic
Press (China). P.141 and P.213.
Figure 6: Young and old in Jidao Village

Human Development Report—at 150 million people, amounting to approximately
20% of the rural registered population of 757 million. Outflows from this part of
Guizhou are clearly higher than the national average. Household interviews
confirmed that nearly all families have at least one family member working away,
and that the paths out of all four villages are indeed well-trodden. This mass exodus
is all the more remarkable given the combination of low educational attainment in
the villages, rising urban unemployment and the dearth of job training programmes
for rural people.
The rush for the exit appears, therefore, to confirm the importance of “push” factors
in Qiandongnan migration. There is nothing much else to do, and minimal prospect
of making ends meet locally, so people leave despite the skills deficit.
. . . But it’s mainly men who leave . . .
Only one quarter of the migrants interviewed were women. This may in part have
been because villagers were less inclined to introduce women interviewees. But,
given that an active effort was made to find women to interview, it nonetheless
seems reasonable to conclude that fewer women than men migrate from the
villages.
What could account for this? Might it be that there are, simply, more men in the
villages than women, and therefore that males migrate in larger numbers? The
evidence here was not clear. Village heads insisted that the gender ratio in the total
population was fairly even. Yet boys outnumbered girls in all households with more
than two children, suggesting a seriously skewed gender ratio at birth. Four of the
larger families interviewed had 19 children
between them, of which 16 were boys and
just three were girls. It beggars belief
that this could be a natural occurrence,
and the likelier explanation is that strong
gender preference has led to the
widespread practice of sex selective
abortions. In ten years time this will
certainly result in a seriously imbalanced
gender ratio among young adults, with
consequences that are hard to predict but
unlikely to be happy.
But at present there is no visible shortage of economically active women in the
villages. Indeed, they were more numerous than young men. Women were
everywhere visible in the fields (especially in Jidao, where there was a marked
“feminisation of agriculture”), as well as bearing the main responsibility for
domestic work and child care.
Figure 7: Woman tilling land, Jidao

Villagers in Jidao claimed that women who leave the local community are more likely
than men to find a marriage partner outside, and thus tend not return; whereas men
invariably return because, local people said, of their “greater family responsibilities.”
This is all plausible, given rural China’s patrilineal culture: women move away from
their natal families when they marry, whereas men bring brides into the family
homes that they eventually inherit.
Villagers also mentioned that a small number of young local women fall prey to
trafficking (guaimai) scams run out of Kaili by ring-leaders from Zhejiang, Fujian
and Jiangsu. Lured to the city by false promises the women, generally under the age
of 25 according to the villagers, are sold for a CNY 8,000–CNY 10,000 “introduction
fee” (jieshaofei) to clients from eastern China.
The villagers’ implication was that marriage, whether willing or coerced, is
contributing to a decline in the proportion of women in the local community, and that
as a result fewer women migrate. Yet the high visibility of economically active
women in the communities suggested that they in fact face additional barriers to
migration. (These might well include lower educational attainment; unwillingness of
families to make the necessary investment in women’s departure; family reluctance
to allow them to venture out, and/or the feeling that women should stay behind to
look after relatives and the land.)
. . . for the east but also the west . . .
Close to three-quarters of the interviewed migrants from Jidao and Shiqing (and
even more if anecdotal data from numerous casual conversations were included)
headed towards Guangdong, Zhejiang and Jiangsu to provide muscle for agriculture
or to take up positions as unskilled manual labourers. Eastern and coastal areas are
evidently perceived as better developed, offering more opportunity and higher
wages. (Table IV)
However, when data
from the two villages
in Kaitang township is
included, a different
picture emerges. The
Kaitang natives went
mainly to the
neighbouring
provinces of Yunnan
and Chongqing,
where there is money,
albeit in small
Table IV: Receiver Area of Miao Migrants broken
down by Village (Sou ce: Household Interviews)r
Intra-
Provincial
Inter-Provincial Total
East
(including
Guangdong)
West Other
Jidao 3 8 1 1 13
Lusheng 4 4 7 - 15
Tongliu 1 4 8 - 13
Shiqing 1 6 - - 7
Total 9 22 16 1
48

quantities, to be made from shining shoes on the sidewalks of boulevards and
outside train stations. (See Thumbnail Portrait 1, Page 16)
One Jidao villager had made the unusual decision to move to Heilongjiang in the
distant north-east. His father, who gave this information, said that his son had
acquaintances in that area and believed that Heilongjiang would offer better farming
conditions. Little was known of his exploits there, other than the fact that he does
not make remittance payments.
Equally exceptional was a 49-year old villager, also from Jidao, who spoke at length
about his experiences in Xinjiang where he (and others who he has subsequently
introduced from the village) now rent 60 mu plots of land from the bingtuan in
Changji (昌吉).7
This move was made possible by relatives in the army who were
redeployed to Xinjiang after the Korean War in the 1950s.
This migrant (and several others in his company) felt that the majority of Miao
migrants leave Guizhou to use their agricultural skills in more productive rural areas.
It is true that the Miao do at least have farming skills to offer elsewhere, and more
than a quarter of inter-provincial migrants in the survey classified their occupation
as agricultural. (Table V) However, a similar proportion were employed as factory
hands and an even larger number (15) were tertiary, service sector workers
(although the nature and informality of their positions as roaming peddlers or
shoe-polishers scarcely deserves such grandiose classification). Indeed, the high
numbers working in the informal sector suggests that Miao people have great
difficulty in finding more secure positions, and have to make a living any way they
can on the periphery of urban society.
Table V: Employment Location and Job Function of Miao Inter-Provincial
Migrants (Source: Household Interviews)
Sector Example of Roles Receiving Area
Planting melons, farming fish, planting trees,
wood-cutting.
Hainan, Helilongjiang,
Xinjiang, Fujian,
Guangdong
Agriculture
(9)
Industry (9) Textile factory, furniture factory, leather bag
factory, light-bulb factory + one in
construction.
Zhejiang, Guangdong,
Shanghai.
Private security guard (1) Guangdong
Selling jewelry (5) Chongqing, Shanghai
Shoe-polishing (7) Yunnan, Guangxi
Other (15)
Litter collection (2) Guangdong
7
The bingtuan is a large agro-industrial group attached to the Peoples Liberation Army in Xinjiang, where it plays a key
role in the provincial economy. It is an institutional legacy of the Qing dynasty, when soldiers posted to Xinjiang were
encouraged to engage in farming to feed themselves, because of the difficulty and expense of maintaining long supply
lines from eastern China.

. . . Wages are derisory . . .
Wages for factory or farm labouring jobs in Guangdong and Zhejiang were
reportedly derisory, in one or two instances falling below the international
dollar-per-day poverty benchmark. Interviewees said they earned an average of
600-800 yuan (USD 75-100) per month for factory jobs. Worker loyalty did not
appear to offer any benefits or promotion prospects.
In one particularly stark case, a native of Yangxiao related that he had worked in a
light bulb factory in Wenzhou (Zhejiang) for a monthly wage of CNY 220 (USD 27).
Finding it impossible to live on this, he left the job; but, adding insult to injury, his
employer refused to return his labour bond (a cash deposit which, according to the
interviewees, many employers insist that migrants pay as a job retainer, to ensure
that they do not leave at short notice.) This unfortunate migrant said that he
eventually returned to the village poorer than when he left.
Table VI: Wage Levels (CNY) Amongst
Inter-Provincial Migrants
0
2
4
6
8
10
12
14
Under
600
600-799 800-999 Over
1000
No.ofResponses
Source: Interviews conducted with 14 inter-provincial migrants. Several provided data on more than one job and also
their spouses. Most migrants describe their jobs as unstable and wages irregular and the numbers given here are
calculated on quite the opposite assumption; that migrants are able to hold down stable jobs.
Those in the service sector were employed in the most menial occupations. (Table V)
Of these, garbage collectors and shoe-polishers would appear to offer least in terms
of job-satisfaction and earning prospects. Migrants in those jobs reported wages of
that ranged from less CNY 10 (USD 1.2) per day—little more than CNY 250 per
month—to, in one instance, as much as CNY 40 (USD 4.8) per day.
These grim experiences are countered by extremely few success stories. One young
man claimed to have earned up to CNY 20,000 (USD 2,500) a year peddling ethnic
jewellery in Shanghai. Although this is not much by the standards of Shanghai
citizens, it is a small fortune in Guizhou, and enabled this man to go into pig-raising
on his return (See Thumbnail Portrait 2, page 17). A security guard working in
Dongguan (Shenzhen) also did relatively well, picking up CNY 1,000 (USD 125) per
month.

Apart from these two, one of the most successful migrants from any of the villages
was the farmer who went to Xinjiang. The low cost of living there allowed him to
save more than one third of his CNY 16,000 (USD 2,000) annual earnings after
various deductions totaling more than CNY 45,000 (USD 5,625) had been returned
to the bingtuan.
. . . Few plan to stay outside the province . . .
For the migrant to Xinjiang, the main benefit was the relative stability of his income
rather than the amount of it. But despite this, the farmer did not plan to remain in
Xinjiang permanently, owing to his age and the harshness of the northern climate.
He said, however, that others from the village have taken advantage of the relaxed
hukou regulations to settle in the north west.
The jewellery peddler turned pig farmer maintained that “It is impossible to migrate
for ever” and this sentiment was echoed by other returned migrants who had fared
less well. The man whose experience in the light bulb factory had proved so
unfortunate was adamant that he would never return to Wenzhou. Several others
also reported poor relations with employers, but only one hinted at broader
assimilation problems when he said “My county-fellows (同乡) are my friends,
without them I wouldn’t have any friends.”
On the whole, villagers in the area tended, for reasons which they sometimes found
difficult to articulate, to view returning to the village as a foregone conclusion. Many
commented that “Permanent migration is impossible.” Those who were aged over
thirty and had older dependents gave the impression that they their circumstances
left them no choices. “I would like to go back out,” said one, “But there is nobody
here apart from me to work in the fields to produce food for my family.”
Another remark, made by a villager from Jidao, also underlined the conflicts
between the interests of the individual and the family: “I will just follow my instincts
according to my circumstances. I would like to return to the village—living expenses
are so high in Kaili—but my income there is also higher and I need to support my
children’s education.”
. . . Local migration has better prospects . . .
Although there were fewer examples of migration within Guizhou, this seemed to
offer more qualified people a chance of relatively stable (if not better-paid) work in
junior clerical, management, or local government positions. For example, a woman
high school graduate from Jidao was able to command a monthly wage of CNY 500
(USD 62.5) as a cashier in a computer company in the provincial capital, Guiyang.
Although this is less than the CNY 800 average monthly wage for Guizhou migrants
in Guangdong factory jobs, Guiyang’s low cost of living makes it possible to survive.

White collar jobs also offer better promotion prospects and a better chance of
permanent integration into host communities.
There is, then, some prospect of a return on the high investment that goes into
anything more than basic education. Senior high schooling and above ought to
guarantee proficiency in Chinese and so help break down discriminatory attitudes
towards outsiders, which, moreover, would probably be less pronounced within
Guizhou.
For example, a family of seven in Lusheng commented that their youngest son
(aged 30), a graduate from Guizhou Agricultural University whose older migrant
siblings in Zhejiang and Yunnan had helped out with tuition fees, would almost
certainly continue to work for the county government in Dafengdong (大风洞) where
he earns CNY 1,000 per month. His brothers, by contrast, both of whom were only
junior high school graduates, would most likely return to the village, according to
the parents.
Another family from Lusheng also hinted that their youngest son, a vocational
school (zhongzhuan) graduate working as an accountant in a factory in nearby
Shibing County (施秉县), would not return.
Indeed, the return of a skilled migrant to a rural area of low productivity would
almost certainly be considered a wasted investment. By comparison, even relatively
successful inter-provincial migrants can seldom expect to stay ‘out’ indefinitely. One
such person, who spoke with pride of his stable job as an ethnic jewellery distributor
in Shenzhen, nevertheless admitted that he would return home to get married
because the cost of living in Shenzhen is too high. (Or, put another way, his wage
(CNY 600-900 per month) is too low.)
. . . Not much money to send home . . .
Low wages are evidently a major limitation on the amount of money migrants send
home: six (a third of the sample) said they were unable to send any remittances at
all. (Table VII) The difficulty was illustrated by one long-term migrant from Jidao to
Guangdong who said that his wages had remained static since 1997, but that living
expenses had doubled over the same period, eroding his capacity to save. Similar
stories were offered by numerous others. A total of 18 migrants gave information on
remittances: the approximate average for the entire sample was no more than CNY
415 per year.

Table VII: Annual Remittance Levels (CNY)
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
0 Up to
200
201-
400
401-
600
601-
800
More
than
1000
NoofResponses
Source: Household interviews
Also noteworthy is the narrow use to which remittances are put. One half of those
making remittances claim the money is used to cover nothing more than the cost of
everyday living such as the purchase of cigarettes, simple condiments for cooking,
meat, clothing and occasionally larger items such as a television and, in one
instance, a motorbike.
Intense awareness of the link between education and earnings also puts pressure on
migrants to remit money for schooling siblings and children. Close to 40% of the
interviewees singled out education expenses as the chief drain on resources. In one
family of five brothers whose father had died, two of the older brothers were
remitting money to support the youngest brother at university in Guilin, while at the
same time providing for their own families.
Table VIII: Breakdown in Use of Remittances
Consumption
Educational Expenses
Health Expenses
Investment
Source: Household Interviews
Perhaps surprisingly (in view of the notorious, systemic failings of China’s rural
health system), only one migrant said that remittances were used to pay for medical
bills.
Likewise, only one (out of 18) had been able to save enough to be able to make
productive investments on their return home.

. . . Skills, education deficit . . .
The difficulty many migrants had in obtaining lasting employment clearly owed
much to their low educational achievement and lack of occupational skills. Their
most common complaint was their lack of marketable skills, and their own failures in
the labour market doubtless explain their willingness to make enormous sacrifices
to invest in their children’s education. In the view of the man who had struggled in
the Wenzhou light bulb factory, “You have to be a university graduate to get a good
job as a migrant.” Unfortunately, over the last 25 years only five people from his
village have achieved such lofty heights.
Vocational and pre-departure training programmes would clearly be helpful for
intending migrants in this area, but only one of the four village leaders knew of a
local scheme. Even in Jidao, where there was some awareness of training
programmes in Kaili (in, eg, computing and cooking), the overwhelming majority of
villagers were effectively excluded by fees that, they said, ran to several hundred
yuan, excluding transport and living expenses.
One interviewee—the son of the Shiqing village leader—had benefited from a
scheme run by the local Labour and Social Security Bureau, and gone on to take a
managerial position in a construction company. The family, who lived in one of the
very few concrete block buildings in the village, also owned a motorbike and had
been able to fund the boy through high school, as well as a share of the (partially
subsidized) CNY 2,000 fee for the 3-month, part-time course.
The majority of the interviewees did not identify language skills as a major factor in
migration outcomes, even though Miao language was used in all interactions outside
the school classrooms. Proficiency in standard Chinese was very low, especially
among women and older migrants. It might have been that embarrassment
deterred interviewees from mentioning problems arising from language, although
one or two did describe their Chinese as poor. One complained that his lack of
“eloquence” (口才) meant he was unable to gain the respect and trust of others,
including his boss.
Fluency in the national language is essential for children to progress far up the
educational ladder in China. The lack of a Chinese-speaking environment to support
learning at home naturally steepens the educational slope for Miao children.

Thumbnail portrait 1:
Shoe-polishing specialisation
“About 80% of the people who go out from here to work either
sell jewellery or polish shoes,” says Yangxiao village head, Gu
Xianyuan ( 顾先元 ). Among their ranks are two of his own
children—one, a daughter, aged just 16.
Interviews with other villagers in Yangxiao and nearby Lusheng
confirm that this is a local specialisation. All seven shoe-polishers
and four out of five of the jewellery peddlers listed in Table V come
from these two villages. Most now ply their trade in Yunnan.
“One person went one day, was able to earn money and was
soon followed by many others” explains Xianyuan. But he also
attributes the specialisation to the fact that “They have no other
technical skills.”
Villagers across areas, where education levels are broadly
comparable, complain that their lack of skills is a barrier to
advancement, yet villagers from Jidao and Shiqing found factory
jobs, whereas those in Kaitang have struggled to break out of the
informal and agricultural sectors.
Gu Ye’an ( 顾业安 ), a 35-year old widower, worked as a
wood-cutter in Xiamen for several months; but when the promised
wages did not materialise he ended up shining shoes in Kunming,
earning, he says, around CNY 40 per day.
“Finding factory work was impossible,” according to Zhang
Lizhen (张丽珍), who was deterred by the long, unpaid “training
periods” that many factories require. She and her husband have
polished shoes, and also made sorties to sell jewellery in Chongqing
and Zhejiang, with limited success “On a bad day,” she says, “We
only earned 10 yuan.”
Gu Ye’an says that he would return to Kunming were it not for
the need to care for his elderly parents. His only option, he says, is
to farm the land, since remittances would not cover their basic food
needs.
Zhang Lizhen is less keen to repeat her migration experience.
“We will not go back,” she says. “City life was unliveable,” adds her
husband. “You need to be a university graduate to get a good job.”

The migrant who thrived
Yang Jie (杨杰) stands out in Lusheng village as a success story. Most of the
village houses are made of wood and have few creature comforts. By contrast, Yang’s
house is a concrete edifice with decent furnishings, including a karaoke system, and
Yang claims that he was able to earn CNY 20,000 from animal husbandry in 2005.
He returned to Lusheng in 2004 aged 25 having spent five years in Kaili,
Guangdong and Shanghai as a trainee mechanic and then as a salesman peddling
Miao handcrafts and jewellery. “My best years were in Shanghai,” Yang recalls. “I
could earn 10,000–20,000 yuan a year doing business [selling Miao jewellery].” But
there were also hard times: “I was robbed once in Guangdong and had my wallet
stolen.”
Yang still needed to borrow CNY 40,000 (using his house as collateral) to start up
his new business raising pigs and has trebled his livestock in the space of two years
due to better, higher cost feed inputs and a proper facility to house and separate pigs
of varying size and age.
In this part of Guizhou Yang’s story is a rare tale of success which he puts down
to his sense of independence and native wit, rather than his formal education which
was limited to primary school. Self-confidence and a higher level of putonghua would
also likely have aided his sorties into more sophisticated urban circles.
Family support was also vital. Yang’s family, which has seven mu of land, were
able to finance his migration and advance the costs of merchandise.
Despite his comparative affluence and the added familial warmth of a wife and
his five-year old son, Yang Jie remains unsatisfied with his lot. “I still need to build my
income and expand the business,” he says. “The first step is to breed more pigs. If I
am successful and earn a lot of money I will buy a car,” he continues. Others here
would settle for the bus fare to Kaili.
Picture 8: Growth Potential – Little and Large

Nothing to offer, no chance to leave
Pan Wangde (潘万德), a 40 year old bachelor, is one of four
brothers who all remain in Jidao Village. None of them ever set foot
inside a classroom, and they eke out a meagre living by growing
grain, maize and sweet potatoes on just 1.3 mu of land.
“We do not sell anything at market, we have no cash to buy
clothes or furniture and finding a wife is also difficult,” says Pan,
whose house has no telephone and scarcely any furniture. “They
[migrant households] have more money to buy household goods,”
he continues, whereas “I am unable to get credit.”
His only cash income comes from small construction projects in
the village which occasionally require an odd-job man (lingong) to
help out with heavy lifting. This, he says, may bring him 40 days
work each year, at a daily rate of CNY 25.
“My father died more than 20 years ago and my mother did not
have the money to send us to school,” explains Wangde. “We do not
have the confidence to go out. I don’t know how to migrate and
neither do I have any skills.”

Choosing, and able, to stay
Huang Zhengfa (黄正发), a 44 year-old carpenter from Jidao,
has just 1.6 mu of land and faces an annual education bill of up to
CNY 4,000 to send his four children to school, but remains in Jidao
and has never considered migration.
“The cost of mobilisation would be too high,” says Huang, who
earns CNY 12,000 per year—12 times the village average and more
than many migrants to Guangdong and Zhejiang—thanks to steady
demand for tables and chairs at the local school and from other
regular government clients.
Huang says that he wouldn’t migrate “because of his family
situation” but his ability to make a decent living locally is surely a
factor.
That ability seems to rest largely on his industriousness and
business acumen. “I also build houses” he says, while continuing to
prepare an order. In the summer months he compensates for his
shortage of land by renting an extra 3 mu from absentee migrants.
Farming this, he says, nets an extra CNY 1,000 per year.
Outwardly Huang appears no different to other villagers despite
his relative wealth, and his home’s shabby furnishings are distinctly
inferior to some others. His money is spent on schooling for his
children rather than consumption. “My daughter’s educational
achievement is high,” he points out, as if to rationalise the decision
to send her to board at a middle school in Kaili rather than joining
her brother at the local school where fees are cheaper.
“I just want my children to have an independent life,” he says, “I
don’t care where.”

CASE STUDY II: TIBETAN PEOPLE IN QINGHAI
Historical snapshot
A tribal kingdom developed on the vast, Qinghai-Tibet plateau at least 3,500 years
ago, and for many centuries it rivalled the emerging Chinese empire, controlling
territories that reached, at times, as far as Chengdu (capital of present-day
Sichuan).
In the 9th
century CE, Buddhism began to take root in Tibet and a Tibetan script
developed out of sanskrit; but for hundreds of years the allegiances of local
chieftains were divided between competing branches of Buddhism.
In the 13th
century Genghis Kahn swept down from Mongolia and established a Yuan
dynasty that ruled both China and Tibet. Throughout the later, Ming dynasty, Tibet
remained under Chinese rule—meaning that local elites, who enjoyed good relations
with the Ming court, declared allegiance to the Emperor. It was during this period
that one branch of Buddhism became dominant in Tibet, under the religious
authority of the first Dalai Lama.
The initially energetic Qing (Manchu) dynasty, which extended China’s empire to its
greatest ever extent, began a somewhat more systematic penetration of Tibet (and
Xinjiang, across the Kunlun mountains to the north), establishing command posts
and a permanent military presence. However, Qing authority waned as the empire
came under dual assault from European free-trade imperialism (during the Opium
Wars) and Tai’Ping rebels in the central provinces.
For around a hundred years, from the mid-19th
century, Tibet enjoyed a growing
measure of effective independence (although eyed as a strategic pawn by Russia
and Britain), while China was preoccupied by the collapse of empire, the shaky start
of republicanism, civil war between Nationalists and Communists, and Japanese
invasion.
China reasserted control in 1951
under the new, Communist
regime. Early resistance to
Beijing’s rule met with a violent
response that precipitated the
flight of the Dalai Lama (and
many other refugees besides) to
India in 1959. (Hence the drop in
population at that time as shown
in Table I on page 1.)
Table IX: Distribution of Tibetan People in
China (by Province)
Population % of total
TAR 2427168 46%
Qinghai 1086592 21%
Sichuan 1219085 23%
Yunnan 117099 2%
Gansu 395403 8%
Total 5,245,347 100%
Source: National Census 2000

The Communist state created a Tibet Autonomous Region (TAR) in the far west. Yet
this is home to less than half of the five million Tibetans living in the PRC today.
(Table IX) The remainder are spread across a much broader “ethnographic Tibet”
that includes the northern tip of Yunnan, western Sichuan (known to Tibetans as
Kham), pockets of Gansu, and the vast, sparsely-populated mountains and
grasslands of Qinghai (Amdo to Tibetans), which is more than twice the size of
Germany but has a population of little more than five million.
Figure 10 / 11: Maps of the Tibet Autonomous Region (TAR) and
Ethnographic Tibet (below)
Source: www.maps-of-china.com and www.friendsoftibet.org
In these other provinces, most counties or prefectures with substantial Tibetan
populations also have “autonomous” status, although in practice this is more a
formal recognition of local ethnicity than a measure that confers significant
administrative independence.8
Because of political sensitivities, the TAR regional
government is closely controlled by Beijing. Less political sensitivity attaches to
Tibetan Autonomous counties and prefectures in other provinces.
8
“Autonomous” administrative status is accorded to administrative areas where more than 40% of the population is
from a nationally recognised ethnic minority. By 1990, autonomous areas made up 64.5% of China’s land area, and were
inhabited by more than 150 million people, of whom 66 million were ethnic minorities—77% of China’s minority people.
an Leshan, Autonomy is not what is was, in China Development Brief [then chinabrief], Vol. II. No. 4, December 1999.)
(

Tibetans are the ninth most populous ethnic group in China. In terms of human
development, indicators for infant and child mortality, life expectancy and
educational achievement in Tibetan communities are generally among the poorest
in China. (Table X)
Table X: Comparative Rural Development of Qinghai, Guizhou, Sichuan
and the TAR
Life Expectancy in
Years / + or –
national rural
average
Illiteracy Rate
(%) / + or –
national rural
average
GDP in Yuan / + or
– national rural
average
Guizhou 64.74 - 4.81 19.68 + 8.73 2041 - 3006
Qinghai 65.79 - 3.76 23.45 + 12.5 3712 - 1335
TAR 64.34 - 5.21 54.86 + 43.91 3837 - 1210
Sichuan 70.13 + 0.58 11.73 + 0.78 4072 - 975
Source: UNDP China Human Development Report 2005
Livelihoods
Although united by culture and religion, the Tibetan populations of outlying,
ethnographic Tibet, separated by huge distances and rugged terrain, do not have a
great deal of intercourse with the TAR and speak several distinct, Tibetan dialects.
In all Tibetan areas, however, the dominant “mode of production” is pastoralism:
raising sheep, goats, horses and yak on pastures that are generally 3,000 or more
metres above sea level. The yak is the most valued because of its diverse uses, and
the Tibetan word for yak, nor, is a synonym for wealth, which Tibetans traditionally
measure by the size of herds. As well as milk and meat for consumption, yaks
provide wool and hair for clothing and rope, and hides for tents. They are also used
as pack animals and can be
ridden. Their dried dung is the
main source of household fuel.
The yaks are fattened during the
summer months, when grass is
plentiful, and when the herders
live primarily from yak milk
products. At the end of the
growing season, meat from
selectively slaughtered animals
is dried in strips for consumption
through the long and very harsh
winters.
Figure 12: Yak dung drying, Hokoma Village

The size and composition of herds varies considerably between families and regions
across the Qinghai-Tibet plateau. According to a 1998 paper by Daniel Miller, a
rangeland specialist with extensive experience on the plateau, the richest family in
Ngamring County of Shigatse Prefecture (TAR) had 268 sheep, 250 goats, 77 yaks
and 8 horses; whilst in northwest Sichuan’s Marthang County—relatively close to
the area visited in this study—a typical family would have 100 yaks, 5 horses and
only a few, if any, sheep or goats.9
In addition to livestock, many Tibetans grow barley, which, unlike wheat, can
tolerate short growing seasons at high altitude. This provides grain for alcohol and
for the staple tsampa—a paste made of ground barley mixed with yak butter tea.
In some of the most remote areas,
Tibetan herders continue to lead an
entirely nomadic existence, living
in tents and moving with the
seasons. In other areas (as in our
case study in Qinghai), herders are
semi-nomadic, living in permanent
houses throughout the winter but
moving with their animals to
summer camps at higher
elevations, to take advantage of
the summer pasture.
The Tibetan economy also encompasses other trades and crafts such as the
production of traditional Tibetan robes, religious artefacts (tangkas [religious
paintings], prayer wheels, etc), decoration of furniture, and traditional, herbal
medicine. The latter provides an important source of cash income to pastoral
families who forage for medicinal plants to sell.
Grassland degradation
Pastoralism on the Qinghai-Tibet plateau continued, with little change and
apparently sustainably, for many centuries. However, over the last two or three
decades, some areas of the pasture have shown increasing signs of environmental
stress and degradation, with serious erosion and even desertification in some
places.
“Overgrazing” beyond the grassland’s carrying capacity is widely held responsible,
although there is no consensus as to how or why this occurred. Government officials
sometimes seem inclined to blame traditional pastoral practices as resulting in a
9
Hard times on the plateau, in China Development Brief (then known as chinabrief) Vol. I No. 2, August 1998. This paper
is no longer available on the CDB website, but has been republished, and can be viewed on:
www.cwru.edu/affil/tibet/booksAndPapers/plateauhard.htm (Accessed June 13th
2006 )
Figure 13: Tent in remote valley, Hokoma

“tragedy of the commons.” However, a study commissioned by the China
International Council for Cooperation on Environment and Development blamed the
severity of grassland degradation in Dari County (达日县 , in Qinghai’s Golok
Prefecture) on a five fold increase in herd sizes between 1952 and 1974—at the time
of Maoist collectivisation and intense pressure to raise food production.10
The same
paper also pointed to local climate change as a contributory factor: annual rainfall,
according to the report, fell by 15% to 87.4mm between the 1960s and the 1980s.
Another frequently mentioned culprit is the Plateau Pica, a small relative of the
rabbit that is commonly blamed both for eating grass and for destroying its roots by
burrowing. Government policy—supported by a European Union aid programme in
Qinghai—has been to treat the Pica as a pest and to eliminate it by laying down
poison. However, biologists have defended the creature as “a keystone species for
plateau diversity,” claiming that it’s burrows provide nesting grounds for birds and
niches for shrubs to grow, that it digs and manures soil for seeding flora, serves as
prey for hawks and other mammals, and helps keep down weeds that are harmful to
livestock.11
Whatever the true cause of the problem, it is clearly threatening traditional
livelihoods. Government has responded with a series of measures that include
moving thousands of herder families, enclosing millions of mu of rangeland, and
reducing herd sizes. (Text box 1, Table XI)
Table XI: Qinghai pasture conversion and resettlement plans
Type of
Programme
Affected people
(Households)
Area of
implementation
(million mu)
% of total land in
Golok and Yushu
Zone 1 6,515 (1,448) 32.34 11.2
Zone 2 21,164 (4,326) 78.43 28.6
Zone 3 108,800 (21,976) 104.0 37.9
Zone 4 146,600 (23,659) 60.2 21.9
Zone 1: Sedentarisation and ‘transformation’ (i.e. resettlement, and out of pastoralism) of 6,515
herders in accordance with a plan set out by the Three Rivers Nature Reserve (Sanjiangyuan).
Zone 2: Sedentarisation and transformation of 21,164 herders. Subsidies of feed grain of 2.75
kg/mu/year, over five years.
Zone 3: 50 million mu of enclosures. Construction of 20,000 houses (sedentarisation) and 20,000
dual-use sheds. Subsidies of feed grain of 2.75 kg/mu/year. Reduction of total animal numbers by
50%.
Zone 4: 50 million mu of enclosures. Construction of 20,000 houses (sedentarisation) and 20,000
dual-use sheds. Subsidies of feed grain of 0.69 kg/mu/year, for a total of 43.5 million kg/yr, over five
years.
Source: Emily Yeh: Green Governmentality and Pastoralism in Western China: ‘Converting Pastures to
Grasslands’ in Nomadic Peoples Volume 9, Issue 1&2, 2005
10
Shen Y., Ma Y, Li Q, Case Study on Grassland Restoration in Qinghai Province, CCICED, China Forestry Publishing
House, 2001
11
Smith, A., Foggin, M. The Plateau Pica is a Keystone Species for Biodiversity on the Tibetan Plateau, in Schei P., Wang
S. and Xie Y (eds), Conserving China’s Biodiversity, China Environmental Science Press, 1996

Text box 1: Despite implementation problems, government is
sticking to and scaling up its anti-desertification plan
In 1996, China launched a three-phase, 50-year National Action Plan to Combat
Desertification (NAP) that aims, in its first phase, to control 22 million hectares of
desertified land by 2010.
Six projects operate under the aegis of the NAP which has prompted a serious rethink of
land policies across China’s agricultural and pastoral areas, particularly those in the upper
reaches of the Yangtze and Yellow Rivers.
Most important of these policies is the conversion of cultivated land to forest or
grassland (tuigenghuanlin),
which is sometimes known
as the ‘Grain for Green’
program. This is now active
across twenty provinces and
has so far converted 1.2
million hectares of farmland
and one million hectares of
waste land. Plans are in
place to convert a further
2.2 million hectares.1
The conversion of
pasture to grassland
(tuimuhuancao) is a later
variation aimed at five
pastoral areas—Sichuan,
Qinghai and the Tibet,
Mongolia and Xinjiang Autonomous Regions. It involves zoning of grassland into three
categories: seriously degraded land where grazing will be permanently banned;
moderately degraded land where grazing will be banned for a period of 3-10 years; and
lightly degraded areas where grazing will be seasonally closed.
Qinghai’s extensive and heavily degraded grasslands, large pastoral community and
position at the source of the Yangtze and Yellow Rivers made it a natural choice for the first
tuimuhuancao pilot. This took place in Dari County in 2000. According to a recent
research paper by Emily Yeh of the University of Colorado, it involved the cultivation of
perennial grass, fencing of zoned areas and a campaign to eliminate the Plateau Pica.2
Central and local government provided funds, but individual households were also
required to take out poverty alleviation loans to cover costs. No retraining component was
included.
Despite implementation problems, Yeh writes, planners in Qinghai had by 2003 already
scaled up the tuimuhuancao and introduced a new component—‘ecological migration’
(shengtaiyimin). Implementation in Qinghai is “much more vigorous than [in] other areas.”
Provincial government and county-level agricultural bureaus are responsible for
implementation of both policies but, Yeh concludes, there is considerable variation in how
this is done.
All of the pasture in Golok and Yushu Tibetan Autonomous Prefectures, where
resettlement programmes are already under way, has been zoned into four categories, as
shown in Table XI.
According to the Leading Group Office in Qinghai responsible for land conversion this
plan will involve close to 8,000 households and more than 40,000 people, with 11,000 of
them due to move during 20063
.
Overall, desertification in China has slowed from a high of 10,400 km2
per year to 3,000
km2
per year now, according to the most recent reports from the State Forestry Bureau.
Notes:
1
http://forestry.msu.edu/China/New%20Folder/Natalie-Grasslands.pdf (Accessed 14th June 2006)
2
Green Governmentality and Pastoralism in Western China: ‘Converting Pastures to Grasslands’
in Nomadic Peoples Volume 9, Issue 1&2, 2005
3
www.yushunet.cn/viewthread.asp?id=2056 (Accessed 14th
June 2006)
Figure 14: Grassland in Banma County

Western Development Strategy (“Go West”)
Meanwhile, since 2000 China’s central government has also been pursuing a
Western Development Strategy (西部大开发战略) that aims to open up western
provinces to trade, investment and tourism.
To date, infrastructure development has been the main plank of this strategy, with
huge investment from central (and, to a lesser extent, provincial) government in
massive engineering projects. The best known of these is the CNY 24 billion, 1,149
kilometre rail link from Golmud in western Qinghai to Lhasa in the TAR. This will be
the highest railroad in the world, contending with extreme winter conditions, and
will for the first time connect the TAR to the national railway network. Construction
of the line has proceeded ahead of schedule, and it is due to be tested in the summer
of 2006.
In addition to the rail link, there has been substantial upgrading of highways linking
Qinghai’s capital, Xining, to Gansu in the east and to Yushu Tibetan Autonomous
Prefecture in the south of the province (adjacent to Golok, which is the subject of
this case study). The latter highway will continue south to Sichuan, and there are
also plans to build a highway linking Yushu to Lhasa. In addition, Yushu has applied
to central government for permission and funding to build a civilian airport.
Finally, substantial investments have also been made in hydropower development in
Qinghai.
On the face of it, this programme is an economically orthodox public investment
development model, not dissimilar to the interstate highway building programme
that the United States embarked upon as recently as the 1950s. Although assembly
lines and hi-tech industries are perhaps unlikely to relocate from coastal areas
(where there is a high concentration of intellectual capital and easy access to
international markets), there is every likelihood that the new infrastructure will
attract investors, both Chinese and foreign, in fields such as mining,
agro-processing and, perhaps pre-eminently, tourism.
Critics of the strategy object, however, that it is overwhelmingly driven by central
planners, that local people have no ownership of it, and that it is likely to result
simply in the more efficient extraction of resources (power, minerals) for the benefit
of companies and consumers in eastern China. Critics also point out that local
people in Qinghai and other parts of western China have gained little or no
immediate benefit from the construction projects, which are carried out by eastern
Chinese engineering companies that bring their own labour forces. Finally, the
critics say, whilst investment in mega-projects has been huge, there has been very
little investment in basic, rural infrastructure (roads, water supplies, health and

education facilities) that would be of immediate and direct benefit to Tibetan
communities.
What is certain, however, is that in the next few years life will change profoundly on
the Qinghai-Tibet plateau, as a result of the dual processes of pasture degradation
(and the Chinese government’s “ecological restoration” response) and “western
development.” Hence the importance of enquiring to what extent Tibetan
communities are ready, able and empowered to adapt to the future.
Migration
To date most studies of Tibetan migration have given greatest attention to Tibetans
leaving China for Dharamsala, in northern India, where numbers are put by the
Central Tibetan Administration (the Dalai Lama’s government in exile) at around
100,000. There is also a widely if thinly spread Tibetan diaspora in the United
States and Europe.
In-migration of Chinese Han people into ethnic Tibetan areas has received a great
deal of international attention, with common (and on the whole well-grounded)
concern that Han people are taking many, if not all, of the new economic
opportunities in urban areas.
Much less is known about whether and how Tibetan herding families across the
Qinghai-Tibet plateau are participating in China’s overall trend of mass rural-urban
migration.
Professor Tenzin Lhundrup of the China Tibetology Research Institute (中国藏学研究
中心), believes that the majority of Tibetans would not consider migrating to
anywhere other than Lhasa.12
Nevertheless, he says, there is a significant Tibetan
migrant community (around 50,000–80,000) in Chengdu. Most of the migrants
there, he says, are run restaurants, bars, or bookstores or sell ethnic handicrafts or
herbs. But these are almost certainly not former nomads who, if they move at all,
according to Lhundrup, tend to gravitate towards small towns and monasteries or
temples.
Literature searches in both English and Chinese failed to cast further light on
domestic migration of Tibetan people; and it was to fill this information vacuum that
a research trip was made to visit pastoralist communities in Qinghai.
12
Telephone interview, January 20 2005

Banma County and three “villages”
Information presented here was collected in March 2006 during a six-day field trip to
three winter villages, Hokoma, Duorima and Garima, in Golok Tibetan Autonomous
Prefecture (果洛藏族自治州), Qinghai Province. Interviews were conducted with 16
migrant families: eight in Hokoma, one in Garima and seven in Duorima.13
Most of
these families had migrated, as family units, only once; but a couple had done so
more than once. A further ten interviews were conducted, one with each village
leader and seven with non-migrant families.
Golok is a large, sparsely populated region situated in the southeast of Qinghai.
More than 90% of the population in Golok is Tibetan. The entire prefecture is home
to just 125,000 people but covers an area of 75,000 square kilometres—a similar
size to the Czech Republic which has a population of more than 10 million.
Maqin (玛沁), the administrative
capital, sits in the north of the
prefecture some 9 hours by bus
from Xining. The villages of
Hokoma, Duorima and Garima
lie several hundred kilometres
further south, in Banma County
(班玛县). The county seat is the
last major settlement on the
Qinghai side of the border
before Sichuan, less than 100
kilometres to the south. The
journey from Banma to Xining
takes approximately sixteen
hours by bus, and a single ticket
costs CNY 135 (USD 17).
Figure 15: Map of Qinghai.
Tibetan communities in the
Banma area typically divide their time between a summer and winter home, moving
to outlying summer pastures around June and returning to their winter homes in the
Autumn. Hokoma, Duorima and Garima are winter villages, where most people live
in houses fashioned out of earth, stone and wood, and then move out with their
animals and tents in the summer.
“Village” in this context does not imply a compact or nuclear settlement. Rather,
each village is dispersed across a series of valleys falling under the jurisdiction of a
13
Interviews were conducted through a Tibetan woman interpreter who came from the local area and was able to
identify in-migrant families. Owing to the informal setting, groups of people were often interviewed together. More than
40% of the people interviewed were women, and in some cases women (accompanied by children) were the only people
present. Women interviewees did not appear in any way shy about telling their families’ stories and responding to
questions.
Source: www.maps-of-china.com (Edited by China
Development Brief)

permanent, administrative centre—the equivalent of a rural township seat in
eastern China—which has amenities such as schools and shops.
Hokoma Village, for example, adjoins
the settlement of Moba, only five
minutes drive out of Banma’s county
town. The same road continues
through Moba to become Hokoma
village’s main artery, running along
the valley for at least a further
twenty kilometers and flanked by the
villagers’ homes, which are spaced at
regular intervals, about a kilometer
apart. The valley is joined by
numerous shorter, narrower valleys
which themselves connect with even
yet narrower valleys further up the watershed. These typically have no road access
and house just four or five families.
Figure 16: Unpaved Road running through
remote valley
Duorima and Garima both fall under the administration of the Jiangri township, and
share its health and education services. The township lies within ten kilometres of
the county seat, but the road connecting the two centres is not yet paved.
None of the three villages have telephone connections, piped water or electricity
supplies. A recent project by a Qinghai NGO, funded by the British Embassy in
Beijing, provided around half the households in the three communities with solar
powered photo-voltaic cells, helping to light up the long, dark evenings; but the
remaining households continue to depend on candles. Trips to fetch heavy loads of
surface water from streams and rivers remain a feature of daily life for women in
these communities.
Villagers’ homes, whether tents or houses, contain only the barest essentials.
Typically, the living area is dominated by a central stove, fuelled with yak dung, used
for cooking and to provide warmth
during the freezing winters, when
temperatures remain below zero for
five months. Apart from this,
possessions are generally limited to
a few pots and pans, bedding, a rug
to sit on, and religious artefacts,
including prayer wheels, scriptures,
butter candles and pictures of
high-ranking lamas.
Figure 17: House Interior, Hokoma

Household furnishings and appliances would be an encumbrance during long
seasonal journeys, and this tradition of pastoralist mobility may partly explain the
paucity of possessions. Moreover, items such as televisions—a must-have for many
rural Han people—are relatively undesirable for Tibetans because there is no Tibetan
language broadcasting in this area, and the great majority of villagers speak and
understand very little Chinese. Radios, however, are ubiquitous. Motorbikes, on
the other hand, are a practical and highly desirable asset for Tibetan households,
aiding communication with the outside world and access to local services. In one of
the three villages, around 70% of households had a motorbike, according to the
village leaders.
The village heads estimated typical cash incomes for entire households as being no
more than CNY 2,000-3,000 (USD 250-375) per year. The wealthiest families,
village leaders said, might earn around CNY 10,000 (USD 1,235) per year. This
places even those ‘wealthy’ households below the internationally accepted
dollar-per-day poverty threshold.
Families in the villages are able to derive some cash income from foraging for
medicinal herbs (bimu and caterpillar fungus), the quality and availability of which is
of course critically dependent on the condition of the rangelands. Other income may
be obtained from sale of livestock, but it was impossible in the space of a short visit
to gain a clear picture of the extent of trade, whether by barter or sale, of animals
(especially yak) that are central to the pastoral economy. Table XII gives data on the
size of yak herds—generally accepted by Tibetan pastoralists as the main indicator
of a family’s wealth and status—as reported by families that were interviewed.
Table XII: Yaks per household
(Source: household interviews)
10 or
under
11-20 21-30 31-40 41-50 51-60 Over
60
TOTAL
Duorima 1 1 - 1 - - 2 5
Garima 1 1 2 1 - 1 - 6
Hokoma - 1 - 1 3 1 2 8
TOTAL 2 3 2 3 3 2 4 19
Most families keep horses as well as yak. The number of horses was variable, but
generally proportional to the size of the yak herd. For example, households with up
to forty yak generally had just one or two horses, whereas the family with the
largest yak herd (in Hokoma) owned seven horses. Only one family, in Duorima,
raised sheep.
The villagers said their staple diet was tsampa and yak butter tea, and that they eat
meat only one or twice a month. Fruit and vegetables, which have to be imported to

the area from distant Chengdu or Xining, are regarded as luxuries and consumed a
few time a year at most.
Prevalence of tuberculosis is high in Banma and the health status of rural people
appeared generally poor. The great majority of families spanned only two
generations; in only a few cases were grandparents still living under the same roof
with grandchildren.
Table XIII: Population, Services, Cash Income and Household Goods
in Hokoma, Duorima and Garima Villages
(Source: Interviews ith village leaders)w
Population Access to basic services
Annual household income,
ownership of basic goods
Hokoma
788 in 169
households
Primary School: A primary school in Moba, close to
Banma county town, serves 3 villages. 150 students,
13 teachers. Attendance of children from Hokoma
families of eligible age: 20%.
Nearest Middle School: Banma county town.
Medical Services: 3 doctors (middle school
graduates) treat colds and administer injections.
Shops: 2 shops by a monastery about half-way along
the valley.
Income: CNY 2,000–3,000
Power: 60% have solar PVC
Landline: 0%
Fridge: 0%.
TV: 10%
Motorbike: 70%
Duorima
364 in 71
households
Primary School: Located in the village township
several kilometers to the south of Banma. This serves
children from Duorima and Garima. 120 students, 12
teachers. Attendance: 40%
Nearest Middle School: Banma county town.
Medical Services: 2 unqualified doctors who dispense
medicines.
Shops: 2 private shops in the village township.
Income: CNY 2,000–3,000
Power: 50% have solar PVC
Landline: 0%
Fridge: 0%.
TV: Close to 0%
Motorbike: 30-40%
Garima
1,030 in 195
households
Primary School: As with Duorima (above).
Attendance is 50%.
Nearest Middle School: Banma county town
Medical Services: Shared with Duorima (above)
Income: CNY 2,000–3,000
Power: 35% have solar PVC.
Landline: 0%
Fridge: 0%.
Shops: Shared with Duorima (above) TV: Close to 0%
Motorbike: About 25%
MAIN FINDINGS
No migration out of pastoralism . . .
Migration in this area is entirely different from the overall, national pattern of an
exodus from agriculture to manufacturing and service industry jobs. None of the
people interviewed in the three communities had been out or the immediate area in
search of such work.
Evident barriers to employment include very low levels of formal education, very low
ability to speak Chinese, very low cash incomes and the great distances to cities
with significant non-rural job opportunities. Whether for these reasons or whether

out of attachment to their pastoral lifestyle and culture, the families interviewed
appeared not to have seriously considered migration to other kinds of employment
and life.
Some mentioned low proficiency in Chinese as effectively excluding them from the
very few locally available “urban” jobs—predominantly in government, schools and
hospitals. Others pointed out that they could not afford the several hundred yuan
they would need for an exploratory trip eastwards. Several also said that they
would be unwilling to see young people migrate to cities for fear that they would
become involved in a life of crime. Children, it was often said, are much better off
growing up on the plateau rangelands.
Asked if they had ever thought of travelling, several people mentioned Lhasa and
India as places they would like to visit. By comparison, there was negligible interest
in eastern China—and negligible knowledge of it. It transpired in casual
conversation that several people did not know what President Hu Jintao looks like.
(One or two people even seemed not to know who he is). Without either television
or the tales of returned migrants from the east to stimulate their interest, people
seemed to find the whole idea of eastern China very remote.
On the whole, therefore, local people seemed to have very little perception of
employment opportunities, or possible futures, beyond the parameters of the local
and traditional Tibetan economy. Their economic horizons are largely limited to
herding livestock, gathering herbs, making religious artefacts for monasteries, or
becoming monks.
Very few local opportunities . . .
A cursory inspection of the neaby Banma county seat confirms that there are very
local employment opportunities for Tibetans. Apart from one short strip of traders
selling Tibetan clothing, the town’s commerce and services—hotels, restaurants and
shops—as well as trades such as construction and vehicle mechanics, are dominated
by Han in-migrants.
Local Tibetans insist that job allocation in Banma is under the effective control of the
Han leadership, and that government posts are “sold” to the highest bidder.
Even an educated Tibetan, the villagers say, would struggle to find work in the
county seat of Banma. As one mother of seven said, “I hope that my children [five
of whom have some schooling] can find work outside, but without a university
education this almost impossible.”
The few exceptions to the general rule are highlighted in Thumbnail Portraits 2, 3 &
4 at the end of this case study. In each of these cases, it appears to have been
native wit and determination and/or the social status and opportunity conferred by

the local monastery, rather than formal education, that has given Tibetans a chance
to branch out into a new way of life. It is noticeable, moreover, that those with the
means and the determination tend to look for small business and trading niches in
the Tibetan economy, rather than trying to compete in occupations (other than
driving) that require specific skills. Moreover, the Tibetan dressmaker (Portrait 4,
page 42) and the middleman trading in medicinal plants (Portrait 3, page 41) are
essentially deriving an income from the traditional economy, rather than tapping
new sources wealth and diverting them into Tibetan communities.
On the whole, therefore, this part of rural Qinghai is fundamentally out of step with
the China’s national development trends towards urban lifestyles and employment;
for the people in the communities visited appeared to have almost no opportunity,
and no obvious inclination, to give up their pastoral livelihoods.
Migration is exclusively rural-rural . . .
However, there was clear evidence of a different kind of migration: rural-rural
transfers in search of better pasture, against a background of rangeland
degradation that has become very severe on some parts of the Qinghai-Tibet
Plateau. Seasonal migration is itself a feature of the pastoral cycle, but evident
here was a movement of a different kind: permanent migration, over relatively long
distances, away from exhausted environments.
As Table XIV shows, the area visited is a net receiver, rather than sender, of such
migrants. Most of the in-migrants come from within Golok, but some come from
northern Sichuan, whose border with Qinghai lies little more than 100 kilometres to
the south.
Table XIV: Number of Inward and Outward Migrant
Households by village and Sender / Receiver Area
Outward Inward Net Gain /
Loss
Hokoma 2 (Serda) 18-19 (Dari) + 16 or 17
Garima 6-8 (Jiuzhi) 2 - 4 to 6
Duorima 0 7 (Serda, Aba & Dari) + 7
Total 8-10 27-28 + 17 to 20
Source: All figures in this table are taken from interviews with village leaders at each village.
Most prominent and established of the local patterns is migration from Dari (达日),
some 200 kilometres to the north-west of Banma County, and the village of Hokoma.
There, the relatively high quality of the grassland began to attract migrants 22 years
ago, and the most recent arrival was in the late autumn of 2005. In all cases, the
migrants cited the declining quality of rangeland in Dari—now eroded to the point of
desertification—as the reason for their move.

Sometimes sparked by family tragedy . . .
Although driven by the need for better pasture, it was sometimes personal
misfortune that finally prompted the decision to move.
In one case, a family decided to “make a new start” after their herd was devastated
by disease. A catastrophe of this kind naturally put them in a poor position to make
a new life anywhere, and they said that they still depend for survival on charitable
assistance from monasteries.
Another family fell into acute financial difficulty as a result of funeral expenses.
(Thumbnail Portrait 1, page 39; funerals are lengthy and costly events, taken very
seriously by Tibetans) This family also reports that to make ends meet they now rely
on a combination of charitable assistance from monasteries and informal loans.
Equally tragic was the case of an elderly nun who had lost two young children before
their first birthdays. A Lama told her, she relates, to leave her home area “to escape
her bad fate” and ensure the safety of her remaining children.
But whether finally prompted to leave by personal tragedy, or simply by chronic
shortage of adequate pasture, in-migrants appeared to have been driven from their
original homes by sheer necessity. They appear to have left with no greater ambition
than survival, and have indeed been able to achieve little else. In these
circumstances, it may be more accurate to describe them as “environmental
refugees” rather than “migrants.”
Incomers have no land security . . .
As a refuge, the Banma area still offers reasonable grassland; and the proximity of
the three villages to the county seat also offers the advantages of relatively good
access to health and education services and local shops.
Table XV shows that many in-migrants have managed to enjoy these benefits for
five or more years, in some cases more than a decade, without being forced to move
on.
However, their
position remains
precarious as they
have no secure
pasture rights in the
receiving community
and only two (out of
sixteen) families had
managed to obtain
Table XV: Time Elapsed since initial Migration to
Banma County (Source: Household Interviews)
Less than
one year
1 – 2
years
3 – 5
years
6 – 10
years
More than
10 years
Hokoma 1 - 1 4 1
Garima 1 - - - -
Dourima 1 - - 1 5
TOTAL 3 - 1 5
6

local residency papers (hukou). For the others, the future, and the possibility of
the becoming permanently settled, ultimately depend on the good will of host
communities and, especially, the attitude of the village head.
Incomers typically sub-contract rangeland from villagers who are able to spare
some. This is arranged through 12-month contracts, renegotiated annually, which
the village leader must approve. Payment appears to be made according to the
number of animals grazed, but the sum also depends on other variables which it is
hard for the outsider to assess or even understand. Measurement of land area, for
example, typically depends on local knowledge (“three small valleys” or “one big
valley”), rather than on standardised units (mu, hectare, etc.) Rangeland quality is
undoubtedly also factored in, as is land availability.
Contract prices in Hokoma (where land is relatively plentiful, and where in-migration
is highest) ranged from as low as CNY 10 (USD 1.2) per head for a herd of 40 yaks
in Hokoma to CNY 26 (USD 3.2) per head for a herd of 75. In Garima, land is
scarcer, and therefore generally more expensive.
However, in one case in Garima, a family was renting land for the relatively low price
of CNY 22 (USD 2.7) per head, in a deal that also included a house. This appeared
to be a special concession for a blood relative: a woman who had married out of the
community had returned with her husband after a large part of their herd had been
wiped out by starvation elsewhere.
Only one family, in Hokoma, had been able to negotiate a long-term deal: a 4-year
contract, at just CNY 10 per head per year, to use the land of a family that had
temporarily moved away.
And host communities are unlikely to accept more
However, this case was very much against the trend: sub-contracting arrangements
appeared to be becoming both less frequent and shorter in recent years, as
grassland deteriorates all over Qinghai. In no case were future tenancy
arrangements guaranteed. The most recent arrival in Hokoma had already moved
about frequently in the area and was fully expecting to move on again in June when
the family’s eight-month contract expired.
Local families expressed mixed feelings over new arrivals. Those renting out land
were reluctant to negotiate long-term tenancies. Most other families in the
communities appeared to accept the right of those with spare land to sub-contract
it, but one family in Garima, where the population is relatively high and land
resources are under the greatest pressure, expressed outright opposition to such
arrangements.

Certainly, inward migration has slowed over the course of the last 20 years in tempo
with the deterioration in grassland quality, and the head of Hokoma village said that
it would be “impossible” for newcomers to stay permanently.
School is not seen as a route out . . .
Table XVI shows that a high proportion of local Tibetans have never attended school,
and current, low enrolment rates—just 20% in Hokoma Village—might appear to
suggest that parents do not attach great importance to education.
However, conversations with families revealed a number of factors in reluctance to
send children to school. One, especially for larger families, was the prohibitive cost
of schooling. School fees were nominally abolished in the autumn of 2005, under the
central government’s liang mian yi bu policy, but some families said they were, this
year, still paying fees of around CNY 50 (USD 6.2) per semester. They were
typically forced to sell a yak to meet these costs.
Table XVI: Final Education Level of Tibetans by age-group (not including
those currently in the schooling system)
Never
Attended
School
Monastic
Education
Primary
School or
less
Senior
middle
School or
less
Tertiary Total
Over 50 3 - 2 - - 5
31-50 20 2 1 - - 23
21-30 19 3 2 2 1 27
7-2014
18 - 2 - - 20
60 (80%) 5 (7%) 7 (9%) 2 (3%) 1 (1%) 75 (100%)Total
Source: Data was collected during household interviews.
The families also pointed out that they depend to some extent on the productive
labour of their children. Where children had dropped out, it was often because of the
illness or death of economically active family members. (As already noted, the
health status of the communities appears poor, and debilitating illness is probably a
relatively frequent occurrence.) Most of the children board at the school, and some
of them have to travel up to 20 kilometres each way to and from home each week.
This makes it harder to combine study with helping out at home. It is therefore
clearly a significant dilemma for the families whether to forego the immediate
benefits of children’s presence at home for the longer-term benefits of education.
14
This group does not include figures for the sixteen children currently in the schooling system whose final education
level remains unknown. Twelve of these children were place in State Schools, the remainder in Monasteries.

Clear prospects of higher paid work and broader opportunities for school graduates
would provide some incentive for families to send their offspring to school; but, in
these communities, there is no visible evidence that such opportunities exist. The
families interviewed appeared to be aware that unemployment is high even among
educated Tibetans.
Moreover, local people clearly attach importance to the preservation of Tibetan
language and culture, even if they also accept the value of learning Chinese. Some
argued that it is not worth sacrificing the former for the latter. For example, one man
who had placed two of his sons in a monastery for their education explained his
decision by saying that: “Learning Chinese is very important and a state education
is preferable for this, but both the teachers and students are not very diligent and
end up wasting each other’s time. Those students [in the state school] may speak
better putonghua, but they are unable to read or write Tibetan. Monastery teachers
are responsible and make sure their students learn.”
According to Tibetan villagers, local authorities have now introduced a “lottery
system” in order to ensure that minimum targets for school attendance are met.
Certain families are ordered to enrol their children or pay a steep fine of CNY 9,000
(USD 1,100). Not surprisingly, the policy has prompted resentment, rather than
acquiescence. Local people see it primarily as an effort to guarantee jobs for (Han)
teachers who face the sack if numbers dip. This strains relationships between the
Tibetan communities and local government, and does nothing to increase the
popularity of schooling that reduces the family’s resource base and possibly loosens
children from their cultural roots without offering tangible, long-term benefits.
Nevertheless, parents of young children did claim that they want to send them to
the local state schools. Out of nineteen families with children below the age of seven,
parents in fifteen cases said that, finances permitting, they would enrol their
children. Only four said that education would be “lottery dependent.” Still, village
heads remain adamant that enrolment rates will not increase significantly until
Tibetans sense real opportunities in the local economy.
Separate development
Family and social connections appear extremely important for rural-rural migration
between Tibetan communities. Opening negotiations to rent land, local Tibetans say,
would be impossible, local Tibetans say, without local contacts.
Yet people in the villages visited generally lack not only the Chinese language and
occupational skills but also the social networks that could assist with migration to
other areas, or into other kinds of occupation. None of the local households had kin
or acquaintances beyond a 200 kilometre radius, so there were few stepping stones

away from their traditional, but environmentally threatened, lifestyles on the
plateau.
The Tibetans’ dearth of social contact and connections with Han people, either
locally or further afield, is matched by a similarly distant relationship with the
Muslim Hui community, Qinghai’s third largest ethnic group. Past years have seen
Tibetan-Hui clashes, and local people report that a Tibetan boycott of Muslim
restaurants in Banma recently reduced the local Hui population to less than 200.
The relative ethnic isolation—some might say integrity—of Tibetan communities is,
arguably, also the major, cohesive force in the preservation of their culture and
lifestyle; but it does means that development in this part of China is not integrated,
but essentially proceeding along separate, ethnic tracks. Even those Tibetans with
relatively good putonghua seem to lack the confidence or inclination to establish
themselves in urban occupations, or to risk the erosion of their own cultural identity
that might come from doing so. Most compete instead for a place in a
Tibetan-speaking economy that draws heavily on a narrow pool of traditional skills.
Migration and diversification of livelihoods thus lacks the dynamism of other parts of
China, despite policies aimed at reducing the number of families herding livestock
on the plateau.
This perhaps would not matter if the plateau’s rangeland were capable of sustaining
traditional pastoralist communities indefinitely, but the evidence suggests that in
many areas it is not. Therefore, herders who seem to have little inclination to
diversify into new livelihoods nonetheless have reason to do so. A package of
infrastructure, health, education and training services tailored to the needs of a
scattered, pastoralist population might begin to create the basis for organic and
voluntary future development. There is little sign at present, however, that such
programmes feature in the plans of authorities who seem bent instead on moving
and sedentarising pastoralists within reach of the few services that are available.
(Thumbnail Portrait 5, page 43).

Craftsman rues the pastoralist life he has lost
Duoduo was 36 and unmarried when he first moved from
northern Sichuan to Banma seven years ago after his mother died.
“I wanted a new start,” he explains, but “I had to sell all our
yaks,” a herd of 30, to pay funeral expenses and finance the move.
Tibetans traditionally observe a 49-day mourning period that
requires the constant services of a team of monks to keep vigil,
perform rituals and chant scriptures. “I could not afford the
expense,” says Duoduo.
Earnings from stone-etchings now bring in above-average
annual income of around CNY 4,000 (USD 500) for the self-taught
craftsman, and he has also married a local girl, the mother of his
three children, who brings in additional income foraging for herbs.
A basic, two-room concrete house is provided without charge
by the local monastery, which serves an important welfare function
for the poorest families.
But “I still need to borrow money, 6,000 yuan a year,” to cover
basic food expenditure, says Duoduo. “My land in Serda has also
been confiscated. I don’t know how long I can stay in the monastery
house, there is no contract. If it is needed for other purposes then I
would have to leave. I might get just one month’s notice.”
With no assets there is little stability in Duoduo’s life, and he
concludes that “I would rather be a herder.”

Upwardly rising—via the monastery
When religious leaders in Jiangri Township made up their mind
that Gariduoji’s father was the reincarnation of a high-ranking Lama
from the local monastery, life took a turn for the better for this
family from Gande Prefecture, also in Golok, that has settled in
Duorima village.
Black tents have been replaced by a large, well-furnished
compound for these former pastoralists. “We are often gifted horses
in exchange for religious services which we sell,” says Gariduoji. He
declines to disclose the family’s income, but life, they all admit, is
much improved.
Spare cash has not been invested in education of the seven
children, six of whom have never been to school. “Education is
important,” Gariduoji’s mother says, but cites the “social influence
of the local community” to explain their decision not to send others
in the footsteps of her daughter, who studies Chinese medicine at a
vocational school in Hainan Prefecture.
Lack of education has not stopped her other children from
thriving. Two are shop-owners. Another bought a truck and went
into the removals business. One became a monk. The only one still
leading the pastoralist life is unusually wealthy by locally standards,
with more than 100 yaks.
“There is inequality in every society. But everybody is free to
practice dharma,” said an elderly woman relative when the family
was asked about the function of Buddhism in the redistribution of
wealth.

Trucking people and plants makes for an easier life
Danzeng, now 31 and dressed like any urbanite, was a herder
until his early 20s.
At first, he went into full-time collection of medicinal plants,
earning CNY 5,000 per month, and was able, last year, to buy a
small van with the proceeds.
He then drove for a local firm who paid him CNY 1,500 per
month for ferrying passengers between Banma and the prefecture
capital in Maqin. “I gave that up because I thought I could earn
more working for myself” he says. “Now I earn somewhere
2000-3000 yuan a month” operating freelance.
But at the same time he continues to trade in bimu and
caterpillar fungus, which are used in the manufacture of Tibetan
medicine. The vehicle has enabled him to deal in bulk, buying up
raw produce from locals and selling it on to vendors in Aba and
Banma. It also gives him greater reach to pastoralist communities
in Sichuan, Gansu and the Tibet Autonomous Region. “The money is
the same,” at the moment, according to Danzeng, “but I don’t need
to work so hard.”
Common sense business acumen rather than formal education
appears to be the vital ingredient in the success of this self-starter
who speaks only a few sentences of putonghua. “I make sure that
the quality of the herbs is good,” he says, adding that he negotiates
deals in advance rather than selling speculatively. “This way I never
lose money on my investment,” he explains. “But I have never been
to school.”
Danzeng’s family home, along remote and inaccessible valley
several kilometres off the main road to Banma, also shows signs of
wealth thanks to the CNY 10,000 a year he sends home. This has
helped the family to expand its resource base to 150 yaks (several
times the local average), seven horses. The house has been
refurbished and is now equipped with a TV, extremely rare in the
local area.
“Next I want to buy a bigger truck,” concludes the
entrepreneurial bachelor.

Local market offers modest opening for migrant tailor
Zhaxi is young, unattached and also mobile thanks to an
exportable skill and an extensive network that stretches from
northern and western Sichuan into Qinghai and areas of Gansu.
In each of these places “Friends told me that the price of
clothing was higher and that therefore I could earn more money,”
explains the 26 year-old self-taught dress-maker who is able to
produce a variety of traditional Tibetan wear.
“The market back in Kangding [western Sichuan] is too
competitive. In Maqu and Aba I could make between 2000 and 3000
yuan per month,” he adds. Earnings in Banma, he admits, are lower
but Zhaxi hopes the lucrative market in traditional medicine will
compensate for this and plans to spend the early summer months
foraging on the mountains.
Family members who remain as herders back in Tagong have
also benefited from his sorties northwards. A new stone house was
erected several years back and Zhaxi confirms that “without the
money that I have sent back it would have been much more difficult
to build.” His family’s yak herd has also expended to almost 70.

Resettlement is less than idyllic
A five minute drive from the Banma County town, row after row of
identical one-storey buildings sit on a large plot of land against the barren
backdrop of Qinghai’s brown mountains. The architectural style is
reminiscent of a detention centre, but this is now home to several hundred
Tibetans from Deke Village, the first community of herders to be resettled in
Banma as part of official efforts to slow down desertification and reduce
chronic rural poverty.
Local Tibetan leaders say that as many as 20% of herding families in the
area are slated to leave their pastoral livelihoods, but families taking part in
the first round of relocations, which began late in 2005, are facing
unemployment and even food shortages.
“The house is nice,” concedes Danla, a 29-year old mother of two
daughters. “But we were never short of food or fuel when we were nomads,”
she adds.
A three-roomed house in a walled enclosure, a TV and annual cash
payments of between CNY 2,600 (USD 325) and CNY 5,600 (USD 700) over
ten years make up the compensation package that is supposed to tide the
villagers over the transition to sedentary life.
But the local economy, which draws almost exclusively on Han migrants
to staff schools, hospitals and other government posts, offers few
opportunities to the Tibetan families who have traded their community
assets for an uncertain future.
“I don’t know anyone who has found a job. My husband and I stay home
everyday and do nothing. Life is very boring now,” according to Zhou Qiong,
another member of the new community. “The government money is not
enough to buy fuel or food for a year,” she continues. “I cannot speak or read
Chinese so it is impossible to find work. I am afraid that we will starve.”
Wealthier neighbours and relatives have been able to make up for
shortfalls until now, but all recognise that this is unsustainable. “We can’t
live on charity forever,” says Zhou.
Herders in nearby villages are equally pessimistic that the policy will
work for them. “Once our assets are removed life would be unviable,”
according to Yangzhong. “To find work in the local town you need money to
buy jobs, but I am just a disabled nomad,” adds the 43-year old father of
three young children.

CASE STUDY III: YI PEOPLE IN SICHUAN
Overview of the Yi people15
The Yi, also know as the Nuosu, are the seventh largest ethnic group in China, with
a population close to 8 million at the time of the 2000 census. More than 60% live
scattered across Yunnan Province—a roost that has for many generations been
shared with numerous other ethnic groups and that has led to a degree of natural
assimilation between the Yi and Han in those areas. A similar process of integration
has taken place in Guizhou and Guangxi, where a total of half a million Yi still live.
But in Liangshan Prefecture, a designated Yi Autonomous Region in the mountains
of southern Sichuan, Yi people (now numbering 2 million) have lived for many
centuries as their own rulers and in relative isolation. Liangshan Yi are therefore
arguably the most culturally authentic of the geographical branches, and one of the
least sinicised ethnic groups in modern China.
Figure 18: Map of Sichuan
Source: www.maps-of-china.com (Edited by China Development Brief)
Cultural integrity has, in part, been preserved through language. Numerous Yi
sub-groups speak six mutually unintelligible dialects, which causes notable
communication difficulties, even within Liangshan. Yi people nevertheless claim to
share a common history, although their precise origins are less than clear-cut.
15
This section draws on “Perspective on the Yi of south-west China” by Stevan Harrell, University of California Press,
2001. Also see www.yizuren.com, maintained by ethnographers and anthropologists in the Chinese Academy of Social
Sciences.

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