No writing has been discovered at Sanxingdui, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that the culture was illiterate. The ancient people may have written on perishable materials. In Anyang, writing survived because it was inscribed into oracle bones and bronzes, which last for millennia. Most scholars believe that the Shang also wrote on bamboo or wood, but such materials wouldn’t survive centuries underground. The only evidence for their existence is indirect: an oracle-bone character that is believed to be an early form of , ce, the modern character that means “writing tablet.” The Shang form of this character resembles strips of bamboo or wood laced together with a leather strap. The object itself is long gone, but the word remains:
“The writing certainly contributes to the importance of Anyang in Chinese eyes,” Bagley says, “because it’s the ancestor of the writing system that’s in use today. But the fact that we have writing in Anyang may be the merest fluke. What do we have? We have divinations on bones. You can imagine that the kings at Anyang are always keeping records, but on perishable materials. Then imagine that there’s some king, around 1200 B.C., who says, why don’t we carve on the materials we’re using for divination? That’s when the archaeological record begins. It could be simply the whim of some king.”
Because most historical dynasties were based in the north, the traditional perception has always been that the south was backward. But archaeological finds indicate an early development of agriculture in southern regions such as Sichuan.
“I’m just deeply impressed by this evidence that there was early rice cultivation in the middle Yangtze,” Bagley says. “The standard Chinese view has always been that the Yangtze region was the swamps, and it never got civilized until the northerners came, bringing civilization with them. My suspicion is that that’s just radically wrong.”
He continues: “In archaeology, you’re reconstructing a picture of the past that is based on what has been found. But what has been found is a very accidental selection of stuff. It’s been found by road building crews, and brick factories, and farmers digging in their fields. You know what’s been found—but you don’t know what hasn’t been found.”
PERSPECTIVE II
Distance: 943 miles. Location: Office B1509, Eaglerun Plaza, No. 26 Xiaoyun Road, Beijing. Commentator: Xu Chaolong.
Xu Chaolong is a lapsed archaeologist. He has not been defrocked, and he has not lost his faith, but he has slipped away from academia. Not long ago, he was considered to be one of China’s most promising young scholars. He grew up in Sichuan province, graduated from Sichuan University, and then, in 1983, received a scholarship to Kyoto University in Japan. Some of his graduate research involved the Indus Valley; later, he studied the archaeology of his home province. He won major Japanese awards and fellowships. In 1990, having completed his Ph.D., he accepted a faculty position at Ibaraki University.
He is a classically trained violinist; he met his Japanese wife while giving her lessons on the erhu, a Chinese stringed instrument. He speaks and writes Japanese fluently. He has published eight books on archaeology, mostly about the Yangtze River region, and each of these books was written and published in Japanese. Not a single one has been translated into Chinese. Xu Chaolong says that he has been too busy to do it himself. Since 1998, he has worked for Kyocera Corporation, a Japanese company that makes cell phones, cameras, and photocopiers. He researches archaeology in his spare time.
Other scholars view Xu Chaolong in vastly different ways, depending on their nationality. Some young Chinese archaeologists say that he went into business only to please his Japanese wife. Foreign archaeologists claim that he was frustrated by the narrowness and conservatism of the field in China. Everybody—both Chinese and foreign—agrees that his deep love for Sichuan is both an inspiration and a limitation. He is a regional patriot. And whereas a foreign scholar like Professer Bagley speaks of Sanxingdui in terms of culture and politics, Xu Chaolong’s vocabulary is primarily economic—the language of a young man who grew up in Deng Xiaoping’s China.
When we meet, he shows me one of his Japanese-published books: The Fifth Great Civilization.
“Traditionally, the four great ancient civilizations were the Egyptian, Mesopotamian, Indus Valley, and the Yellow River Valley,” he says. “Now look at the importance of rice—the whole world eats it. But the civilization that came from the rice-producing region isn’t recognized. And in fact, most of the modern Chinese leaders are from rice areas. Chiang Kai-shek, Mao Zedong, Deng Xiaoping, Zhou Enlai, Zhu Rongji, Li Peng, Hu Jintao—all from the south. Ever since the fall of the Qing, southerners have been leading this country.
“The northerners controlled China for two thousand years, and of course it has an effect on the way archaeology is approached. But we need to recognize that Chinese civilization has more than one heart. There were two ancient centers that eventually became unified.”
We sit in a Japanese-minimalist room. There are four couches, a table, some silk flowers, and a plastic palm plant. There aren’t any windows; nothing hangs on the white walls. The room seems to heat up as Xu speaks. He talks quickly in Chinese, using short, clear sentences, and he becomes more animated as the interview progresses. He shifts nervously; he cracks his knuckles. He speaks faster and faster. He wears a crisp white shirt and a blue-and-gold silk tie. Gold-rimmed glasses. Gold and silver Rolex. I ask him why he came to work at Kyocera.
“They sponsored a project I did at the International Research Center for Japanese Study. I was researching Yangtze culture. After a while, the boss here told me that I had some talent in business. He said I could be like Heinrich Schliemann, the German who discovered the ancient city of Troy. Schliemann did both business and archaeology. My boss said: You can be that guy.
“This is a period of great change in China—the economics are changing, the politics are changing. And where does the power for change come from? From the south. And the rediscovery of the Yangtze rice culture will have a great effect on the changes of China’s economy. Why should the south lead Chinese economics? Because that’s the way it was in the past. The Yangtze wasn’t a barbarian region.
“The key word is: Rice. Thirty-three percent of the world’s population survives on rice. The source of this crop should be considered the source of a great civilization; we can call it the Rice Civilization. Along the Yellow River, it was the Millet and Wheat Civilization.”
At the end of the interview, he tells me again that politics have warped Chinese archaeology. “In the past, it was important for leaders to have a concentration of political control,” he says. “But this is an economic century, not a political century. The economy speaks out, and it will change the concept of power. Jiang Zemin recently visited the Sanxingdui bronzes, and I know from a friend there that Jiang was very interested. Look at the rest of the government—why are so many leaders from the south? They have their own great ancient civilization, and they need to discover it, to explore it. Once they explore their past, the people will have more confidence. They’ll have more power to develop their economy; they’ll have more voice in the political system. Politics, economics, and culture are inseparable.”
PERSPECTIVE III
Distance: a few hundred feet. Location: a farmhouse in Sanxingdui, Sichuan province. Commentator: Xu Wenqiu.
Xu Wenqiu stands less than five feet tall, but she has a solidness that is common for middle-aged peasant women. She has calloused hands, sturdy legs, and wide feet. Her cheap tennis shoes are decorated with the American flag. When I explain that I’m researching a story for National Geographic, she says that she has never heard of the magazine. I ask her about the morning back in 1986 when she and the other villagers were digging clay.
“It was the eighteenth day of the sixth month, in the lunar calendar,” she says. “I remember it very well. People were digging, and they found the jade at eight o’clock. The next thing I saw was everybody running away. They all disappeared, and so did the jade!”
She laughs, and the crowd of neig
hbors joins in—interviews in the outdoors are never private in a village like Sanxingdui. It’s a cool morning, and the rapeseed is in season; around us, fields shimmer a brilliant gold. The woman’s simple home is made of mud walls and a tile roof. Nearby, the modern shape of the new Sanxingdui Museum rises above the fields like a mirage. The woman tells me that back in the summer of 1986, all of the jade was returned immediately.
“Some archaeologists came out to inspect it, and then they found that famous gold mask,” she says. “But Teacher Chen told us that it was bronze—he tricked us. He had us cover up the pit, and then later that day the military police came. Really, that mask was gold. Teacher Chen was just afraid that something would happen. That was on the second day.
“That summer we helped them excavate. That was our job. Sometimes we dug, or we used brushes to clean things off. They paid us less than one hundred yuan a month, although they also gave us food. Well, I wouldn’t really call it food. It was more like crackers. They were cheap.”
I ask her if she thinks that other artifacts are still underground.
“That’s hard to say.”
“Well, what sort of things do you think might still be there?”
The woman stares at me. There are moments when a journalist catches himself fishing for quotes—leading questions, obvious setups. And then there are moments when a peasant catches a journalist fishing. A sly smile crosses the woman’s face.
“Well, if you’re so interested, then maybe you should start digging,” she says. “I’m not going to stop you.”
The crowd laughs. I stammer and try to change the subject; I ask about her husband, who was one of the original excavators and does some part-time maintenance work at the museum.
“He’s out today,” she says. “You know, his photograph hangs in the museum. It’s a picture of him and some of the other people who dug the pits. That photograph has been to many countries all over the world. But the museum still pays him only two hundred yuan a month.”
“Well, that’s not so bad, if he has to work only some of the time.”
“What do you mean, it’s not bad?” she says. “You probably make that much in an hour!”
More laughter. I ask about their farm: they have one-sixth of an acre; they grow rice in the summer, wheat and rapeseed in the winter, and the vegetables are—
“How much money do you make?” she says suddenly.
“Uhm, it depends. It’s not the same every month.”
“I bet it’s a lot,” she says. “You live in Beijing, right?”
I nod my head.
“I can dream for days and I still can’t imagine Beijing!”
Laughter.
“Chongqing is the farthest I’ve ever been,” she says. “It must be nice. I bet you never have to pay for anything yourself. Eating, traveling, going around in cars—your work unit pays for all of it, don’t they?”
I admit that this is basically true.
“How much money do you make?”
My last hope for distraction is the digital camera. I take the woman’s photograph and show her the screen. “It’s a type of computer,” I explain.
“My brain’s a type of computer, too,” the woman says, playing on the Chinese word for computer, diannao, “electric brain.” She glances at her audience and then delivers the punch line: “But it doesn’t work anymore!”
Later that week I meet with Chen Xiandan, the vice-director of the Sichuan Province Museum—“Teacher Chen” to the peasants. The man grins when I mention the woman’s comment about the gold mask. “We stopped digging once we found that,” he says. “At that point, I was worried.” He tells me that they found the mask at 2:30 in the afternoon, and the military police didn’t arrive until five. It was those two and a half hours that he worried about.
PERSPECTIVE IV
Distance: one thin layer of cotton. Location: the storeroom of the Sanxingdui Museum.
The provincial museums are my favorites. Invariably, their curators are thrilled to see a foreign journalist, and they will do almost anything to make sure that I have good access. They seem to believe that writers work best through contact. Sometimes, they become excited and hand me a series of artifacts, one after another, moving faster all the time, until I’m afraid that I’m going to drop something. Feel the edge of this sword; see how heavy this one is. Look at this bowl. Check out this goblet. It’s like drinking baijiu as the honored guest at a banquet: toast after toast, until finally I have to push myself away from the table. I’m afraid that I’ve had enough. My tolerance isn’t what it used to be. Thank you for your hospitality.
At the Sanxingdui Museum, they won’t let me handle the pieces with my bare hands. I’m provided with a pair of white cotton gloves, but they are as thin as linen; I can feel the texture of the bronze through the material. The metal is cool and roughened by the centuries—the bumps and irregularities that give ancient bronze its character.
They have arranged a half dozen heads on a table, lying on their side, and I walk around and pick up each one. Two caretakers watch; occasionally, I ask a question, but mostly we are quiet. It feels like a classy jewelry shop—they give me plenty of time; nobody has to push the sale.
After a couple of trips around the table, I decide on a favorite. The head is over a foot long, ending just beneath the chin. It weighs about twenty pounds. Some patches of bronze are still burnished, shining with a color that is even deeper than jade. The face is stylized, almost modernesque—sharp lines and bold angles. The ears: elongated, jutting outward. Brow: sweeping down in two arched ridges. Nose: creased in the center and then flaring out into strong cheekbones. Mouth: as straight as a line across a page.
The head is long and thin, and the exaggerated shape invariably draws your attention straight to the eyes. They are sharply angled, and instead of a pupil, a long horizontal crease runs through the center of each eye. That crease gives the object an otherworldly expression: maybe human, maybe not. The eyes could be blank or they could be full. This piece of metal was manufactured more than thirty centuries ago. I hold the bronze head in both hands and the room is completely silent.
10
Anniversary
October 26, 2000
12:50P.M.
THE MESSAGE HAD ARRIVED THE DAY BEFORE. IT APPEARED IN AN encrypted e-mail, sent to foreign reporters:
There will be a big gathering on the square on Oct. twenty-six. People will go at any time. We know one of the big waves will be around one o’clock in the afternoon. Between flag and monument. This will be the biggest party ever…. There will be no big party like this in the foreseeable future. Have a good day!
A Beijing-based Falun Gong adherent had sent the message. He was a computer expert who knew how to cover his electronic tracks; he was always careful about the encryption. Nevertheless, he was destined to be caught in less than two years, the victim of an Internet café stakeout—off to a labor camp. From the tone of the e-mail, though, you couldn’t imagine what the “gathering” might involve, or that the author was at risk (“Have a good day!”). His use of the word “party” was particularly troubling. Throughout the year, the protests had gained strength, accumulating days like some brutal sacrificial ritual. April 25 had been followed by May 11, the birthday of founder Li Hongzhi. May 13 was next (the anniversary of the founding of Falun Gong), and then July 22 (the anniversary of the first anti-Falun Gong law). October 1 marked fifty-one years of the People’s Republic.
Each anniversary had been commemorated by protests in the Square, where the participants quickly learned how to play their roles. The foreign journalists slipped into tour groups, never taking notes; often we just stood around with our hands in our pockets, watching and remembering. The photojournalists had to become more resourceful. One wire service photographer began draping multiple cameras around his neck; sometimes, he wore three or four, dangling prominently, and meanwhile he kept a small digital camera in one hand and shot from the hip. Before the inevitable detention occ
urred, and the police triumphantly stripped the film out of each obvious camera, the digital disappeared into a pocket. Somehow, a picture always made it into the next morning’s paper.
The protestors had also become more adept. They still played by the same basic rules—if questioned, they always declared their faith—but they did everything possible to reach the Square without attracting attention. Sometimes they wore the cheap baseball caps that were standard for Chinese tour groups, and it wasn’t unusual for them to purchase little Chinese flags, like proud provincials visiting their nation’s capital for the first time. But the one thing they couldn’t hide was their lack of money. They tended to be simple folk: many had spent their working lives in the state-owned factories and work units of the Communist era. Retirees often suffered in the new economy—old plants had gone bankrupt or been converted, and pensions were low or not paid at all. Reform and Opening was a difficult period for the middle-aged and elderly, and it wasn’t surprising that a number of these people found solace in Falun Gong. In the Square, one could often pick them out by their clothes: cheap suits, cheap shoes, cheap padded cotton jackets. It was rare to see a well-dressed protestor. The majority of them seemed to be women.
Their demonstrations had become more elaborate. Occasionally, timing was involved—everybody acted at the stroke of the hour. They raised their arms over their heads, and sometimes they unfurled banners emblazoned with the three basic principles: TRUTHFULNESS, BENEVOLENCE, TOLERANCE. They tossed pamphlets into the air. Since May, they had taken to scattering chrysanthemum blossoms, because yellow was an auspicious color. Afterward, the police swept up the petals as if they were filthy things.
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