75070-Jordan-Landscape and Culture in Northern Eurasia-L360

LANDSCAPE AND CULTURE
IN NORTHERN EURASIA
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LANDSCAPE AND CULTURE
IN NORTHERN EURASIA
Peter Jordan
Editor
Walnut Creek, California

LEFT COAST PRESS, INC.
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ISBN 978-1-59874-244-2 hardcover
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data:
Landscape and culture in Northern Eurasia / Peter Jordan, editor.

p. cm.—(Publications of the Institute of Archaeology)
ISBN 978-1-59874-244-2 (hardcover : alk. paper)
1. Ethnology—Russia (Federation)—Siberia. 2. Hunting and
gathering societies—Russia (Federation)—Siberia. 3. Landscape
assessment—Russia (Federation)—Siberia. 4. Material culture—Russia
(Federation)—Siberia. 5. Siberia (Russia)—Social life and customs.
I. Jordan, Peter David, 1969
DK758.L36 2010
957—dc22
2010036305
Printed in the United States of America
∞ TMThe paper used in this publication meets the minimum

requirements of American National Standard for Information
Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/
NISO Z39.48–1992.
CONTENTS
List of Illustrations 7
Preface 11
Notes on Russian Transliteration 15
1. Landscape and Culture in Northern Eurasia: 17

An Introduction
Peter Jordan
Part 1. Landscape, Communication and Obligation
2. Seeing with Others’ Eyes: Hunting and ‘Idle Talk’ in the 49

Landscape of the Siberian Iukagir
Rane Willerslev
3. Shamanistic Revival in a Post-Socialist Landscape: 71

Luck and Ritual among Zabaikal’e Orochen-Evenkis
David G. Anderson
4. Landscapes in Motion: Opening Pathways in Kamchatkan 97

Hunting and Herding Rituals
Patrick Plattet
5. Material and Linguistic Perspectives on Sel’kup Sacred Places 117

Alexandra A. Maloney
Part 2. Landscape, Dwelling and Practice
6. Dwelling in the Landscape Among the Reindeer Herding 135

Chukchis of Chukotka
Virginie Vaté
7. ‘Marking’ the Land: Sacrifices, Cemeteries and Sacred 161

Places among the Iamal Nenetses
Sven Haakanson Jr. and Peter Jordan
8. Landscape Perception and Sacred Places amongst 179
the Vasiugan Khants
Andrei Filtchenko
9. Perceptions of Landscape among the Lake Essei Iakut: 199

Narrative, Memory and Knowledge
Tatiana Argounova-Low
10. The Creation and Persistence of Cultural Landscapes 215

among the Siberian Evenkis: Two Conceptions
of ‘Sacred’ Space
Alexandra Lavrillier
Part 3. Landscapes in Long-term Transformation
11. The Mansi Sacred Landscape in Long-Term Historical 235

Perspective
Elena Glavatskaia
12. Sacred Places and Masters of Hunting Luck in the Forest 257
Worlds of the Udege People of the Russian Far East
Shiro Sasaki
13. Komi Reindeer Herders: Syncretic and Pragmatic 279

Notions of Being in the Tundra
Joachim Otto Habeck
14. Siberian Landscapes in Ket Traditional Culture 297

Edward J. Vajda
15. Sacred Sites, Settlements and Place-Names: Ancient 315

Saami Landscapes in Northern Coastal Sweden
Noel D. Broadbent and Britta Wennstedt Edvinger
About the Editor and Contributors 339

Contact Details for Authors 343
Index 345
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Figure 1.1 Location map of chapter case studies. 27

Figure 2.1 Map of Iukagir territory. 52
Figure 2.2 Iukagir ice fishing. 53
Figure 2.3 Hunters travelling within their hunting ground 54
with dog sleds.
Figure 2.4 Sable, the ‘Soft Gold’, the main fur prey of 55
hunters.
Figure 2.5 The elk moving along the river bank in spring 1999. 56
Figure 2.6 The Omulevka River, the hunting territory of the 57
Spiridonov family.
Figure 2.7 Interior of hunting cabin showing men relaxing 63
after the hunt.
Figure 3.1 Map of Vitim River valley. 73
Figure 3.2 Gregorii Chernykh draining blood from the 75
stunned, tethered reindeer.
Figure 3.3 Skinning the reindeer starting from the feet. 76
Figure 3.4 Nikolai Aruneev displays the meat on willow maps 77
and burns portions of each piece in an offering fire.
Figure 3.5 Nikolai Aruneev constructs the offering site on a 77
small rise between the Poperechnaia River and
the camp.
Figure 3.6 Completed reindeer offering scaffold. 79
Figure 3.7 The author and Nikolai Aruneev making reindeer 80
blood sausage.
Figure 3.8 Schematic map of the Poperechnaia River valley. 84
Figure 3.9 Schematic map of the Poperechnaia River valley 85
emphasising the yearly round and the specially-
maintained kever meadows.
Figure 3.10 lokovun mortuary structure for depositing 89
the clothing and personal goods of a deceased
person.
Figure 3.11 Aruneev’s kunakan inuvun [child’s toy] at the 90
mountain pass between the Poperechnaia and
Kotamchal rivers.
Figure 4.1 Location map of Lesnaia and Achaivaiam 99
in Northern Kamchatka.
Figure 4.2 The crafting of a wooden seal during the 2006 102
Ololo ritual in Lesnaia.
Figure 4.3 Detail of the ‘tree of luck’ and of the Y-shaped 103
wooden ‘pathway’ with the wooden bears and
sheep attached to it.
Figure 4.4 Moving like a bear and diving like a seal during 104
Ololo.
Figure 4.5 View from above of the sacrificial altar built in 108
Achaivaiam in funeral context.
Figure 4.6 Imitating the ravens on the funerary pyre. 111
Figure 4.7 Detail of a sacrificial ‘sausage’ after its 113
victimisation.
Figure 5.1 Map of indigenous minorities of Russia. 118
Figure 5.2 Sel’kup wooden shamanistic images. 127
Figure 6.1 Location map. 136
Figure 6.2 Changing settlement. 138
Figure 6.3 Passing the burning kênut in front of the herdsmen 142
coming back from the summer pastures.
Figure 6.4 Building the iaranga. 143
Figure 6.5 Sketch 1: Organisation of the space inside 144
the iaranga.
Figure 6.6 Blood drawings performed at the ŋênrir’’un ritual. 147
Figure 6.7 Drawings of charcoal on a newly-sewn inner tent 148
inside the iaranga.
Figure 6.8 Fumigations during the first day of the Ŋênrir’’un 152
ritual.
Figure 6.9 Anthropomorphic fireboards in front of an iaranga 153
during the Ŋênrir’’un ritual.
Figure 6.10 Making the fire with fireboards during the Ulvev 154
ritual.
Figure 6.11 Fireboards and treatment of the reindeer iitriir 155
during the Ŋênrir’’un ritual.
Figure 7.1 General location map and Brigade 17’s migration 163
route (1997–98).
Figure 7.2 Members of Brigade 17. 166
Figure 7.3 Brigade 17’s reindeer herd. 167
Figure 7.4 Brigade 17 crossing the frozen River Ob’. 167
Figure 7.5 The symbolic siyangi line runs from the stove 169
located at the centre of the chum out through
the back of the tent.
Figure 7.6 The sacred place at which Brigade 17 conducted 173
a reindeer sacrifice.
Figure 7.7 Consuming fresh blood from the sacrificed reindeer. 174
Figure 7.8 Tying gifts to the sacred tree as a closing gesture. 174
Figure 8.1 Location map of the upper reaches of the Vasiugan 181
River, Tomsk Region, Western Siberia.
Figure 8.2 Upper Vasiugan fish weir located near the settlement 182
of Ozernoe.
Figure 8.3 Bear festival mask (birch bark). 186
Figure 8.4 A member of the Milimov clan. 192
Figure 9.1 Location of Lake Essei, Krasnoiarskii Krai, Siberia. 200
Figure 9.2 Sasha Alekseev, local hunter, taking a short break. 200
Figure 9.3 Balyk Ehekene. 209
Figure 9.4 Remains of golomo, traditional dwelling 210
of Lake Essei residents.
Figure 10.1 Winter encampment. 216
Figure 10.2 Summer encampment. 217
Figure 10.3 Platform for animal remains. 224
Figure 10.4 ‘Sky’ burial platform for bears. 224
Figure 11.1 General location map of Mansi communities 236
in Western Siberia.
Figure 11.2 Pelym Mansi family pupyg sum’ iakh. 244
Figure 11.3 Lozva Mansi ialpyng ma. 245
Figure 11.4 Lozva Mansi purlakhtyn ma. 247
Figure 11.5 Pelym Mansi family pupyg (an arsyn) kept 248
in a suit on the pupyg.
Figure 12.1 The Russian Far East. 258
Figure 12.2 Net fishing. 260
Figure 12.3 An Udege hunter going to set a bow-trap. 260
Figure 12.4 A traditional trap for sable hunting (Dui). 261
Figure 12.5 Hunting territories and old settlement pattern 262
on the Bikin River basins.
Figure 12.6 Remains of the ritual to the master of hunting luck. 268
Figure 12.7 Siwantai Mio and the shrine. 269
Figure 12.8 A hunter dedicating the ritual to the shrine. 269
Figure 12.9 Krasnyi iar. 270
Figure 13.1 Map showing locations of places and geographic 280
features mentioned in the text.
Figure 13.2 The reindeer herders’ brigade travelling from 284
one campsite to another.
Figure 13.3 Interior layout of the tent (chom) of a reindeer- 285
herding brigade.
Figure 13.4 A young woman (‘tent mate’) plucking 287
a willow grouse.
Figure 14.1 Map of Siberian peoples. 298
Figure 14.2 Ket reindeer shaman’s headdress. 300
Figure 14.3 Elogui River, western tributary of the Enisei. 306
Figure 15.1 Sápmi today (dark cross-hatching). 317
Figure 15.2 Imaginative drawing of a bear burial with grave 321
goods.
Figure 15.3 Densities of place-names with the prefix Lapp 324
in Upper Norrland.
Figure 15.4 Map of the central area of the Grundskatan site. 327
Figure 15.5 A labyrinth on a sealer’s hut at Grundskatan. 331
Tables
Table 3.1 A sketch of the Beiun Yearly Round. 87
Table 12.1 Population of Krasnyi iar village in 2001. 271
Table 15.1 Overview of place-names beginning with 323
the prefix Lapp in Northern Coastal Sweden.

PREFACE
This volume aims to demonstrate how cultural landscape research can

provide the intellectual foundations for a new and truly circumpolar
phase in the study of northern hunters and reindeer herders, their life-
ways and spirituality.
My own interests in both Siberia and landscape research stem back
to the mid-1990s, when I was developing interests in a Ph.D. on the
archaeology of northern hunter-gatherers. I was interested in finding
ways to move beyond the ecological and adaptive perspectives that dom-
inated this field, but also wanted to avoid strict adherence to a rival set
of perspectives, which appeared to emphasise only phenomenological
encounters with meaningful places, and made little reference to the more
obvious challenges of making a living in extreme northern environments.
Landscape research, combined with the study of material culture,
appeared to signal more productive frameworks for the development
of more integrated accounts of northern hunter-gatherers, their adap-
tations, spirituality and long-term histories. With new opportunities
opening in Siberia, my Ph.D. interests also shifted towards ethnographic
and ethnoarchaeological investigations of contemporary hunter-gatherer
life-ways in Western Siberia.
By the end of the Ph.D. I was becoming increasingly interested
in the role of reindeer herding in boreal hunting economies, and the
impacts that domestic herds had on subsistence, mobility and sacred
landscape geography. Increasing knowledge of Siberian ethnography
also stoked a more general desire to investigate the tremendous richness
and variability of indigenous cultural landscapes in Northern Eurasia,
the basic details of which remain very poorly known in the Western
literature.
The idea of a producing a comprehensive volume on northern land-
scapes crystallised sometime in 2003, and I can remember sketching out
a set of likely chapters whilst sitting in the gloomily-lit Sheremet’evo 2
airport in Moscow: I had several hours to wait before a connecting night
11
12 Landscape and Culture in Northern Eurasia
flight to Siberia, and the oppressively low ceilings somehow served as a

perfect foil for imaging the taiga worlds that lay beyond. A provisional
publishing contract was offered by UCL Press, and by the summer of
2004 I set about commissioning chapters through a growing network of
academic contacts.
Chapter authors were invited to examine how northern indigenous
communities inhabited, perceived and constructed cultural landscapes,
and how these interactions and practices were marked by built structures
and material remains. Over many months the present collection of chap-
ters gradually emerged; case studies from Fennoscandia and Northern
Russia were also added to complete a fully-Eurasian transect, but a small
number of other chapters didn’t materialise, including a planned com-
parative study of the Ainu.
Almost all chapters went through several revisions, to ensure that
a focus on landscape was central, but also to develop the intellectual
potential of the individual perspectives and the unique and fresh eth-
nographic materials that were being presented. On balance, the present
collection largely succeeds in capturing some of commonalities and dif-
ferences that characterise landscape engagements in different parts of
Northern Eurasia.
Sketching out a preliminary book structure in the waiting lounge of
Sheremet’evo 2, my original plan had been to organise the case studies
along a simplistic comparative transect, starting with the Saami in the
West, and running through to the Chuckhi and Ainu in the East. By
the time each of the chapters had been revised and edited this struc-
ture seemed overly-regimented, more akin to a kind of dry and descrip-
tive Handbook of Siberian Peoples than a more intellectually-enquiring
investigation of human-landscape relations. These frustrations led to a
thematic reorientation of the volume, with the aim of highlighting the
salient perspectives and approaches to northern landscapes that indi-
vidual chapters seemed to be capturing.
Bringing these rich and diverse case studies to press within the covers
of a truly integrated volume has been a rewarding experience, but also
a long and complex logistical challenge. Extended fieldwork absences
by some authors injected delays, as did correcting and substantial re-
drafting of the work of some authors whose first language was not Eng-
lish. In 2007 my own move to Aberdeen University to assist in setting up
a new Department of Archaeology further slowed progress.
Publishing an edited volume is also a truly collective intellectual
effort, and I would like to express my enormous thanks to all the authors
for their hard work in producing such a rich set of papers, and also for
their patience as the editorial and peer-review procedures ground slowly
onwards.
Preface 13
During the commissioning phase, David Anderson, Tim Ingold,

Neil Price and Peter Ucko provided general encouragement and some
useful suggestions for potential chapter authors. David Anderson and
Sean O’Neill provided useful comments on earlier drafts of the intro-
duction, and I’m also very grateful to the two anonymous academic
reviewers, who provided some extremely insightful comments and gen-
eral recommendations that enabled the book’s core focus to be clarified
and sharpened. Thanks also to Marion Cutting and Ruth Whitehouse
who oversaw the review process at UCL’s Institute of Archaeology; in
Aberdeen University Rona Kennedy provided crucial help at some key
moments and Alison Sandison produced improved versions of many of
the maps and figures.
On a more personal level I would like to express my deep thanks
to Christine, Dave, Andrew, Sarah (as well as Pablo, Manolo, Clarisa,
Paloma, Ben and Lauren), for all their encouragement, ‘distractions’ and
support.
NOTES ON RUSSIAN
TRANSLITERATION
For consistency all Russian words, names, geographic features and lo-
cations, ethnic group names and other terminology have been translit-
erated according to the Library of Congress System. In some cases this
results in alternative spellings of some more familiar locations or groups,
for example, Yamal is spelt ‘Iamal’, Yukaghir as ‘Iukagir’ and so on.
15
CHAPTER 1
LANDSCAPE AND CULTURE IN NORTHERN

EURASIA: AN INTRODUCTION
Peter Jordan
INTRODUCTION
This volume examines the life-ways and beliefs of the indigenous peoples
of Northern Eurasia. Chapters contribute ethnographic, ethnohistoric
and archaeological case studies stretching from Fennoscandia, through
Siberia, and into Chukotka and the Russian Far East. One overarching
aim of the book is to break down the lingering linguistic boundaries that
continue to divide up the circumpolar world—there is immense Russian-
language ethnographic literature on the groups covered by these chap-
ters, though much of this work remains largely unknown to Western
academics.
A second aim of the volume is to move beyond ethnographic ‘thick
description’ to integrate the study of Northern Eurasian hunting and
herding societies more effectively into ongoing international debate. For
example, during different periods in the history of anthropology, certain
regions of the world have been associated with major theoretical devel-
opments: Africa with the development of kinship theory; Melanesia with
theories of sociality and personhood; and Europe with theories of eth-
nicity, nationalism and the state (Ingold 2003, 25). With the re-opening
of Siberia to international scholarship might it now be the turn of the
North to set a new theoretical agenda, with a renewed and truly cir-
cumpolar focus on human-animal relations, systems of spirituality and
human perceptions of the environment (Ingold 2002, 245)?
This volume takes this broader agenda forward by employing the
analytical concept of ‘landscape’ to examine how northern communities
17
engage practically and symbolically with their taiga and tundra environ-
ments. The flexibility of the landscape approach enables several under-
researched aspects of circumpolar subsistence, knowledge and practice
to be examined in different ways: several chapters investigate the im-
mediacy and complexity of human-animal-spirit relations; others situ-
ate their analysis of northern life-ways in a deeper historical context,
emphasising long-term transformation, but also the flexibility and re-
silience inherent in local perceptions and practices. Many chapters also
touch on the complex ways in which northern societies were brought
under increasing economic and political control, but often in ways that
left conceptual and physical spaces where local identities, rituals and
beliefs could endure, in some cases, right through to the present day.
The third—and broadly archaeological—aim of the volume is to
generate a range of ethnographic parallels which direct attention to the
relationship between social activity, material culture and landscape. In
exploring the spatial organisation of higher-latitude routine and ritual
practices and the social and symbolic roles played by objects and ver-
nacular architecture, all the chapters raise important questions about
the extent to which the materiality of northern spirituality might survive
into the archaeological record. When read from an ‘ethnoarchaeologi-
cal’ perspective (David and Kramer 2001), these case studies will serve
as useful sources of ethnographic analogy for archaeologists seeking to
move analysis and interpretation of earlier hunting and herding soci-
eties beyond the current focus on ecology and adaptation (Jordan 2006).
In particular, many chapters hint at new ways of understanding how
and why northern world-views might have been expressed through the
gifting and sacrifice rituals that are central to circumpolar subsistence
practices, thereby providing an integrated range of ethnographic ana-
logies for the further development of an ‘archaeology of natural places’
(Bradley 2000).
In sum, this volume aims to demonstrate how cultural landscape re-
search can provide foundations for a new phase in circumpolar studies,
encouraging increased international collaboration between archaeolo-
gists, ethnographers and historians, and opening out new directions
for archaeological investigation of spirituality and northern landscape
traditions.
TRADITIONS OF LANDSCAPE RESEARCH

Landscape research has continued to expand and diversify, and now oc-
cupies a central position in the humanities, spanning archaeology, social
anthropology, geography, history and related disciplines, and embracing
Landscape and Culture in Northern Eurasia: An Introduction 19
the study of economics, politics, social relations and cultural perceptions

(Carmichael et al. 1994; David and Thomas 2008; Hirsch and O’Hanlon
1995; Ingold 2000; Tilley 1994, 2006; Ucko and Layton 1999; Zvelebil
2003).
Recent years have witnessed several salient topics emerge into the
forefront of landscape research, including the social and symbolic ‘con-
struction’ of space through routine practice, and the idea that landscapes
reflect long-term historical process, with meanings, values and power
structures embedded within their materiality and traditions of use (e.g.,
Bender 1993, 2006; Tilley 2006, for recent overviews of the field). More
generally, the key strength of the landscape approach appears to lie in its
‘useful ambiguity’ (Gosden and Head 1994, 113) and in its capacity to
connect rather than divide divergent themes and theoretical perspectives
(Layton and Ucko 1999).
One might argue that the concept of landscape is most useful as a
medium of a reflection—an entry point into the exploration of wider
connections—rather than a precise research methodology (Tilley 2006).
At the same time, a central heuristic unites landscape research: people
make landscapes, and are in turn, made by them; landscapes, route-ways
and built places shape, and in turn are shaped by, the day-to-day and
longer-term unfolding of social practice; landscapes are most essentially
works in progress, under going cumulative change through time, rather
than emerging as a finished product (Bourdieu 1977; Giddens 1984, 35;
Ingold 1993, 2000; Tilley 1994).
This recursive relationship between people and landscape has been
explored from a number of different perspectives, and a useful distinc-
tion can be drawn between ‘micro-scale’ studies emphasising the dir-
ect human experience of landscape, where meanings are practised,
negotiated or ‘read’ through an embodied engagement with the world.
Alternative ‘macro-scale’ studies have focused on the structured nature
of landscape as a reflection of group or national identities, or as an ex-
pression of the longue durée of social, economic and political institutions
that directly impact and shape the human actions and experiences that
make up more localised life-worlds.
Generally, these differences tend to reflect shades of emphasis, rather
than any categorical distinctions between distinct lines of enquiry. As a
result, landscape approaches are a useful means of facilitating a more
embracing scholarship that seeks to connect themes and explore chains
of relationships. In particular, landscape studies can unite the strengths
of the experiential approach which examines the immediacy of human
engagements, with analysis of the social and cultural understandings
of inhabitants caught up in landscape transformations. When com-
bined with structural analyses of landscape history, these experiential
approaches also situate persons in a historically-shaped environment,

and illustrate how the cumulative actions, routines and choices made by
individuals and communities can actually shape processes of long-term
transformation.
THE POTENTIALS OF CIRCUMPOLAR LANDSCAPE RESEARCH

Anthropological studies of cultural landscapes have been of crucial im-
portance in opening out a deeper appreciation of the immense range of
diversity that characterises human engagements with the environment. In
particular, landscape-based studies of Australian hunter-gatherer com-
munities have provided a fundamental challenge to simplistic notions
of a clear-cut division between ‘natural’ environments and human cul-
ture. For Aborigines, the physical landscape is understood at all times
as being social, symbolic, ritual and practical, serving on a conceptual
level as both a moral code and tribal encyclopaedia (Myers 1986). In
turn, the abundant literature on Aboriginal ‘Dreamtime’ landscapes has
gone on to make a particularly significant contribution to interpretive
archaeology, occasionally providing explicit—but more often implicit—
inspiration for seeking out new and more ‘humanised’ ways of exploring
the form and content of prehistoric social worlds (e.g., Edmonds 1999;
Tilley 1994).
Further studies of indigenous engagements with landscape have been
highly insightful (see Carmichael et al. 1994; Hirsch and O’Hanlon 1995;
Ingold 2000; Ucko and Layton 1999). However, the geographic cover-
age of this research has been highly uneven. In contrast to a landscape
literature dominated by Australia, Africa and the Americas, indigenous
peoples living across vast tracts of Northern Eurasia have been conspicu-
ously absent from recent international scholarship and debate (but see
Jordan 2001a, 2003; Khariuchi and Lipatova 1999; Ovsiannikov and
Terebikhin 1994; Vitebsky 1992; chapters in Kasten 2002; Krupnik et
al. 2004), and yet the investigation of these communities, and their rela-
tionships to the land, has so many fresh insights to offer.
The curious absence of landscape-orientated research in Northern
Eurasia certainly highlights a potentially productive area for future re-
search, and the chapters in this volume illustrate some of the ways in
which these opportunities might be realised. At the same time, my under-
lying motivation for publishing this volume does not stem from a de-
sire to ensure that landscape research goes on to achieve some form of
respectable ‘global coverage’. Instead, I would like to use the next sec-
tion of this introductory chapter to examine how and why the dearth of
northern landscape research reflects a more general situation in which
Siberia’s indigenous peoples—when compared to almost all other world

regions—remain poorly represented in English-language discussion and
debate. If we can understand why Siberian ethnography has remained
aloof from international debate, then we can start to outline justifica-
tions for using the landscape approach to address this situation.
In this way, the real long-range goal of this volume is to rehabilitate
and revitalise an immense and largely-unknown body of distinguished
Russian-language ethnographic, ethno-historic and historical literature
that embraces more than half the circumpolar world. Adoption of a new
and galvanising focus on northern landscape research provides only an
analytical vehicle for making these rich and under-researched mater-
ials increasingly accessible—and also more intellectually-relevant—to
some fundamentally-important debates that span current international
anthropology and archaeology.
Before we start to focus on northern cultural landscapes, it is crucial
to understand why Siberian ethnography was largely left out ‘in the cold’
by Western researchers when the region had so much to offer. When
viewed from an ‘outside’ perspective the development of Siberian ethno-
graphic research falls into a number of discrete stages (for a detailed
discussions, see Schweitzer 2000, with references). Interestingly, the lack
of knowledge about Siberia is a rather recent phenomenon—Schweitzer
argues that ‘pre-twentieth-century scholarship outside of Russia was rea-
sonably well-informed about Siberian peoples’ (2000, 31). In particu-
lar, the early years of the 20th century were particularly productive in
providing information about Siberia in languages other than Russian.
For example the Jesup North Pacific Expedition (1897–1902), under the
direction of Franz Boas, led to an unprecedented degree of collaboration
between Russian and American anthropologists (see Gray et al. 2003;
Schweitzer 2000).
More widely, Western anthropologists were active across the North,
publishing their ethnographic descriptions and comparative analy-
ses in a range of European languages other than Russian, frequently
in English, but often also in German which was a major language of
European scholarship until the late 1940s (see references in Schweitzer
2000, 31). Many early English-language publications went on to form
the ‘classic’ (and perhaps now over-cited) ethnographies of Siberian peo-
ples (e.g., Bogoras 1904–09, 1925; Czaplicka 1914; Hallowell 1926;
Jochelson 1905–08, 1910–26, 1928; Shirokogoroff 1929, 1935). In con-
trast, the extraordinarily rich Russian- and German-language scholar-
ship of this era has seen very little attention (see e.g., Jordan 2003, for
Western Siberia).
In contrast to popular assumptions, Siberia did not close off to
Western researchers immediately after the 1917 Communist Revolution.
Well into the 1920s continued contacts with American colleagues ‘helped
foster the open and international character of Russian/Soviet ethnog-
raphy in the early decades of the twentieth century’ (Gray et al. 2003,
96). The situation only began to change after Stalin came to power,
and in a new political climate, in which international connections were
viewed with increasing suspicion, opportunities for international field re-
search in Siberia began to decline. There was a sharp fall in international
academic contacts, and by 1930, the door had firmly closed (Gray et al.
2003, 96).
Inside the USSR, ethnographic work on the northern peoples of
Siberia continued apace, for the closure of the international border af-
fected communities of both local and international scholars: Soviet
researchers were now deprived of overseas fieldwork opportunities,
leaving Siberia, the Caucasus and Central Asia as the only remaining
‘exotic’ fieldwork locations (Gray et al. 2003, 31). Siberian ethnography
emerged as a dynamic research field within the ‘closed’ worlds of the
USSR, developing its own theory, fieldwork methodologies and intel-
lectual rationale. Unfortunately, the linguistic and political barriers that
had emerged also ensured that the rich and diverse ‘work of Russian
scholars of the Soviet era was virtually unknown’ to Western anthro-
pologists (Ingold 2002, 245).
More recently, there have been several useful reviews of work
undertaken during this period (Artemova 2004; Gray et al. 2003;
Schweitzer 2000; Shimkin 1990; Sirina 2004). In addition to the general
descriptions of ‘economic-cultural types’ and the tracing of ‘historical-
ethnographic provinces’, the analysis of ‘ethnogenesis’ emerged after
the 1960s as a central research theme (Gray et al. 2003, 198). The eth-
nic research agenda resonated well with wider political processes (see
Gray 2005 for an excellent summary of Soviet ethnicity policies), and
equipped ethnographers and historians with the politically-neutral task
of tracing the emergence of the modern ethnic groups that made up the
rank and file of the Soviet Union’s many ‘Peoples’ (Gray et al. 2003,
198).
The overarching ‘ethnogenesis’ question also provided the basic
criteria for publishing scores of monographs and synthetic surveys me-
ticulously documenting and cataloguing the cultural, social and spirit-
ual traits of the various northern ‘peoples’. In particular, the study of
‘so-called “traditional” culture had a major role’ in Soviet ethnographic
research (Sirina 2004, 95). This provided a useful point of base-line con-
trast with the triumphant descriptions of later Socialist achievements
—collectivisation, re-settlement, boarding-school education, universal
health-care provision and so on—that concluded many ethnographic
studies (e.g., Levin and Potapov 1964).
As a result, most studies focused on the key ‘pre-Soviet’ bracket of

the late 19th/early 20th century: ethnography was framed as the collection
of facts depicting ‘traditional’ life-ways, including the fast-disappearing
aspects of material and spiritual culture still maintained by older gen-
erations born in pre-Socialist times (Gray et al. 2003, 205). In addition
to the formulaic documentation of traditional ‘material culture’ inven-
tories (including ethnic typologies of housing, transport and subsistence
technologies, clothing, artefact styles and even shamans’ drums) (see
e.g., Levin and Potapov’s [1961] extraordinary Ethno-historical Atlas
of Siberia), the description of indigenous mirovozzrenie or ‘world-view’
emerged as parallel avenue for documentation of native ‘spiritual cul-
ture’. As Sirina (2004, 95) notes, the ‘religious beliefs of the peoples of
the north, especially Siberian shamanism and its specific features’ were
of ‘paramount importance in studies of Soviet researchers’ while the
application of ‘animism theory…laid the basis for studying the world-
views of hunters, gatherers and fishermen.’
While the energetic research and publication efforts of Soviet
ethnographers continued apace, interest by Western anthropologists in
the vast, Soviet-administered tracts of the circumpolar north continued to
be stifled by the absence of fieldwork opportunities and the evaporation
of earlier academic contacts—the flow of English-language research out
of the USSR literature was reduced to a trickle, and the region gradually
started to fall out of discussion, debate and the collective anthropo-
logical consciousness, abandoned by scholars less interested in pursu-
ing circumpolar studies in a politically- and linguistically-fragmented
world.
Strangely, Siberia’s numerous hunting, fishing and gathering peo-
ples were also ignored by a new generation of anthropologists enthused
by Julian Steward’s culture ecology (Schweitzer 2000, 31). Instead, the
remaining ‘pure’ hunter-gatherer band societies of Alaska, Africa and
Australia, became the primary focus in a vibrant era of international
fieldwork and debate. In contrast, Siberia’s native hunting peoples were
assumed to have been tainted by long-term culture-contacts, and it was
concluded that they had either been collectivised and assimilated, or else
had long since taken up either sedentary fishing along the coasts and/
or fully-pastoral subsistence in the interior (Murdock 1968, 16; and see
Schweitzer 2000, 33). In a growing atmosphere of ‘silence and other mis-
understandings’ (Schweitzer 2000, 29), a limited number of Soviet-era
ethnographies did ‘leak’ out to the West (e.g., Levin and Potapov 1964;
translations by Michael 1962, 1963).
In probing some of the more complex reasons for Siberian ethnog-
raphy being ignored by Western scholars, Schweitzer also highlights
some of the lost opportunities generated by this era of closed borders.
Citing Ingold’s (1986) classic paper on the origins of reindeer sacrifice

which was based on analysis of the available English-language ethnogra-
phies of Bogoras, Schweitzer asks what more might have been achieved
through a fuller, more systematic analysis of the extensive Russian-
language Siberian ethnographies (Schweitzer 2000, 33). In a similar vein,
the very limited number of archaeological studies that began deploying
Siberian ethnographic parallels—in particular in rock art research—
also signalled productive directions for future comparative scholarship
(Helskog 1997; Jordan 2004; Tilley 1991; Zvelebil 1997; Zvelebil and
Jordan 1999). In general, however, there was little in the way of fresh
news about the contemporary situation of Siberian indigenous groups
until the very end of the 20th century.
Integrating this ‘lost era’ of Siberian scholarship into international
debate remains a long-term challenge for both Western anthropologists
and archaeologists. Sirina emphasises this strategic goal in her recent
evaluation of Soviet era hunter-gatherer studies:
taking an empirical look at the whole period of development of

Siberian research in Soviet times, one cannot be amazed by the
tremendous amount of materials collected…an urgent objective
currently is to bring theoretical and interpretive analysis to this
material and to integrate it with world…debates (Sirina 2004,
100).
Greater Western involvement in Siberian ethnography only began

to emerge in the later Soviet period (e.g., Balzer 1980, 1981, 1987) and
by the 1980s, interest in Siberia was undergoing a rapid revival thanks
to the new political atmosphere of the Perestroika era which generated
new glimpses into the ‘real’ conditions of life in the USSR’s northern
territories. Landmark publications included Forsyth’s (1992) History of
the Indigenous Peoples of Siberia and there was further interest in an-
alysis of the region’s hunter-fisher-gatherer societies (e.g., Barnard 2004;
Schweitzer et al. 2000). Increasing contacts with Russian academics was
complemented by a growing tide of international fieldwork in the region,
as a new generation of Western scholars took up new research opportu-
nities (see Gray et al. 2003 for a full review of these events, personalities
and publications). By the 1990s, ‘Western anthropologists are crowding
the Siberian field’ (Schweitzer 2000, 41).
The key point I would like to make in this introductory chapter
is that the flavour of international research that followed the collapse
of the USSR was very different to the more descriptive Soviet ethno-
graphic accounts of ‘traditional’ northern communities. In general,
Western research was predominantly concerned with picking up what
had happened after collectivisation, and focused less on the disappearing

glimpses of traditional culture. Entire international research programmes
were directed at examining how contemporary native peoples were re-
orientating themselves to post-Socialist material and political realities
(Gray et al. 2003, 200; and for a broad selection of recent work see Erich
Kasten’s Pathways to Reform series of edited volumes [Kasten 2002,
2004, 2005a]. In some ways, the Western anthropological emphasis on
analysis of synchronic data made this shift in focus understandable; in
contrast, ethnography in Russia had always been more closely linked to
history (Schweitzer 2000, 41, 43).
With revived nationalisms a powerful political force in the disinte-
grating USSR, research into ‘identity’—and especially ethnic identity—
emerged as the overarching international research agenda of the 1990s
to the extent that recent evaluations of the field have observed that
‘Siberia is so much about identity’ (Habeck 2005, 9). The shared interest
in ethnicity provided useful bridges between Russian and Western re-
search communities, despite some basic differences in theoretical orien-
tation. More recently, however, there have been growing signs of fatigue
with the relentless analysis of ethnicity politics, to the extent that some
have declared that it is time to ‘look beyond “the ethnic” and examine
other dimensions of human life and cultural diversity’ (Habeck 2005,
12). Many alternative research themes are now emerging, including the
‘precarious relations between humans and the supernatural powers of a
place’ and the more intimate experiences of landscapes as lived and in-
habited (Kasten 2005a, 244).
More generally, one might argue that there is growing interest in
understanding ‘culture as lived’ which is bound up with the inhabita-
tion and experience of local settings, rather than the more overt identity
politics of ‘culture as declared’ (Schweitzer et al. 2005, 148). Research
into ‘culture as lived’ might proceed on many fronts; this edited col-
lection highlights the cultural landscape framework as one means of
looking beyond politicised ethnic identities, and returns us to themes
that were there at very beginning of anthropology (Ingold 2002). Many
of these questions remain the focus of intense archaeological and an-
thropological debate today, and include: the nature of personhood,
human-animal relations and the links between environment, spirituality
and belief. With landscape research able to explore chains of relation-
ships over diverse social, spatial and chronological scales, the approach
appears well-suited to exploring the complex webs of connectivity that
unite northern ecology, human subsistence and circumpolar cosmology.
It is worth noting here that Russia also developed traditions of cul-
tural landscape research, but these have tended to focus on the concep-
tual distinction between ‘nature’ understood as pristine ecology (which
can be plotted and protected via nature reserves) and the built remains
and significant places that make up the culture-historical landscape
(Shulgin 2004, 105–14). While this categorical approach has been use-
ful for protecting examples of unique ecosystems and objects or places
of ‘High Culture’ (for example, urban architecture, Orthodox religious
sites, battlefields and other demarcated ‘landscapes’ of historical signifi-
cance), it has less utility when trying to understand how the ‘natural’
landscapes of the taiga and tundra are actually venerated, appropriated
and understood by local communities still living on the land, often in
ways that generate few of the more obvious kinds of ‘cultural’ signature.
Mainly addressing these lacunae in current policy-related research,
the few recent landscape studies of Siberian peoples have mainly con-
cerned themselves with the integration of new knowledge and practice
in the field of heritage preservation, including the legal and policy impli-
cations of defining, documenting and protecting traditional land-use
areas in terms of cultural or ‘ethnographic’ landscapes (see for example,
papers in Krupnik et al. 2004; and see CAFF 2004; Kasten 2002). In
contrast, chapters in the present volume deliberately avoid a direct focus
on the political and policy-related aspects of human-landscape relations;
their primary concern is to understand the practices and perceptions that
are central features of the ways in which northern people create and in-
habit cultural landscapes.
THE STRUCTURING OF NORTHERN LANDSCAPES

As noted earlier, cultural-landscape research enables us to investigate
different aspects of northern life-ways, from the immediacy of human
experience in the taiga and tundra to the role of communities in long-
term historical transformations. While insights into the former can be
obtained from ethnographic fieldwork, understandings of the latter de-
mand that we appreciate some of the basic structures which have directly
shaped and impacted human actions and experiences over longer time-
frames. This section provides a brief contextual review of these enduring
features of northern cultural landscapes: the shared characteristics of
higher-latitude ecology; the common political and economic trajectories
that unite the circumpolar world; and the role of a distinctive circumpo-
lar world-view in guiding human perceptions and engagements with the
northern environment.
Northern Environments: Higher-latitude Eurasia is characterised
by a strongly seasonal climate, with bitterly cold winters and short dry
summers. The region is drained by several major rivers (Figure 1.1):
the Pechora, Ob’, Enisei, Lena, Kolyma and Amur. Beyond the Urals,
0 2,000 km
Figure 1.1 Location map of chapter case studies: (1) Introduction (Jordan); (2) Iukagir (Willerslev); (3) Evenki (Anderson); (4) Koriak/
Chukchi (Plattet); (5) Sel’kup (Maloney); (6) Chukchi (Vaté); (7) Nenets (Haakanson and Jordan); (8) Khant (Filtchenko); (9) Lake Essei Iakut
(Sakha) (Argounova-Low); (10) Evenki (Lavrillier); (11) Mansi (Glavatskaia); (12) Udege (Sasaki); (13) Komi (Habeck); (14) Ket (Vajda);
Landscape and Culture in Northern Eurasia: An Introduction
(15) Saami (Broadbent and Edvinger). (Map drawn by Alison Sandison.)

27
a broad contrast can be drawn between the slow-moving rivers in the

wetlands and marshes of Western Siberia and the faster-moving rivers
draining Eastern Siberia’s more numerous uplands. This environmental
diversity is further reflected in a mosaic of different ecological zones,
each home to a diverse flora and fauna; broad bands of vegetation also
run across the continent: tundra in the north and along higher eleva-
tions, grading into boreal (taiga) forest further to the south.
For early human populations, the distinctive characteristics of north-
ern ecosystems generated a number of challenges, including a profoundly
uneven distribution of resources over the landscape at different times of
the year. From the early Holocene, hunter-gatherer populations across
Northern Eurasia found new and surprisingly similar ways of adapting
to these general opportunities and constraints (Gjessing 1944; and see
Binford 1980) practising new forms of storage, a more complex range
of settlement and mobility strategies, and increasingly integrating the ex-
ploitation of fishing into their hunting and gathering adaptations (Chard
1974; Chindina 2000, 77–78; Zvelebil 1980, 1986). The characteris-
tic life-ways of these early post-glacial forager societies can be usefully
understood as a shared cultural foundation subject to later historical
transformations in settlement, subsistence and interaction.
Northern History: One defining feature of the long-term history
of Northern Eurasia is the growing frequency and intensity of interac-
tions with ‘complex’ societies located further to the south. This culmi-
nated in the increasing economic and political integration of Northern
Eurasia into a shifting constellation of early states and empires, includ-
ing Denmark-Norway and Sweden in the West, Russia in the central
reaches (see Forsyth 1992), and Chinese dynasties and the early Japanese
state in the East (Sasaki, this volume). With the northern forests home to
numerous fur-bearing mammals, the extraordinarily lucrative fur trade
provided an early motivation for extending political surveillance and fis-
cal control into northern hunting communities. In return for supplying
luxuriant pelts to state coffers, northern peoples gradually witnessed an
increasing government presence in their lands, initially by military gar-
risons and government tax collectors, but later by missionaries and other
officials (e.g., Forsyth 1992, for an overview).
As a result of these contacts, native societies went through a ser-
ies of complex transformations, leading to cumulative ethnic, economic
and commercial changes whose detailed analysis is beyond the scope of
this volume. For example, the older indigenous hunter-fisher-gatherer
economy of Northwest Siberia was subjected to increasing strains and
logistical in-balances after 1600 AD as it adjusted to meeting exter-
nal demands for fur and fish. This led in part to the rise of large-scale
reindeer pastoralism in the North (Krupnik 1993), possibly as a way
of escaping state surveillance (Golovnev and Osherenko 1999, 18–19).

Along the major waterways of the Ob’ River, the rise of commercial
fishing drew in Russian settlers and also triggered major population
movements among native societies, culminating in numerous conflicts
over land rights (Golovnev 1993; Jordan 2003; Perevalova 2004). The
booming fur trade also encouraged colonisation of new areas of for-
est that were ideal for fur hunting but poor for subsistence, generating
a long-term dependency on flour and other imported foodstuffs which
local merchants were happy to supply, but often at prices and via con-
tracts that saddled hunters with enormous levels of debt. In addition,
transport reindeer were widely adopted to increase the mobility of hunt-
ers (Golovnev 1993; Jordan in press; Perevalova 2004). More generally,
the growing specialisation that marked more local adaptations could
only proceed in tandem with increasingly complex patterns of regional
inter-community exchange. For example, in Northwest Siberia, forest-
hunters, tundra-pastoralists and settled river- and coastal-fisher groups
met at key points in the annual round so that they could exchange mater-
ials, provisions and also partners (Golovnev 1993; Perevalova 2004; and
see Krupnik 1993, for Northeast Siberia).
In many regions, Russian state interest in the lucrative fur trade also
led to deliberate protection of native land rights in order to ensure that
hunters stayed on the land. The main aim of the tax system was to ex-
tract resources, and in most areas indigenous spiritual bonds to the land-
scape remained largely unaffected (Anderson 2004; Jordan 2001a). For
example, contacts between native peoples and state officials were often
limited to a few days a year, and long absences in the bush or out on the
tundra provided the space for local communities to practise traditional
beliefs, despite the encroachment of Orthodox missionary activities (e.g.,
Forsyth 1992; Glavatskaia 2002, 2005 for Western Siberia).
If Imperial fur-tax collection and missionary activity did not heavily
impact underlying native relations with the land, then the major trans-
formations associated with the arrival of Communism into rural Siberia
certainly did. Culturally, major disruptions followed forced relocations
into multi-ethnic villages, concerted attacks on traditional religion and
sacred places, the imposition of military service on males, enforced re-
liance on rearing crops and cattle, production targets for hunting, fish-
ing and herding and the introduction of the Russian-language boarding
school system (Forsyth 1992). Environmentally, the brutal industrialisa-
tion of the North wreaked immense destruction on traditional subsist-
ence territories and livelihoods (Forsyth 1992; Pika 1999). The Soviet
era generated tremendously localised patterns of variation in relative
degrees of Russification, assimilation and ‘creolisation’. Some native
groups—especially those forced into villages—were heavily impacted to
the extent that traditional language, culture and belief have now vir-
tually disappeared (Vajda, Filtchenko, this volume); other communities
were able to preserve much of their cultural heritage, especially where
they were able to remain as hunters and herders living out on the land.
In the years following the collapse of Communism, we are witness-
ing the emergence of what might be termed ‘post-Socialist’ adaptations.
These are best understood as complex—and often painful—localised
adjustments to the opportunities, resources and constraints left by the
wreckage of the USSR (see Kasten 2002, 2004, 2005a). In some cases,
these changes have encouraged fresh reliance on older branches of the
subsistence economy and its associated spirituality (e.g., Willerslev,
Anderson, this volume). Such is the pace of these changes that the current
cultural geography of Northern Eurasia is highly diverse, encouraging
chapters in this volume to adopt a range of interlocking perspectives on
‘traditional’ life-ways and spiritual links to the land: some document
communities still living in the taiga and tundra, others adopt a more his-
torical perspective, discussing or reconstructing life-ways that are either
fading rapidly or else have disappeared.
The Northern Mind: A shared set of cognitive factors pervade indi-
genous engagements with the landscape; this distinctive ‘northern cos-
mology’ exhibits remarkable continuity around the entire circumpolar
zone: all northern hunting and reindeer-herding peoples appear to have
understood their place in the world according to a distinctive set of princi-
ples that underpin the fundamental logic of existence (for useful descrip-
tive summaries see Ingold 1986, 2000; Jordan 2001b, 2003; Krupnik et
al. 2004, 3–5; Price 2001; Vitebsky 1995; Zvelebil and Jordan 1999).
As many chapters in this volume document, this underlying cosmology
consists of several inter-related beliefs, including a universe inhabited by
both human persons and a range of other ‘animating’ presences; con-
ceptual models of the world that enable ‘shamanic’ soul-flight to other
levels of existence, including a lower under world of the dead and an
upper world of spirits; hunting as an act of seduction, rebirth and world
renewal; and perhaps most importantly for landscape research, powerful
obligations to ‘gift’ the animating forces of the landscape with material
offerings and the sacrifice of domestic animals.
While there have been many synthetic accounts of circumpolar reli-
gion in the wider literature, often stressing its extraordinary coherence
over large tracts of territory, this volume aims to view this cognitive
phenomenon from new angles, breaking open neat cosmological models
and ‘grounding’ them back into the routines of life out on the land. First,
chapters explore underlying variability in circumpolar belief, examining
how ritual practices vary across landscapes and communities, but also
exploring how ritual logic can vary in the context of different subsistence
strategies, including hunting and fishing, reindeer herding, or combined

hunter-herder economies. Second, the cultural landscape framework also
enables chapters to investigate how cosmology structures land use and
how economic and ritual dimensions to the use of space interact. Third,
the central focus on the ‘materiality’ of northern spirituality raises intri-
guing questions about the potential archaeological ‘visibility’ of these
beliefs and practices (see discussion below); the explicit attention direct-
ed to the role of material culture in ‘landscapes of belief’ will provide
archaeologists with important ethnographic parallels that are of major
utility in developing an archaeology of religion (Whitley and Hays-Gilpin
2008), most notably in relation to rock art research, but also through
hunter-gatherer landscape archaeology more generally (e.g., Goldhahn
2002; Helskog 1997; Jordan 2004; Lahelma 2005; McCall 2007; Tilley
1991, 1994; Zvelebil 2003; Zvelebil and Jordan 1999).
LANDSCAPE AND CULTURE IN NORTHERN EURASIA

This introduction has attempted to sketch out some of the basic eco-
logical, historical and ideological frameworks that structure human
engagements with northern landscapes; these insights set the scene for
the following chapters which explore northern cultural landscapes from
mutually-complimentary perspectives. Chapter authors were invited
to examine how northern communities perceived, inhabited and con-
structed cultural landscapes, and how these interactions and practices
were marked by built structures and material remains. Authors drew on
the inherent flexibility of the cultural landscape approach (noted above)
in order to develop local case studies which were informed in different
ways by authors’ gender, research interests and formal academic training
in archaeology, ethnography, history or ethno-linguistics. This lively in-
tellectual diversity is reflected in an interesting way in the focus and con-
tent of the individual chapters which are organised thematically rather
than along the kind of geographic transect used in more systematic or
typological surveys (Figure 1.1).
Opening chapters by Willerslev, Anderson, Plattett and Maloney
place particular emphasis on understanding landscape as a medium of
communication; they focus in particular on the kinds of obligatory inter-
actions that characterise the dense social worlds of a sentient northern
ecology. Through hunting, sacrifice and gifting rituals, human persons
intervene in a nexus of transformative relationships that maintain flows
of life and ‘set the landscape in motion’ (Plattet). A second group of chap-
ters by Vaté, Haakanson and Jordan, Filtchenko, Argounova-Low and
Lavrillier broadly employ a ‘dwelling perspective’ (Ingold 2000, 172–88)
to investigate how northern landscapes are culturally and materially

constructed, spatially ordered and socially appropriated through prac-
tices of subsistence, journeying and ritual. A third group of chapters by
Glavatskaia, Sasaki, Habeck, Vajda and Broadbent and Edvinger adopt
a longer-term perspective and explore how historical transformations are
reflected in the landscape. In some contexts, the features of older cultural
landscapes must be ‘excavated’ from ethnographic and linguistic sources
(Vajda), or through direct analysis of archaeological sites and place-name
traditions (Broadbent and Edvinger).
Landscape, Communication and Obligation

Willerslev provides a powerful opening chapter with his evocative an-
alysis of how Iukagir hunters, when entering the northern forest, situate
themselves in social world that embraces humans, animals and spirits,
all of whom participate in a social field that is defined according to the
logic of predator and prey. Undertaking subsistence activity is a pro-
foundly dangerous endeavour that demands soul seduction and inter-
species copulation and transformation. In every sense, hunting becomes
a terrifying power struggle to procure material resources from large
game whilst retaining the very essence of human identity and person-
hood. Anderson develops a sense of the ‘ecology of respect’ that endures
in post-Socialist subsistence economies; an unexpected participant in a
Evenki reindeer sacrifice, he explores the significance of this complex
event in terms of an enduring concern with rebuilding good relations
with the spirits of the local taiga. The sentient topography of Kamchatka
provides the background for Plattet’s comparative analysis of how hunt-
ers and reindeer herders use contrasting ritual logics to fulfil obligations
to spirits, ancestors and the land. In a similar way, Maloney examines
Sel’kup interactions with the spirit world, emphasising how sacred plac-
es form openings to other worlds, or passages to death. As with Plattet,
she draws out the important conceptual distinction between the ritual
logic of blood sacrifice (pyly) and the gifting of food and other substanc-
es (poory). In contrast to Plattet’s study, the Sel’kups of Western Siberia
practise a combined hunter-herder adaptation, enabling them to employ
both rituals within a general repertoire of communicative gestures that
links the human collective with spirits and ancestors.
Landscape, Dwelling and Practice

Vaté examines the symbolic centrality of the iaranga tent and its hearth
rituals within the broader routines of Chukchi seasonal migrations. Her
study identifies the gendered structuring of landscape—on a practical

level this is underwritten by a basic division of labour which sees men
constantly on the move with the domestic reindeer herd, while women
are mainly active around the hearth and tent. However, in tracing the
complex web of meanings associated with female ritual practice, she
illustrates how tending the hearth symbolically protects and ‘domesti-
cates’ male herders, their reindeer and the wider cultural landscape.
Haakanson and Jordan explore how Iamal Nenetses construct
meaningful places in the open tundra, contrasting the rich symbolism yet
ephemeral remains associated with conical tents with the more substan-
tial material residues that mark sacred places and cemeteries. Filtchenko
examines how sacred places are embedded within the routine practices
of hunting, fishing and gathering that structure Vasiugan Khants cultural
landscapes. Argounova-Low focuses on the role of narrative, memory
and knowledge in Lake Essei Sakha engagements with the land. She con-
cludes that the notion of Aiylha expresses an unfolding process in which
all living things, spirits and ancestors are drawn into an interlinked chain
of endless transformation and regeneration.
Lavrillier presents a larger-scale analysis of Evenki hunter-herder
cultural landscapes—the sustained presence of humans and their do-
mestic animals drives away forest spirits associated with wild games,
and generates a ‘humanised’ world of encampments, reindeer pastures
and migration ‘roads’. However, this human enculturation is temporally
unstable—old camps are abandoned and avoided after someone dies
there, forcing new camps and stopping points to be established; at the
same time, former habitation sites revert to a ‘wild’ status as material
remains rot and the ancestral spirits of the deceased intermingle with the
forest’s wild animal spirit masters.
Landscapes in Long-term Transformation

Glavatskaia focuses on tracing long-term continuity in Mansi engage-
ments with the colonial landscape. At the heart of these relations is the
notion of ialpyng, best understood as sacred. Sacred places—ialpyng
ma—are zones of ritual exclusion marked by built structures and the
focus of special community gifting rituals. In a similar vein, Sasaki exam-
ines Udehe traditional world-view in relation to sacred landscape geog-
raphy and traces the persistence and shifting significance of ritual places
in the post-Socialist transformations currently affecting the Russian Far
East.
Habeck presents an unusual example of Komi reindeer herders’ per-
ceptions of landscape which he argues are entirely pragmatic, exhibiting
few of the symbolic or mythical dimensions widely documented in other

chapters. He attributes this unusual state-of-affairs to the unique his-
torical trajectory of the Komi, who adopted reindeer husbandry and
colonised the northern tundra after Orthodox missionary activity had
impacted upon their native beliefs—this earlier spirituality had focused
on the veneration of forest and water spirits in their original homeland.
The last two chapters focus on the challenges of recovering the
character and meaning of cultural landscapes long after the perceptions
and practices that create and shape them cease to be ‘living’ cultural
traditions. The Ket are now largely assimilated, and Vajda aims to re-
construct a basic picture of Ket landscape conceptions by reviewing the
available ethnographic and linguistic information. Completing the col-
lection, Broadbent and Edvinger raise a fundamentally important ques-
tion about the extent to which material evidence for spirituality and
belief might persist into the archaeological record.
DISCUSSION: UNDERSTANDING NORTHERN LANDSCAPES

The case studies range broadly over Eurasia, examining how different
communities engage with local environments. Standing back from the
ethnographic detail, what general understandings of northern cultural
landscapes start to emerge? How are landscapes perceived, inhabited
and appropriated, and what kinds of physical transformations and ma-
terial residues are generated by these activities?
All chapters document what might be termed ‘practical’ interven-
tions in the northern environment, including maintenance of cabins,
tent-frames, caches, storage structures, mass-capture facilities and sea-
sonal migration routes, all bearing material testament to a strategic ‘har-
vesting’ of the local ecology, often in association with highly-structured
patterns of seasonal mobility and temporary settlement. Many of these
practices reflect long-term solutions to northern seasonality as well as
external demands for fish, fur and other forest products. Many procure-
ment strategies are also reflected in the practical and social appropri-
ation of particular places and pathways and in physical investment in
equipment and facilities.
In some cases, these ‘practical’ interventions extend to a more direct
manipulation of the local ecology. Anderson, for example, documents
the intentional burning and enrichment of kever meadows in order to
ease management of domestic reindeer herds. But this is just one strategy
in a more general repertoire of northern reindeer-herding techniques.
Use of smudge fires is a far more widespread strategy for providing do-
mestic reindeer some relief from the swarms of summer insects, and also
increases the herd’s dependency on their human masters. But this bond
is fragile; without the protection of smoke, the animals tend to scatter to
open breezy locations, and rounding them up again becomes a formid-
able task, with many becoming lost and reverting to a wild state.
In deliberately creating smoke, herders are able to manipulate the
inherent behavioural traits of reindeer, and then ‘work’ with the char-
acteristics of the local environment to achieve denser concentrations of
domestic animals during key stages of the seasonal round. This ‘pack-
ing’ can result in intense trampling, manuring and enrichment of soils
at certain sites, potentially generating significant changes in soil chem-
istry and local plant populations. Where traditions of land use result
in the long-term use of the same sites for close herding, the practices
may eventually leave distinctive signatures in the palaeo-environmental
record (e.g., Aronsson 1991). Clearly, there is immense scope here for
a concerted programme of ethnographic, historical and environmental
archaeology research which could investigate how and when different
forms of reindeer pastoralism were able to disperse into the boreal hunt-
ing economy.
All chapters also highlight the centrality of symbolic engagements
with northern landscapes; many authors document the use of carved
idols, built structures, sacrificial frames, the creation of substantial
caches and distinctive material deposits through ritualised gifting and
sacrifice (coins, gun shells, trinkets, feasting remains, the skulls and
horns from sacrificed animals) in the veneration of significant places
in the cultural landscape. Use of formal cemeteries, either close to base
camps or along primary migration routes, also point to the symbolic
structuring of northern landscapes; many chapters describe the delib-
erate avoidance of the graves, and much more work could focus on the
landscape aspects of death ritual. Without doubt, these symbolic per-
ceptions of the landscape extend well beyond a cognitive overlay on the
‘natural’ ecology and result in the creation of enduring places marked by
substantial and distinctive complexes of material remains.
But how do these practical and symbolic dimensions to cultural land-
scapes interlock with one another? In Western literature on circumpolar
hunter-gatherer populations, ecological and adaptive perspectives have
tended to dominate our understandings of human-environment relations
(Binford 1978, 1980, 2001; David and Kramer 2001; Jordan 2003,
2008; Lee and DeVore 1968). In turn, recent counter-arguments have
asserted that foragers live in experiential worlds whose symbolic prac-
tices and ancestral rituals involve phenomenological encounters with
meaningful places imbued with myths and metaphors that are strangely
detached from the more obvious challenges of making a living in a chal-
lenging northern environment (Tilley 1994).
Chapters in this volume make a range of refreshing contributions to

these debates. They document how sacred places and burial complexes
are often deliberately located away from areas used for subsistence, and
form locations that can be symbolically ‘closed’ to hunting and other
forms of economic activity, for fear of jeopardising relationships with
the spirits who reside there. At the same time, these focal places are not
randomly located in the landscape, but interestingly, they often tend to
be located close to main base settlements (Anderson, Plattet, Malloney,
Glavatskaia, Sasaki) and subsistence sites (Filtchenko, Argounova-Low),
beside arterial pathways (Lavrillier, Sasaki), in association with longer-
range migration routes (Haakanson and Jordan) or at other conceptual
‘crossing’ points (Anderson, Sasaki).
These more holistic insights into the combined economic and sym-
bolic appropriation of topographic space indicate that subsistence
and ritual form integrated dimensions of the same conceptual process:
cosmological understandings of hunting and herding demand that offer-
ings and sacrifices are made, and these gifting rituals in turn ensure that
dynamic human-environment relationships continue to unfold through
further acts of hunting and herding. Importantly, it is the focal nature of
sacred places that brings the cosmological and economic dimensions of
existence together: acts of gifting and sacrifice form a key axis of recip-
rocal communication that extends outwards into the wider subsistence
economy of hunting and herding, and express some of the complex ways
in which human persons must act and move in a landscape dominated by
relational responsibilities to both people, spirits and ancestors.
Interestingly, these conclusions also suggest that many current
understandings of, and assumptions about, indigenous cultural land-
scapes as consisting mainly of named and ‘storied’ topographic features
that act as reservoirs of folklore, ancestral significance and other accu-
mulated wisdom (so common in the literature on Australian Aborigines)
may not be capturing the kinds of profoundly active, physical and long-
term interventions in the materiality of northern hunting and herding
landscapes that these rich case studies document.
In addition to explicitly sacred places, another fundamentally im-
portant set of core relationships with the landscape is expressed via tend-
ing and ‘feeding’ the fire. Across the North, the central significance of the
hearth appears to be reflected in a more general cognitive organisation
of the landscape into different zones of activity. Around the hearth and
areas immediately close to the camp or settlement is a kind of ‘home’
range or outer tent-space, where people work and herd their domestic
animals; beyond this is a wider zone, rarely visited and generally in-
habited by wild animals, their spirit masters and other powerful beings.
Smoke from the hearth also plays a crucial role in redefining domestic
space and performing ritual purifications; the embrace of acrid wood-

smoke also reaffirms human personhood on hunters returning from the
terrifying eyes of a forest world that ‘looks back’ (Willerslev), but also
reconnects the intertwined fates of herders, landscapes and their domes-
tic reindeer (Anderson, Vaté, Lavrillier).
However, as chapters by Lavriller and Vaté explore, this conceptual
‘zonation’ of the landscape around a central hearth is far from a fixed
and timeless cognitive overlay running across the topography. First, the
fire requires active tending to remain at the social and symbolic centre of
human life, a task which often falls to women, who ‘perform’ the cen-
trality of the fire (see below). Second, the zone shifts with the relocation
of the hearth, either through the regular relocations that make up the
seasonal round (Vaté, Haakanson and Jordan, and see Golovnev and
Osherenko 1999, 31–42) or through a more complex long-term process
in which ancestral sites are abandoned and avoided after their contam-
ination by the souls of the dead, in some cases triggering long-range
relocations to symbolically-pristine areas (Lavrillier).
Alongside smoke and fire, gendered identities also serve as central
themes in the perception and inhabitation of circumpolar cultural land-
scapes. As both male and female chapter authors document, gender’s
significance in structuring landscape is largely caught up in the perform-
ance of routine and ritual practices which tend to associate males with
the outer, more distant worlds of hunting (Willerslev) and reindeer herd-
ing (Vaté), and females with the activity areas surrounding the hearth
and tent (Haakansen and Jordan, Vaté, Lavrillier). As Vaté explores, the
spiritual and symbolic dimensions to this relationship is actually more
complex than the simplistic binary logic of a male/female symbolic op-
position, for women’s obligations to tend the hearth may form essential
practices in a wider and more general conceptual appropriation of the
wider reindeer-herding landscape. In some cases, gender may also struc-
ture participation in gifting and sacrifice rituals at larger sacred sites,
with men performing the sacrifices or more direct ritual activity, while
women play active and important roles in the wider conduct of the visit
(e.g., Haakanson and Jordan, for the Nenetses; and see Balzer 1981,
856; Jordan 2003, 135–81 for the Khants). Clearly, more work could
proceed on researching the gendered aspects of northern sacred land-
scape geography.
The landscape approach also forces us to move beyond simplistic
notions of distinct routine or ritual landscapes, and instead encourages
us to explore the underlying ‘ritual logics’ (Plattet) that structure and
inform the communicative relationships that define northern human-
environment engagements. Ingold’s (1986, 243–76) essay on the origins
of reindeer sacrifice is a useful point of departure in exploring the close
conceptual parallels between hunting as an act of world renewal and

reindeer sacrifice as a gesture to secure future prosperity for the herd
and human collective. However, the insights presented in these chapters
encourage us to explore how these conceptual models are played out in
specific landscape settings, and involve the inter-generational use of sac-
red places and the creation and structured deposition of material culture.
At times, the divergent logic in hunting versus herder rituals can
usefully be contrasted in order to understand how specialist commu-
nities practising different subsistence strategies must also find different
symbolic practices to uphold their obligations to the sentient landscape
(Willerslev, Plattet, Haakanson and Jordan). In combined hunter-herder
economies, hunting rituals and animal sacrifice actually serve alongside
one another in a common repertoire of gestures that expresses a more
embracing and intuitive ‘ecology of respect’ (Anderson). The obliga-
tions inherent in this respectful relationship structure the ritualised dia-
logue between the human collective, spirit masters, ancestors and deities
(Glavatskaia, Maloney, Filtchenko, Vajda, Sasaki), though understand-
ings of the richness, diversity and variability of these engagements are
poorly captured by the simplistic and time-worn notions of ‘animism’
or ‘hunting luck’.
Looking over these higher-latitude case studies, one might go
so far as to argue that the basic cognitive model of northern human-
environment relations does not readily equate to a ‘giving environment’
where nature’s bounty is bestowed unconditionally on the human col-
lective, as convincingly documented in some South Asian forager soci-
eties (Bird-David 1990, 191, 1992). Instead, these northern case studies
suggest that the fundamental relationship to the land might better be
described as immersion in a complex web of interaction that extends,
at times, to participation in a terrifying sociability in which the ‘forest
looks back’ (Willerslev).
Spirits, deities and ancestors form a dense social world that can span
different planes of existence, but all these beings demand constant ac-
knowledgement if the constituents of personhood that bestow a human
individual a distinct identity are not to fall apart (Willerslev). In this
sense, continued interaction and ritualised communication with the
spirit world through gifting and sacrifice enables life to proceed, but this
arrangement is profoundly reciprocal and conditional, and interestingly,
a relationship that Bird-David equates with agricultural rather than for-
aging communities (Bird-David 1990, 190). While Bird-David’s ‘giving
environment’ model has been widely adopted as a defining feature of all
hunter-gatherer societies, these northern insights suggest that we need to
develop a much deeper appreciation of the inherent variability in forager
engagements with the land.
In bringing this introduction to a close, it is worth returning to

Broadbent and Edvinger’s quest to seek out the archaeology of Saami
landscapes beyond Lapland. Their endeavour highlights the third core
theme of the volume—to what extent might the range of practical and
ideological engagements with northern landscapes that is documented in
the case studies generate distinctive archaeological remains?
These points raise two important questions: first, could we further
develop our attempts (as Broadbent and Edvinger) to excavate cultural
perceptions or seek only to understand the economic remains of north-
ern hunter-gatherer or hunter-herder subsistence activities? Second,
could we use this collection of ethnographic insights in a more heuristic
sense, to profoundly rethink some of the more symbolic ways in which
prehistoric populations might have interacted with northern landscapes?
In response to the first question, it is clear from many chapters that
ritual activities have the capacity to generate distinctive and endur-
ing physical signatures (Anderson, Maloney, Haakanson and Jordan,
Lavrillier, Filtchenko, Argounova-Low, Vajda, Glavatskaia, Sasaki).
While the spatial organisation of the hunter-gatherer settlement, pro-
curement and storage systems has been a central theme in the study of
how forager and other mobile populations have adapted to northern
environments (Binford 1978, 1980; David and Kramer 2001), there has
been much less attention directed to the locations of sacred places and
ritualised deposits in relation to settlement and procurement sites which
almost all these chapters document as being absolutely central expres-
sions of the spirituality that permeates northern life-ways. In some cases,
enduring ritual sites may eventually become more archaeologically ‘vis-
ible’ than ephemeral habitation sites, inverting earlier assumptions that
the more symbolic landscape perceptions of hunters and mobile herders
are merely projected onto the ‘natural’ topography, but leave few mater-
ial remains (Haakanson and Jordan).
In answer to the second question, a broadly ‘ethnoarchaeological’
reading of the case studies indicates that hunter-gatherer and hunter-
herder world-views do appear to be expressed via several forms of
readily-available archaeological evidence, more commonly the subject
of subsistence and technological interpretations. These case studies sug-
gest that with the right kinds of ethnographic models, we might start to
gain greater understandings of the inter-generational social reproduction
of symbolic landscapes through a re-examination of several commonly-
occurring lines of archaeological evidence, including artefacts, animal
bones, distinctive topographic features, and sacred ‘settlement’ patterns
(Jordan 2008). In deploying these ethnographic parallels to further de-
velop ‘landscape archaeology’, we need not force ourselves into replac-
ing cultural ecology with a competing emphasis on phenomenology and
perception, but we can expand our understanding of the richness and

variability of human engagements with northern ecology to develop
more resolutely social and symbolic perspectives on the dynamics of
high-latitude adaptations. It would satisfying if some of the case studies
presented in this volume eventually went on to serve as ethnographic
inspiration to further develop this more holistic kind of archaeological
research agenda.
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Books Ltd.
Part 1
Landscape, Communication
and Obligation
CHAPTER 2
SEEING WITH OTHERS’ EYES: HUNTING

AND ‘IDLE TALK’ IN THE LANDSCAPE
OF THE SIBERIAN IUKAGIR
Rane Willerslev
INTRODUCTION
The word ‘landscape’ became part of the English vocabulary in the late
16th century as a technical term used by painters (Hirsch 1995, 2). This
is some 200 years after the convention of ‘perspective’ was put to work
in European painting. Perspective painting, of which the landscape genre
was one particular example, promoted a new historical style of vision by
making the eye of the spectator the centre of the world, thus allowing
him to see it as it was once thought to have been seen by God. ‘The con-
vention of perspective’, writes Berger, ‘centers everything on the eye of
the beholder…there is no visual reciprocity. There is no need for God to
situate himself in relation to others: he himself is the situation’ (Berger
1972, 16). The discovery of perspective in painting, then, represents the
emergence of our Western subject-centred metaphysics: Instead of being
objects for God to look at, we become the eye looking at the world from
a position outside it. It comes as no surprise, therefore, that both the
convention of perspective in painting and the concept of ‘nature’ are
products of the same Western intellectual development (Hirsch 1995, 6),
for, as Ingold (2000, 20) points out: the world can exist as nature only
for a being who stands outside it, who looks upon it in the manner of a
disengaged detached observer.
For the Siberian Iukagirs, this conception of vision as something that
does not interfere with the world nor takes anything from it and of the
landscape as the passive recipient of our human gaze—to be viewed in a
linear univocal fashion—is totally unfamiliar. For them, the landscape is
49
full of vision, full of eyes. Every object is said to have a viewpoint of its
own that stares back. Looking thus happens in both directions. Things
in the landscape look at people, who are both seeing and seen, both sub-
jects and objects of vision. However, it is not only visible things or things
with eyes to which the Iukagirs confine vision. Rather, to them vision
is universal: Everything, from humans, animals and trees to inanimate
objects and spirits, are said to see—or have a perspective of their own—
and if we are to take that seriously (not as a vague intuition but as a fact
of vision), then everything is tangled in a web of seeing and being seen
and there is no such thing as simply an ‘observer’ or an ‘object’, only a
sentient landscape crowded with eyes. As Nelson puts it with regard to
the Koyukon Indians of the Alaskan boreal forest, though equally ap-
plicable to the Iukagirs:
[They] live in a world that watches, in a forest of eyes. A person

moving through nature—however wild, remote, even desolate
the place may be—is never truly alone. The surroundings are
aware, sensate, personified (Nelson 1983, 14).
Among the Iukagirs, however, this conception of living in ‘a world

that watches’ has further ramifications, for here all beings—humans,
animals and spirits—participate in a field of social interaction defined in
terms of predation. From the viewpoint of any class of beings, all others
are either predators or prey. The human hunter, for example, sees the
elk as prey in much the same way as he himself is seen as prey by the
spirit of the animal, who is said to hunt him as an elk. Hunting, there-
fore, is not a one-sided event, but fundamentally reciprocal: people are
both hunters and hunted just as they are both seeing and seen. Indeed,
much of what goes on in the landscape of the Iukagirs is concerned with
this fearsome symmetry of being both subject and object of vision, both
predator and prey.
For the Iukagirs, however, hunting is not simply conceptualised as
an act of predation, but also as an act of ‘love-making’. To hunt is to
have sex and the two aspects constitute interchangeably the ‘side—other
side’ of each other. This is perhaps most clearly accentuated by the fact
that Iukagirs regard hunting as a process of ‘sexual seduction’: The
hunter aims at sexually seducing the animal into ‘giving itself up’ to him
in much the same way as he himself risks being seduced by the animal’s
spiritual being. In both cases, the ‘victim’ seduced is said to lose its ori-
ginal species adherence and undergo an irreversible metamorphosis into
its predatory counterpart. In this sense, hunting as sex represents a proc-
ess of converting other beings into one’s own species kind, and predation
is thus experienced as a power struggle over identity: a struggle of which
Seeing with Others’ Eyes: Hunting and ‘Idle Talk’ in the Landscape 51
the purpose is to take on the appearance and perspective of one’s prey

and be transformed, but without losing one’s own sense of identity in
the process.
In this chapter, I describe the landscape and its various human and
non-human constituents as seen from a hunter’s predatory viewpoint.
For him, the hunting event is characterised by a two-way process: one
in which he seeks to assume the identity of his prey by recreating his
body in its image. This is a matter of ‘tricking’ the animal out into
the open so it can be shot at. However, this attempt at bodily trans-
formation is risky and may result in him losing his original species
adherence. For this reason, the ‘symbiotic’ process of hunting is op-
posed within the human encampment by a counter-process that aims
to purge otherness from the self and to reconstruct his identity as be-
longing to the human kind. In spatial terms, this movement from the
forest to encampment and back again, thus represents a criss-crossing
between the ‘dangerous’ world of hunting, defined by predation and
inter-species transformation, and the ‘safe’ setting of the camp-site, in
which the hunter is returned to his original state of being a human per-
son. Yet, even within the encampment, the hunter is not just himself
in the Western sense of a subject that is bounded and unitary, because
he is believed to be the reincarnation of a particular dead relative and
shares with the deceased his name, personality and repertoire of skills
and knowledge. The point I want to stress is that stable identities are
indeed impossible to maintain among the Iukagirs, and I shall link this
to the fluidity of the material landscape itself and to the hunting groups
living on it which, like the Iukagir person, is in a constant process of
re-definition and becoming.
I shall start my account by providing a brief overview of the Iukagirs:
their geographical location, natural landscape and history.
THE IUKAGIRS
The Iukagirs live in the basin of the Kolyma River, in the northeastern
part of the Russian Republic of Sakha (Iakutiia). Territorially, they
are divided into two groups: the Upper Kolyma Iukagirs, whose main
settlement is the village of Nelemnoe beside the Iasachnaia River in
Verkhnekolymsk Ulus, and the Lower Kolyma Iukagirs, who live in
the settlements of Andruskino and Kolymskoe, in Nizhnekolymsk
Ulus (Figure 2.1). It is among the Upper Kolyma Iukagirs that I have
conducted fieldwork, and they will therefore be the focus of this chapter.
The most striking difference between the two groups is that while the
Lower Kolyma group keeps herds of domesticated reindeer, members
Figure 2.1 Map of Iukagir territory. (Map drawn by Alison Sandison.)
of the Upper Kolyma group have remained hunters and their only
domesticated animal is the dog which they use for drawing sledges and
for hunting.
The Iukagir language belongs to the so-called Paleo-Asiatic group and
is conventionally considered genetically isolated. However, the language
has been under strong pressure from Russian which is now almost com-
pletely dominant (Maslova and Vakhtin 1996, 999). Today, only the old-
est generation is competent in the indigenous language (Vakhtin 1991).
At the time of the Russian conquest of Northeastern Siberia in the
mid-17th century, the Iukagirs inhabited a huge territory (about 1,500,000
sq km), ranging from the Lena River in the west to the Anadyr’ River in
the east, and bounded in the south by the Verkhoiansk Range and in the
north by the Arctic Ocean. It is estimated that the Iukagirs at that time
numbered in total about 5,000 (Zukova et al. 1993). However, during
the following three centuries, they underwent a huge decline, to the point
of becoming almost extinct (Morin and Saladin d’Anglure 1997, 168).
Wars with neighbouring reindeer-herding peoples, such as the Chukchis
and the Koriaks, greatly reduced the Iukagir population as did wide-
spread starvation due to a shortage of game. Even more disastrous was
the introduction of diseases by the Russians (Jochelson 1926, 54–55).
Despite centuries of decline, the Iukagir population has undergone

remarkable growth within recent decades. According to the 1989 cen-
sus, there are a total of 1,112 Iukagirs, among whom approximately
half belong to the Upper Kolyma group. Strikingly, the 1979 census
gives a figure of only 500 Iukagirs altogether. This outstanding in-
crease can, however, easily be explained: according to Russian legis-
lation, the Iukagirs enjoy certain economic privileges, such as special
hunting and fishing rights. As a result, most children born of mixed
parentage are today being registered as Iukagirs (Derlicki 2003, 123).
Today, Nelemnoe’s population amounts to 307 inhabitants, among
whom 146 are registered as Iukagirs. Beside a few Evens, the remain-
ing population is, roughly speaking, entirely listed as either Sakha or
Russian.
THE LANDSCAPE AND SUBSISTENCE

The Iukagir landscape has one of the most extreme climates in the whole
of Siberia, with long, dark ice-cold winters, when the temperature can
fall as low as –65ºC (Figure 2.2).
The landscape is part of the great and largely unpopulated forest
that is more popularly known as the taiga. It is rather monotonous scen-
ery with relatively little variety in vegetation. The predominant tree is
the larch. Its thin trunks stretch away like a labyrinth across the flat
terrain only interrupted in the east by the high ranges of the Kolymskie
Figure 2.2 Iukagir ice fishing which is important as a supplement to the meat diet.
(Photograph by Rane Willerslev.)
Mountains and in the west by the stony beaches of the great Kolyma
River, whose many tributaries criss-cross the landscape in all directions.
In autumn, the taiga is a colourful patchwork of gold, green and crim-
son, but during the winter, the larches shed their needles and their dark
branches reduce the landscape to an ashen mix of gloomy shades.
There are no real roads in the Iukagir landscape, but the obstacles
presented to road building by the terrain and climate are compensated
for by the many long navigable rivers which the Iukagirs use for trans-
portation and for fishing and hunting. Although snowmobiles have
largely replaced the dog sledge, some teams are still in use. In fact, the
high cost of buying, maintaining and fuelling snowmobiles, combined
with the general lack of cash among hunters after the collapse of the
Soviet Union, have fashioned a revival of the dog sledge over the past
decade (Figure 2.3).
In ancient times, Iukagir hunting was part of a pure subsistence
lifestyle, but with the Russian expansion into Siberia in the mid-17th
century, their hunting economy took a commercial turn. Wild fur—
especially sable—was an unparalleled source of wealth for the Russian
state, and the Iukagirs became fur trappers as well as subsistence hunters
(Willerslev 2000).
The importance of commercial hunting continued during the Soviet
period. Iukagir hunters were provided with ‘plans’ that stated how many
Figure 2.3 Hunters travelling within their hunting ground with dog sleds.
sable furs they were expected to deliver to the sovkhoz (state farm), in
return for which they received hard cash (Figure 2.4). Subsistence hunt-
ing remained vital until the mid-1960s. However, with Nelemnoe’s
ever-increasing incorporation into the Soviet state economy, and with
the concomitant increase in cash payments and centralised delivery of
consumer goods, hunting for meat came to constitute a supplementary
livelihood.
It was also during Soviet rule that Iukagir gender relations changed
radically: traditionally, Iukagir men and women lived and worked
together. However, from the 1960s onwards, all this changed: The Soviet
authorities made special efforts to sedentarise the women, who were
seen as not ‘directly’ involved in hunting and therefore an ‘unutilised
labour resource’ (Vitebsky and Wolfe 2001, 84). They were removed
to the village of Nelemnoe, where they were given ‘clean jobs’, such as
cooks, administrators, bookkeepers and teachers. Since then, virtually
all women have lived and worked full-time in the village, while the men
for the most part spend 8 to 10 months of the year hunting in the forest.
This gendered division of labour, imposed by the Soviet authorities,
has started to change since the collapse of the state farm in 1991, with
most people returning to a subsistence-based lifestyle. Virtually no wages
have been paid since 1993, while the prices of essentials have risen sev-
eral hundred percent. Consequently, many women are once again forced
Figure 2.4 Sable, the ‘Soft Gold’, is the main fur prey of hunters. (Photograph by
Rane Willerslev.)
Figure 2.5 The elk moving along the river bank in spring 1999. (Photograph by
Rane Willerslev.)
to take part in subsistence activities, and many of them now join their
husbands in the forest during summer and autumn to fish and pick ber-
ries. In general, the focus has turned away from hunting for furs to pure
subsistence. A wide variety of meat-animals are hunted, including brown
bears, wild reindeer, geese, ducks and mountain sheep. Yet, it is the elk
(Alces alces, the Asian counterpart of the American moose) that is by far
the most important game animal (Figure 2.5). I would estimate that elk
meat accounts for 50 percent or more of the total intake of calories in
Nelemnoe (Willerslev 2007).
THE HUNTING GROUP AND PLACE-NAMES

Iukagir hunting groups are small scale, flexible and highly egalitarian.
A hunter is not required to hunt with any specific group of people, but
is free to live and work with whichever group he wishes. Therefore,
hunting groups are extremely unstable units; they typically involve five
or six individuals, many of whom are not genealogically related, and
people constantly move in and out of these groups. What is more, while
particular families identify themselves and are identified by others with
particular riverine territories, they have no greater rights to hunt there
than anyone else. Anyone may live and hunt wherever he likes, without
restriction. For example, the Spiridonov family, with whom I lived, are
said to belong to the Omulevka River and they tend to hunt along its
banks. Yet, this does not prevent other families from hunting there as
well. In fact, other hunters would often make use of the cabins built by
the Spiridonovs, even without asking permission, and the former would
accept this as a given right. So their association with a particular terri-
tory or a river seems to provide a means of mapping out social relations
spatially, rather than a set of exclusive rights to resources. People nor-
mally travel, fish and hunt freely around the landscape.
The same egalitarian principle is also apparent with regard to leader-
ship. While leadership exists among hunters, it is ad hoc and frequently
changing. The main role of the hunting leader is to oversee an equal
distribution of meat. Everyone taking part in a hunt is entitled to get
an equal share, irrespective of age and skill. Should the hunting leader
exploit his role as a fair distributor, the other hunters will abandon him
or another member will start to take authority and sooner or later be
recognised as the new leader of the group.
In terms of finding their way in the landscape, hunters orientate
themselves in relation to rivers and river currents (up-river, down-river,
towards the water, away from the water, etc.) and only places along
the riverbanks are named, while the rest of the country remains largely
nameless (Figure 2.6). This is mainly because the elk’s favourite habitat
Figure 2.6 The Omulevka River, the hunting territory of the Spiridonov family.
is the low forest country, especially where clusters of willow bushes fol-
low the winding river courses. Since hunters follow the elk’s movements,
they tend always to stay close to the rivers. During the summer, hunters
will hunt the animal from boats with the assistance of dogs that run
along the shores. At this time of year, bloodthirsty mosquitoes rise in
massive clouds along the grassy riverbanks, and the elk seek to avoid
them by going out into the river, where the wind blows more freely and
where they can immerse their bodies. Without the forest to hide them,
the animals are largely defenceless against the hunters and their dogs
and are easily killed. During the winter, hunting for elk is much more
demanding. Deep snow prevents the dogs from running at speed and
hunters have to use skis along the frozen rivers, searching for fresh elk
tracks. Often it takes them several hours before they locate a track and
sometimes several days before they succeed in running down the animal.
During the search, they will sleep in a tent, with only a small metal oven
and their sleeping bags to keep them warm.
The Iukagir landscape is essentially ‘ahistorical’ in the sense
of being almost completely lacking in historical depth and mythical
significance. Thus, in contrast to the Australian Aborigines, for ex-
ample, who see the land as being criss-crossed with ancestral tracks
on which people draw their own day-to-day orientation tasks (Lewis
1976, 272), the Iukagir landscape is virtually without any historical or
mythical sites. Moreover, the people as a whole share very few place
names. Instead, each group of hunters gives its own names to places
along the rivers where they live and hunt and the name of a particu-
lar place differs between groups and changes over generations. So, al-
though different groups use the same travel routes and may even hunt
on the same grounds, they tend to have their own place names. The
Spiridonov family with whom I lived, for example, names places along
the Omulevka River after the hunters in their group. Thus, one finds a
myriad of places called Ivan’s protoka (meaning place along the river-
bank), Iura’s protoka, Spiridon’s protoka, etc. To each of these places
is connected a personal story. Ivan’s protoka, for example, is the place
where Ivan ate putrid meat and got the runs, so that he had to throw
away his trousers. As the river changes its course which it does every
year, its former bed will be displaced inland, and hunters will have to
start all over again, naming the various places along its new path. As
long as a hunter lives and works with the group, his name will be at-
tached to a number of new and existing sites. However, if he moves to
another group of hunters in another part of the country, his name will
vanish from the local landscape and from the memory of the people
living and working there. So, just like the flow of the river itself, place
names and their associated stories are created in a direct and immediate
manner as new hunters enter the group and new events take place and
are remembered.
This condition of essential flux of material shapes and categories of
membership is repeated in the relationship between the various classes
of beings living in the landscape. Indeed, as I shall go on to describe, for
the Iukagirs, one class of beings readily transform into another: humans
become animals, animals turn into humans, and the dead convert into
the living. There are no fixed boundaries here, only an endless continuity
of transformations.
TAKING ON AN ANIMAL’S IDENTITY

Iukagir hunters sometimes describe themselves as ‘people with open bod-
ies’ (otkrytye tela) which is their translation into Russian of ongdsjotjun-
ai sjoromok (sic), meaning ‘raw meat’ in the Iukagir language (Willerslev
2007). By this, they are referring to a concept of hunting that is predi-
cated on a skilled and deliberate ‘dehumanization’, where they remove
their human bodily qualities and take on a new identity or capacity,
reshaped in the image of their animal prey. This involves removing one’s
human smell by going to the bania (sauna) the evening before leaving
for the forest. Hunters do not use soap, but wipe themselves with whisks
from birch trees. The elk is said to recognise the attractive smell of birch
leaves and does not flee, but comes closer to the hunter. Moreover, small
children, who are said to have a particularly strong human odour, are
kept away from the hunters. Sniffing has the same value as kissing and
care for children is usually expressed by applying the nose to the nape of
the child’s neck and inhaling the odour. However, when a hunter sets off
for the forest, he rarely sniffs his offspring. This is in order to avoid con-
tamination with their odour. Another principal precondition for success
in hunting is sexual abstinence. For at least one day before undertaking
a hunting trip, the hunters abstain from sex altogether. This, as I shall
describe below, is partly because the hunter’s sexual attention should be
directed towards the prey animal and its associated spiritual being, but
also because sexual intercourse leaves an unmistakable human odour.
The hunters assured me that only those who do not smell of human flu-
ids will attract prey. During the winter, hunters also dress in animal furs
of elk and reindeer. This is not simply a matter of keeping warm, but
also of looking and moving like prey. Likewise, hunters’ skis are covered
underneath with smooth elk leg-skins so as to imitate the sound of the
animal when moving in snow.
When hunting, Iukagirs thus cease to be extraneous bodies, alien to
the forest world and the animals they hunt. For them, the very nature
of hunting implies that the hunter identifies with his prey and attempts
to ascertain its mode of perception and action by imitating its bodily
movements and smell. However, it is important to point out that tak-
ing on an animal’s identity does not, for the Iukagirs, imply becoming
‘natural’ as opposed to ‘cultural’. There is no word corresponding to our
term ‘nature’ in the Iukagir language, nor is there any equivalent of ‘cul-
ture’ as a uniquely human attribute (Willerslev 2007). Rather, all beings,
humans, animals and spirits, within their own sphere of existence, are
said to see the world in similar or identical ways—that is, in the way
human beings generally do.
Viveiros de Castro (1998, 470) calls this ontology ‘perspectiv-
ism’ (not to be confused with the perspectivism in European landscape
painting). Like the Arawete and other Amazonian groups described by
Viveiros de Castro, the Iukagirs regard the subjectivity of humans and
non-humans as formally the same because they share the same kinds of
souls, ayibii, meaning ‘shadow’ in the Iukagir language, which provides
them with a similar or identical viewpoint on the world. Non-humans—
animals, trees, spirits and inanimate objects—thus see the world as
humans do: they live in households and kin groups similar to those of
humans and see themselves as human hunters moving around the land-
scape hunting for their animal prey. What differentiates the various spe-
cies’ perspectives from one another is the materiality of the body: human
beings see the elk as prey because human beings share the same kind of
body, to the same extent that the elk, with its particular body, sees the
human hunter as an evil spirit or predator. In other words, it is bodies
that see and which determine what is seen: who you are and how you
perceive and construct the world all depends on the kind of body you
have.
It is within this perspectival ontology that the Iukagir hunters’ at-
tempt at bodily transformation is to be understood. By recreating his
body in the image of his prey, the hunter reflects back to the elk an
image of itself—that is, the hunter exposes as ‘exterior’ or ‘visible’ what
in reality is ‘interior’ or ‘invisible’: the infra-human perspective of the
animal. Thus, what the elk comes to see in the hunter is not an evil
spirit or a predator, but its own self-image, its own ‘humanness’. Taken
in by this image of itself, the elk does not fear the hunter, but draws
closer and eventually ‘gives itself up’ to what it perceives to be one of
its own.
Hunters explain this ‘eagerness’ of the elk to participate actively in
the hunt in terms of a process of sexual seduction. During the hunter’s
nightly dreams, his soul, ayibii, leaves his body and wanders freely. The
animal spirits call to it, inviting it into their forest home to eat and
drink, and to have sexual intercourse. The feelings of lust and sexual
excitement which the ayibii arouses in the spirits, is then extended to

their physical counterpart, the animal prey which the next morning is
said to run towards the hunter in the expectation of experiencing a sex-
ual climax.
HUNTER-PREY REVERSIBILITY
However, we cannot restrict ourselves to seeing hunting as the preda-
tion of animals by humans, since the animal and its associated spirit-
ual being are also engaged in predatory acts against the human hunter.
So, both humans and animals are hunters and hunted at once. The
animal’s spirit, Iukagirs say, will seek to kill the human hunter out
of ‘love’ for him so as to drag his ayibii back to its household as
its ‘spouse’. The elk spirit attempts this by seducing the hunter into
believing that what he sees is not an elk but a fellow human. After
all, by taking on the animal’s body, the hunter also takes on its view-
point and he is therefore apt to see the elk as it sees itself—that is as
a human being. When this happens, a true metamorphosis occurs and
the hunter’s memories of his past identity are lost. Indeed, we find
a number of anxiety-provoking stories in which the human hunter
encounters his prey in the guise of a fellow human, follows it back to
its household, never to return to his own human sphere of existence
(Willerslev 2004, 634–35). Likewise, it occasionally happens that a
hunter becomes so absorbed in some enticing trait or action observed
in the elk that he forgets to kill it. Failure of this kind is explained as
the hunter ‘falling in love’ with his prey. Consumed by this love, he
cannot think about anything else, stops eating and soon after dies.
His ayibii, hunters say, then goes to live with the animal prey. For the
hunter, therefore, killing prey is not only a matter of getting meat, but
also a hazardous struggle to secure boundaries, and to preserve his
identity as a human person.
The act of killing prey, however, does not mark the end of the hunt.
Quite the opposite, in fact. Up to the point of the actual kill, the hunt has
been essentially non-violent, involving purely positive and non-coercive
relations of seduction. Every aspect of violence has been effectively con-
cealed. Even the hunter’s rhetoric effectively screens out the reality of
being a human predator. The elk, for example, is referred to as ‘the big
one’, whereas the bear is called the ‘bare-footed one’. Likewise, the gun
is addressed as the ‘stick’ and the knife is called the ‘spoon’. Similarly,
hunters do not say: ‘Let’s go hunting for elk’, but use coded phrases
such as: ‘Let’s take a look at the big one’ or ‘I am going for a walk.’
As Descola (1996, 226) puts it: ‘Hunting language is rife with double
meanings and word play, for it would be difficult to charm one’s animal
affines if one were to announce the fate that awaits it.’ Yet, the moment
the killing has occurred, there is a total shift in meaning: It is now clear
to the animal’s spirit that what it took to be a ‘love affair’ is in fact a
‘pack of lies’ and that the real intention of the hunter is predatory vio-
lence. The spirit will therefore seek to take revenge by striking him with
sickness and death (Kwon 1998, 119).
To avoid being preyed upon in turn, Iukagir hunters employ various
tactics of displacement and substitution to conceal the fact that they are
the ones responsible for the animal’s violent death. Thus, immediately
after killing the elk, they will make a small, roughly carved wooden fig-
ure which they paint with lines using blood from the dead animal. The
figure is said to be a miniature model of the ‘animal’s killer’. It is hung
from a string above the meat and serves to attract the attention of the
furious spirit. The spirit, hunters say, will smell the blood of its ‘child’
painted on the figure’s body and attack it. Meanwhile, the hunters can
safely butcher the entire animal and transport its meat back to the en-
campment. The wooden figure, however, is left at the site of the kill as a
kind of physical representative of the ‘murderer’ and draws in the anger
of the spirit.
THE HUNTERS’ ENCAMPMENT AND STORYTELLING

Until the 1960s, the hunters’ encampment consisted of a tepee-like tent,
urasa, made from animal hides or larch bark, and, more recently, from
thickly-woven cotton. Now, however, they have largely adopted the
Russian-style log cabin and the tent is only used during the summer and
autumn months or when cabins are out of reach. The typical log cabin
is 4 m long and 2.5 m wide (Figure 2.7). The floor is the naked soil and
a stretched piece of transparent plastic serves as a window. Hunters sit
on long, roughly-made wooden benches which also serve as their beds.
However, the most important part of the interior is the small metal
stove, placed in a corner of the cabin. Its fire turns the meat brought back
into food, something that is not ‘naturally’ given, since the game animal
is considered to be a ‘person’ and not an ‘object’ (see Fausto 2007). In
other words, the animal needs to be ‘de-subjectified’ and the oven’s fire is
said to bring about this transformation. While its fire converts the prob-
lematic meat into less problematic foodstuff, its intense heat also warms
up the cabin to sauna-hot temperatures. This is important, for while
the hunter in the forest takes on an animal identity by dressing up and
smelling like it, in contrast, life in the cabin is characterised by the full
presence of human odour, especially the smell of human sweat, cooked
Figure 2.7 Interior of hunting cabin showing men relaxing after the hunt.
meat and tobacco smoke. For this reason, hunters always hang their fur
clothing outside the cabin. While eating, and afterwards, they constantly
speak about the day’s hunt:
Running, running along Ivan’s protoka. Nothing, damn! Oh,

over there [tracks from elk]. Running along Iura’s protoka. Run-
ning, running. Nothing. What a clever [one]…Oh, there, moving
away from the water. Running. Damn, this morning there was
a hare’s trail. Didn’t have time [to lay snares], damn. Running,
damn…Three of…[tracks from elk]. Making a circle. The kind
of impossible wind…[moving his hand back and forth over his
head].
Hunters’ stories could be termed ‘minimalist’ (Rosaldo 1986) in that

the sentences are short, uneven and often incomplete. Either the sub-
ject or another part of the sentence is missing, and one has to guess the
meaning according to the general context of the story or according to the
previous sentences, or by deciphering the bodily gestures of the speaker.
Moreover, the storyteller is not guided by any strict chronology, but
jumps back and forth between various events that occurred at different
times and places during the day. While virtually everyone narrates in the
Russian language, senior hunters will occasionally intermix Iukagir and
Sakha phrases, ignoring the fact that most of the others in the group do
not understand these languages well.
While hunting in the forest, hunters often go alone in search of prey,
but when they are moving in groups to hunt elk or bear, for instance,
very often not a word is spoken. If any sound is made, it will be imita-
tive sounds of the animals that they hope to attract. Hunters’ conversa-
tional community and the seemingly endless exchange of narratives of
the hunt, by contrast, distinguish life in the encampment. What are we
to make of this storytelling? What purposes does it serve and why does
it take such elliptical forms?
With regard to the latter question, Rosaldo (1986, 108) has suggest-
ed that in small-scale societies, like that of the Ilongot of the Northern
Philippines, storytellers speak to people who share enormous back-
ground knowledge about their hunting practices and their landscape.
Consequently, hunting stories can communicate information in ‘tele-
graphic shorthand’ because the speakers can safely assume their listen-
ers’ ‘depth of background knowledge’ (Rosaldo 1993, 129).
However, I do not believe that this argument holds good for the
Iukagirs. A group of hunters, as we have seen, consists of people from
many different backgrounds, including everything from experienced re-
source users, with long-standing relations to a particular area of hunt-
ing, to inexperienced beginners and new people who have just joined
the group. Hence, the social distribution of knowledge within a group
of hunters is necessarily ‘plural’, for not every hunter holds the same
amount or kind of knowledge. I therefore find it hard to accept that
their conversational community should be based on some general body
of ‘shared background knowledge’ about ‘the landscape and hunting
practices’ which the ‘speakers can safely assume’ (Rosaldo 1986, 108).
In addition, one might question what value the narratives of senior hunt-
ers could possibly have as ‘knowledge’, when they deliberately inter-
mix Iukagir and Sakha phrases which are largely unintelligible to many
people in the group. If the aim of senior hunters was to communicate
and pass on knowledge, they would presumably do so in a language that
the others could understand.
As an alternative explanation, I shall suggest that the importance
of the hunters’ narrative mode is not as an instrument for exchanging
knowledge, but as a kind of ‘magical tool’ for ‘humanising’ hunters at
the key point of their return across a conceptual line, in the sense of
allowing them to withdraw from the dangerous betwixt-and-between
state of hunting and reconstruct their more stable and ‘safe’ identity as
human persons back in the camp setting. However, in order to set out
the ethnographic groundwork for this alternative interpretation, I need
to say something about the Iukagirs’ conceptions of knowledge which
is based on an ontology of knowing and understanding that considers

verbal information to be inferior compared with first-hand practical
experience.
REINCARNATION AND KNOWLEDGE

Like other indigenous peoples of the Arctic, for example, the Inuit,
described by Guemple (1991), the Iukagirs view a newborn child as a
returned deceased relative. At a given moment during the pregnancy, the
soul, ayibii, of the deceased person enters the mother’s womb through
her vagina and possesses her child, who is about to be born. The two
then become, so to speak, one and the same person, and the child is said
to share with the deceased his or her personality, including the same
repertoire of skills and knowledge. In brief, all the elements of character
and knowledge that we usually understand to be accumulated through a
lifetime are received by the child all at once in a bundle, even before it is
born (Guemple 1991, 135).
However, the Iukagirs say that the moment the child acquires lan-
guage, a failure in its memory occurs. The child’s knowledge is not lost
as such, but it is no longer explicitly aware of who it is and what it
knows. Its knowledge comes to exist in a sort of encapsulated form
which needs to be drawn out through processes of personal rediscov-
ery and practical enskillment, rather than formal training. To engage in
everyday types of activities, such as hunting, is thus said to be engaging
in acts of remembrance. It follows from this that, in the world of the
Iukagirs, there are no such thing as ‘children’, at least not in our sense
of an ‘empty vessel’ that needs to be filled up with knowledge (Guemple
1991, 135). A person knows from the very beginning everything he will
ever come to know, and he is therefore not in debt to anybody for his
knowledge.
This outlook has major implications for the way in which learning is
understood among the Iukagirs. Rather than being an issue of explicitly
transmitting information ‘from the top down’ so to speak, it is one of
assisting or guiding the person in practical activities through which he
himself will come to realise what he is already believed to know. Thus, I
hardly ever saw children or youngsters being told things or having them
explained. Instead, children are encouraged to explore the world on their
own with minimal interference from adults. In fact, I often witnessed
situations, similar to those described by Goulet (1998, 39–42) among
the Dene Tha, where children would play with either fire or alcohol
while their parents simply observed silently from a distance. Goulet sum-
marises this ethos of minimum intervention by writing: ‘Because Dene
consider true knowledge to be personal, firsthand knowledge, they learn

in a manner that emphasizes the nonverbal over the verbal, the experi-
mental over the exposition of principles’ (Goulet 1998, 58).
This emphasis on non-verbal first-hand experiential knowledge over
verbal instruction continues to dominate in adult life. Thus, for the in-
dividual Iukagir hunter, knowledge about hunting is only recognised
as such, when he himself has tested it in practice and seen for himself
that it actually holds true or works. Or as Smith puts it with regard to
Chipewyan hunters, and which is equally true for the Iukagirs, ‘verbal
information is never seen as sufficient; first-hand experimental know-
ledge is an epistemological sine qua non’ (Smith 1998, 417). Let me il-
lustrate this with a concrete example from my fieldwork. Once I was out
hunting with a senior Iukagir hunter when we came across an elk’s track
and he asked me in which direction the animal had gone. The track was
not difficult to decipher and I pointed in the direction in which the ani-
mal had moved. ‘Wrong!’ the hunter replied with firm voice. Perplexed
by his strong reaction, I re-examined the track, but came to the same
conclusion. ‘The animal went that way’, I said. Again he replied that I
was wrong. This obscure conversation went on for several minutes, until
he eventually revealed that he was playing a game with me: ‘Remember’,
he said, ‘never to let anyone tell you what is right and wrong. Every
hunter should say, I know…only I know what is right!’
My point is that for the Iukagirs, as for many other Arctic peoples,
what provides knowledge about the landscape is not language but acts
of direct perceptual engagement with the world—acts that are believed
to occur independently of language itself. For them, knowledge is some-
thing that pre-dates language; language is no more than a secondary
activity that gives names to things which the person is believed to al-
ready know about. In fact, Yukaghir hunters claim that verbal instruc-
tion might even distort peoples’ proper understanding of things. Thus,
in their view, language is something that obstructs rather than promotes
genuine understanding of the landscape.
PURGING OTHERNESS FROM THE SELF

It is within this context of hunters’ general attitude of mistrust, at times
even hostility, towards language and information conveyed in language
that I believe that their storytelling is to be understood. These stories
do not serve an educational purpose. In fact, they are often unintelli-
gible to many members of the group and signify in this regard a form
of ‘idle talk’. Still, for the Iukagirs, language is, like the human body
itself, an inseparable aspect of what it means to be human. This does
not mean that language is seen as a uniquely human attribute. In the

world of the Iukagirs, human beings have nothing of which non-human
animals have not at least a vestige—and language is no exception to
this. Thus, the various animal species are said to speak in their own
languages in much the same way as they are believed to live lives analo-
gous to those of humans: When roaming the forest, they appear in the
guise of animal prey and predator (just as human beings do when out
hunting) but when they enter their own ‘lands’ and ‘encampments’ they
hang up their ‘fur coats’ and take on human shapes and speak in their
own ‘human’ languages. It is exactly with respect to this latter point
about language being a marker of ‘humanity as a condition’ (Descola
1986, 120), shared by humans and non-humans alike, that I believe that
we should understand the hunters’ narrative mode. What talking does
is, in effect, to transform beings, humans and non-humans alike, back
to their ordinary human mode of existence. The conversational commu-
nity and the endless exchange of words ‘humanise’ them and the space
of the encampment as does the removal of fur clothing and the smell of
cooked food and tobacco smoke. Speech and smell—both of which are
seen as identifying markers of one’s humanity—are thus to be seen as
sort of ‘magical tools’ for purging a sense otherness from the self and
reconstructing one’s identity in a more stable human format. However,
it is not so much the meaning of the words uttered as the act of talk-
ing itself that is important. Whether the narrator is fully or only partly
comprehensible is of secondary importance. The listeners are not ex-
pected to attend too closely to his words for meaning. Rather, it is the
act of talking that brings about the intended effect. It confronts—almost
engulfs—them with the paramount reality of human social life, from
which they had previously been withdrawn, and it forces them to exam-
ine the hunting event in these terms. To this extent, their narrative mode
is directly involved in the promotion of reflexivity. Hunters are, through
their engagement in storytelling, provided with the opportunity to reflect
on the day’s hunt, to stand apart from their hazardous entry into the
in-between world of the hunt and to ‘look at it’ from within the safer
human social sphere of the encampment. The result is that they are made
conscious of their own consciousness (Turner 1982, 75). They come to
see that they are not elk, but genuine human persons.
CONCLUSION
This chapter has described the practical implications of living in a land-
scape of symmetrical inversions between humans and non-humans and
the living and the dead—a landscape in which no category of being is
ever permanent and where anyone can transform into virtually anything
else: humans become animals, animals turn into humans, and the dead
convert into the living.1
Within this framework of continual transformations, I have espe-
cially focused on two different ways of being in the landscape: the forest
and the encampment. When out hunting, Iukagirs turn themselves into
animal prey, taking on its identity and mode of perception. The space
of the encampment is the symmetrical inversion of forest life in that it
serves to humanise hunters and restore their original identity and per-
spective. The important thing to note, however, is that in both cases, the
hunter’s viewpoint is never uniquely his own, but is always intersected
by those of others. In the forest, the hunter sees the world through the
eyes of his animal prey, whereas within the encampment, he sees it with
the eyes of the deceased relative of whom he is said to be a reincarna-
tion. In other words, for the Iukagirs, there is no such thing as seeing
with one’s own eyes. People always see through the eyes of others as
well.
This is a far cry from the convention of perspective in European
landscape painting, where the eyes of the spectator are uniquely his own
and his seeing does not interfere with the world or with others. In a lit-
eral sense, perspective painting is egocentric: the world is centred on the
spectator, who is also the essence or core of identity. For the Iukagirs,
no such centre of identity exists. Rather, for them all beings are consti-
tuted ‘relationally’: there would be no hunters without prey, just as there
would be no living without the souls of the dead, because a person only
attains his identity by virtue of the relationship he has to his previous in-
carnation or the animal hunted. The Iukagir person, therefore, is essen-
tially and inherently relational, having no existence of his own outside
or separate from the relationships into which he enters.
The consequence of this kind of relational thinking is that seeing is
something that the person cannot wholly dominate or subdue to his own
ends, just as he shall never be able to shake off the dominant role that
others play in its constitution. There is always the risk that other beings
overtake one’s viewpoint and subdue it to their own ends. Animal prey,
for example, can manipulate the hunter into believing that what he sees
is a fellow human thus making him lose his original species adherence.
Every encounter between hunter and prey entails this ontological risk of
being absorbed into a viewpoint that one deems to be not self or ‘other’.
So, whereas inter-species boundaries are transgressed during hunting,
any such transgression precipitates a crisis of control over perspectives.
And it is this control of existential mastery that is the driving force in the
hunter’s need to return from the forest to the encampment at the end of
the day and to restore his human identity and perspective.
NOTE
1 Indeed, while waiting to be reincarnated, the ayibii of the dead is said to live in
the ‘Land of Shadows’ (Yuk. ayibii-lebie) or the ‘Second Moscow’, as it is also
called which is believed to be an inversion of the landscape of the living: People
there live in log cabins and tents with their families, eat and hunt, as they would
normally do, but many basic things, such as day and night, winter and summer,
are reversed.
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CHAPTER 3
SHAMANISTIC REVIVAL IN A POST-

SOCIALIST LANDSCAPE: LUCK AND RITUAL
AMONG ZABAIKAL’E OROCHEN-EVENKIS
David G. Anderson1
INTRODUCTION
The émigré Russian anthropologist Sergei Mikhailovich Shirokogoroff
(1935) is famous for attributing to Vitim River Orochens a special
‘psycho-mental complex’. His work carries a heavy debt to the intellec-
tual currents of his day which sought to link the diffusion of ritual across
space to cultural evolution. However, his ‘psycho-mental complex’ also
could be read from the very way that the tent was set or the way that a
seamstress took measurements with her thumb and fore-arm. It is with
his subtle intuition of linking intimate personal action to places which
I would like to frame in this ethnographic study of a contemporary
Orochen family. Here I wish to examine how their everyday practice,
and in particular one ritual, are important to understand how they are
adapting to new political-economic circumstances; conditions nearly as
tumultuous as the days of the Russian civil war when Shirokogoroff first
wrote.
The chapter is based directly upon two short six-week ethnographic
excursions in the region, first in 1989 and again in 2004. The latter visit
was organised in collaboration with a group of Canadian and Russian
archaeologists, who directed our attention towards the material signa-
tures of everyday practice. In particular, this chapter is the result of many
fire-side discussions—or even arguments—with the archaeologists about
the degree to which contemporary Orochen society has been degraded or
assimilated by the industrial vortex created by the former Soviet Union.
71
Here, I will argue that contemporary ritual expressions of ‘luck’ and

reciprocity provide a frame through which post-Socialist environmental
and market conditions can be understood.
The issues of time and space frame this research in all aspects—
theoretically, substantively and logistically. If in 1989, I was car-
ried through the low, forested mountains of this region in a series of
publicly-subsidised helicopters; in 2004, our intrepid expedition had
to cover large distances on foot and canoe to find the Aruneev family.
After 10 days of overland travel through the taiga on foot, which at
the time seemed to be quite a hardship, we were charmed by the warm
and matter-of-fact welcome we received. Evenki-Orochen hospitality is
a well-known comfort to travellers. What was more surprising was the
smiling and knowing manner by which we were told that we were ex-
pected, our intentions seemingly announced to Nikolai Aruneev ahead
of time by a prophetic dream.
THE WORK-UNIT ‘BEIUN’ AND THE ARUNEEV FAMILY

The Aruneev family occupy one of the most distant of the newly-privatised
territories of the former Tungokochen state farm. Legally incorporated
as the work-unit tovarishchestvo ‘Beiun’ [‘wild cervid’—moose or rein-
deer], they spend most of the summers along the Poperechnaia River
and its headwaters. Their summer territories are located high up at the
watershed between the Vitim and Nercha Rivers—which due to the pe-
culiar hydrology of the region, is also the continental divide between
the Pacific and Arctic watersheds. In the winters, Nikolai Aruneev and
his brother Iura travel further east through the Nercha valley with their
reindeer hunting sable and other fur-bearers (Figure 3.1). The heart of
the work-unit is made up of the two brothers—Nikolai and Iura, and
their elderly mother Ol’ga Aruneeva [Zhurumeeva]. At various times
of the year, they are assisted by cousins, nieces and nephews, as well
as in-laws married into the family. The family practises a rich assort-
ment of traditional skills ranging from sewing and treating hides, cook-
ing traditional foods and practising traditional ritual (Pastukhova 2006).
Amongst themselves, they spoke Evenki (a mixture of Eastern dialects)
but with us, all except the elderly matron Olga would communicate well
in Russian. Together they manage a rather large herd of taiga reindeer,
numbering between 250 and 400 head, kept for meat, for transport and
their impressive prestige value. The main output of the work-unit was
fur (chiefly Barguzin sable) but also exotic animal parts such as elk and
bear parts, velvet antlers and plant medicines—most of which are bar-
tered through intermediaries, often to China.
Shamanistic Revival in a Post-Socialist Landscape 73
Figure 3.1 Map of Vitim River valley showing rivers and villages. (Source: Basemap
drafted by Dr. Gail Fondahl, University of Northern British Columbia. Annotations by
the Author, David G. Anderson.)
Nikolai Aruneev is a larger-than-life figure. Back in 1989, village

elders spoke to me of him with great hope as an aspiring student pursu-
ing an education as a veterinarian in Irkutsk. When we met him in 2004,
he was completing a full year of self-imposed exile from the village in
what he described as an effort to fulfil a prophecy given to him by a
Buriat shaman. He is an extremely energetic man with a great love for
making long elliptical hikes across the taiga to search for lost reindeer, to
assess plant and forage conditions and to keep watch on the movements
of animals in the region. He has an unnerving laugh, and a passion for
showing off his knowledge in a number of different spheres ranging from
Evenki dialects, to aboriginal land rights across Russia and in Canada.
What was particularly memorable was the confident way that he would
mix knowledge traditions by healing reindeer with a combination of
antibiotics and traditional blood-letting, part of his larger speciality of
mixing shamanistic and Soviet-industrial ritual traditions.
During our numerous evening discussions, Nikolai Aruneev was
keen to emphasise that his secret to a good life in the taiga was to keep
good relationships with the land’s spirits. Citing parts of his genealogy
which include Buriatiia-based Orochen shamans two generations ago,
he sees himself as re-adopting local spirits who were orphaned during
the period of state-sponsored violence against religious practitioners.
His interest in reviving ritual seems to have grown with the decline of
state control over the economy, and follows the general growth in pride
in aboriginal life-ways all across the Russian Federation. What is very
unique about his story is that he prefers to revitalise traditions amongst
a small close-knit group of kinsmen roughly 70 km from the nearest
settlement.
A SACRIFICE FOR THE SPIRITS

Nikolai Aruneev’s philosophy was demonstrated for us prominently not
only in words, but in practice. On the second day of our visit, we were
treated to a ritual spectacle made more mysterious for the fact that most
of it was unannounced.
In the early afternoon of 27 July, the entire reindeer herd was
brought back to camp—a teaming mass of bulls, cows and calves which
seemed to grow out of the brush opposite the camp like a dark thun-
dercloud. The herd congregated in the corralled portion of the camp
greedily lapping up the salt Ol’ga had rubbed on the tree trunks. Taking
advantage of his increased labour power, Aruneev immediately seconded
our group of three into an afternoon of chasing, capturing and inoculat-
ing reindeer. Many reindeer were caught and tethered that afternoon.
One young bull (approximately three years old) with one blind eye was
left off to the side. Having been asked if he was going to treat and heal
this deer as well, Aruneev exploded with nervous laughter and replied
that the deer was to be given as a sacrifice (zhertvoprinoshenie) to the
spirits. Puzzled, we were led slowly into the ritual.
The processes of making this ‘offering’ (podarok) to the spirits
started with sending the two women in the camp off on a rather futile
far-off trek to pick blueberries. Aruneev made an attempt to gather
all the remaining men together (at this time, five). Two of the men
wandered off in an ironic mood, since they seemed to know what was
about to happen, muttering something about Nikolai’s shamanising.
These sceptics were Nikolai’s brother Iura and a cousin—Petr—who
had been spending the summer with the work-unit away from the
village. Three uninitiated male assistants were left—two University
of Aberdeen anthropologists (I and Donatas Brandisauskas) and one
Evenki guest (Gregorii Chernykh) from Ust’-Karenga who had helped
us find the family.
The offering began with Nikolai’s request that Gregorii hit the
tethered reindeer at the back of the head with the blunt end of an
axe—which was quite a shocking beginning. When living with Evenki
in other parts of Siberia, I was strictly taught that hitting a reindeer
Figure 3.2 Gregorii Chernykh draining blood from the stunned, tethered reindeer.
(Photograph by D. Brandisauskas.)
(or even a sable) was a serious act of disrespect (reindeer are usually
slaughtered with a quick stab behind the skull). I was asked to hold the
quivering reindeer as Gregorii slit the throat and gathered all the blood
in basin (Figure 3.2). When the reindeer shuddered, releasing its life,
Gregorii began skinning the animal under Nikolai’s close direction.
The rest of us were then gradually recruited into the butchering proc-
ess. Nikolai lit and maintained a small fire away from the slaughter-
ing site while instructing us—often in Evenki—to what seemed to me
(and to others) the unusual manner he wanted us to treat the remains
in comparison to the way that reindeer are usually slaughtered. The
animal was skinned in one piece starting from the hooves. Thereafter
careful effort was applied to not severing any external part of the ani-
mal from the skin. This included ensuring that the four sets of dangling
hoof-nails remained attached to the leg-skins. This delicate and un-
usual operation was done by severing the hooves from the lower leg
bones at their joints but by not severing the hoof-nails from the skin at
the very bottom-front (as one would usually do if one were interested
in tanning or preparing the skin). Nikolai had to perform this oper-
ation himself since nobody, not even Gregorii, was clear on what he
needed to do (Figure 3.3).
In addition, the neck and head area was skinned such that the ears,
nose and velvet antlers remained attached to the head skin (the hard
portions of the antlers severed from the skull under the skin with an
axe). The penis was also left attached to the skin. During the entire
process, willow branches were liberally spread out to keep the skin and
carcass clean of dirt. Only after the grinning carcass was completely
Figure 3.3 Skinning the reindeer starting from the feet. The animal is kept clean
on a mat of willows. The skin is removed before the cavity is opened. From left to
right—Nikolai Aruneev, Gregorii Chernykh and Donatas Brandisauskas. (Photograph
by David G. Anderson.)
skinned, and the entire skin removed to the side, was the carcass gutted
and the meat cut apart. As is usual, the lower cavity was opened with
care so as not to split the intestines. First the intestines and then the
inner organs were removed. The interesting element, to my eyes, was
the placing of parts onto the nearby fire. First the steaming intestinal
contents were emptied onto the fire. The collapsed intestines were set
aside in another basin to be washed out and cooked later that evening.
Then the lungs, heart, liver and kidney were each carefully removed. A
small portion of each organ, including each stomach and intestine, was
cut and fed to the fire. After this, the organs were neatly placed—or ra-
ther displayed—on another mat of cut willows (Figure 3.4). Some of us
nibbled on the fresh kidneys and liver. The rest of the body was cut up
in an exactingly clean way. Legs were disarticulated and ribs cut apart.
The head and neck were severed and the head split into two. All of the
disarticulated pieces were set aside and displayed on more willow mats,
with a small part of each piece fed to the fire. We were urged to bring
more and more dry wood to ensure that the smouldering fire devoured
all the gifts—a feat which was particularly difficult to arrange for the
stomach contents. All parts of the deer were either reserved for future
use, or burned.
It later turned out that this was only the beginning of the ritual
(Figure 3.5).
Figure 3.4 Nikolai Aruneev displays the meat on willow maps and burns portions of
each piece in an offering fire. (Photograph by D. Brandisauskas.)
Figure 3.5 Nikolai Aruneev constructs the offering site on a small rise between the
Poperechnaia River and the camp. (Photograph by David G. Anderson.)
Donatas and I were invited to follow Nikolai to a special site that

he had chosen in the forest between the camp and the river. We were
each asked to bring axes and our cameras. Some 30 m away, on a slight
rise (which was a sort of island in-between dried-up river channels),
we were asked to prepare several long poles (approximately 3–4 m
long) made of larch and birch. We were told that the mixture of larch
and birch poles was an important detail. Nikolai brought with him the
skin of reindeer. The skin was mounted on a long larch pole such that
the head, neck, spine and tail hung along the ridge pole and the legs,
feet and dangling penis hung over the sides. The skin was tied to the
pole with colourful cloth ribbons (made of strips from old clothing) at
the nose and neck. The dangling front and rear hooves were also tied
together with ribbons. We then were asked to help elevate the entire
mounted skin by lifting the ridge pole up with the help of two other
larch poles (each of which had a Y-shaped crux cut at their ends). We
secured the offering by leaning the poles against two standing larches.
It was important for Nikolai that the scaffolding lean against standing
trees (and not be fixed) and that the animal offering faced east. Nikolai
later told us that ideally the structure should have been mounted on
top of a substantial hill with a clear view of the rising sun, but that
since there was not such a hill in the immediate vicinity of our camp,
we were forced to improvise. The ridge pole was weighted down with
birch poles which seemed to shine white against the brown colour of
the fur and the trees. The entire scaffold recalled a classic Evenki mor-
tuary lokovun—a structure used both to store everyday goods, but also
to elevate the clothes and possessions of a deceased person (Figure 3.10)
(Sirina 2002). Behind this mortuary scaffolding, we were asked to help
erect a triangular stage set lower than and behind the reindeer offering
but still a good 2 m high. It too was constructed with thick short larch
poles set to lean against three standing trees. The triangular stage was
covered with small broken sticks to make a platform. This triangular
structure recalls the triangular offering stages made by northern Iakut-
reindeer herders (Gurvich 1977). No nails were used in any part of
the structure; however, flexible willow branches (if necessary twisted or
warmed over a fire) were use to tie the joints between leaning pillars and
the ridgepole (Figure 3.6).
The conclusion to the ritual ended with setting offerings on the plat-
form and around the site. We brought one shoulder piece (lopatka), the
testicles, some cartilage from the knees and some odd scraps that were left
from the butchering process. It was important for Nikolai that there was
only one piece of each type. Four trees in each of the cardinal directions
surrounding the offering were tied with coloured ribbons (triapochki)
in three rows. Cigarettes (papirosy) and matches were placed in behind
Figure 3.6 Completed reindeer offering scaffold. The reindeer is facing east. Offered
meat was placed on the platform behind the animal. Matches and cigarettes were left
as gifts in the ribbons on each tree. (Photograph by David G. Anderson.)
each ribbon, taking care to circle the offering in a clockwise (‘sun-wise’)

direction. Nikolai told us that it was important that we exit the offering
site towards the west by walking backwards facing the offering, only
turning southwards towards the camp once the line of sight was broken
by a tree (this he called a ‘corner’). We documented the site before mak-
ing the offerings.
Perhaps the most enjoyable part of the ritual—a part that now every-
body joined in on—was the feast. This was held in the camp. Over the
next two days, we consumed the remains of the entire animal. This was
served in a variety of ways. We made blood sausage out of the intestine,
boiled meat, ate the liver raw and even ground meat to make Russian
pirozhki (Figure 3.7). The fresh meat was no doubt a welcome diet to
the brigade which up until this time (and again after this time) subsisted
on a diet of salted and dried moose meat (kukuru—Ev). It was an un-
forgettable welcome to the Poperechnaia River valley, and a somewhat
mysterious moment for anthropologists.
LUCK AND RITUAL IN A POST-SOCIALIST LANDSCAPE

There is nothing unusual in participating in gifting rituals in this part
of Siberia as in almost any other part of the circumpolar North. The
Figure 3.7 The author and Nikolai Aruneev making reindeer blood sausage.
(Photograph by Anastasila Pastukova.)
phenomena of ‘feeding the fire’ with fat or spirits is documented widely

across Eurasia (Alekseev 1993; Dmitriev 1989; Jordan 2003; Tsybikov
1927; Vasilevich 1969; Vitebsky 1992). The idea of making offerings
(or placings) of coins, matches or gun shells is also well documented
among Evenkis—with some of the best known references going back to
Shirokogoroff (1935, 193–97) but common in other regions as well. The
respectful treatment of the bones or other remains of wild reindeer and
reindeer foetuses, and of bear, is well known among Evenkis (Anderson
2000; Anisimov 1950; Vasilevich 1969) and in particular in Zabaikal’e
(Abe 2005). Across Siberia, these rituals of reciprocity with the taiga,
the tundra, or with spirits are also not limited to indigenous national-
ities with many authors documenting the participation of local Russians
(Anderson 2000; Sirina 2002). These gifting rituals were present in the
Imperial period and remained common in the Soviet period. It is not sur-
prising that they continue in the post-Soviet period.
What is unusual, or at least caused some discomfort, was the intri-
cately structured and built nature of this ritual. The ‘sacrifice’ was never
really explained to us during or indeed after the ritual. When I asked
the brigadier delicately about the ritual, I was told very simply that the
reindeer was an offering/gift (podarok) to unnamed spirits. In different
contexts and at different times, Nikolai sometimes spoke of spirits being
linked to concrete individuals or ancestors who had once lived in these

valleys. Again in different contexts, he mentioned his belief that making
gifts to concrete ‘old [deceased] men’ or to the ‘spirits’ would bring ‘luck’
(kutu–Ev.) in reindeer husbandry and in hunting.
The idea of ‘luck’ is an important element in this region. Shirokogoroff
(1935, 154, 187) notes both the close link between the ideas of luck
and of spirits and the fact that such key ritual concepts are common to
both Buriats and Evenkis. Hamayon (1990, 555), in her fundamental
work on Siberian shamanism (but in particular among Zabaikal Buriats
and Orochens) sees luck as forming a foundation for interpreting ritual
through its connection with the life force. Associating the details of this
ritual with other stories that he told later about his travels in Buriatiia,
it seems possible that specific details of the ritual (the coloured fabrics,
the precise manner of circling the reindeer and exiting the site via ‘cor-
ners’) may have been adopted from Buriat shamanic rituals that Nikolai
had observed. However, at no time did Nikolai ever say this directly.
One late evening, he did mention that he was inspired to make this par-
ticular structure from a photograph that he saw in the local museum in
Bagdarin (but he added that he confirmed many details of the ritual with
his mother and other elders). When I asked him if he regularly practises
this ritual, his answer came in terms of an authoritative timeless present
‘Orochens always did kind of thing’. At other times, he gave thanks to
the Buriat shamans, with whom he was friendly, who had encouraged
him to start a programme of honouring ‘his own’ spirits, but said that
since they could offer no direct experience with these spirits, he would
have to learn about these spirits himself.2
None of us ever confronted Nikolai with our doubts, although I am
sure he is quite used to performing his work around sceptics. If one were
obsessed with authenticity, one could attribute many cynical motives
to Nikolai for wanting to ‘construct’ or ‘revive’ versions of older ritual
complexes. In the new status economy provided by foreign-sponsored
Non Governmental Organisations, primitivist rituals lend a strong ven-
eer of cultural difference and authenticity that could be later used to
defend claims to land rights.3 Further, by acting like a mysterious dark
woodsman living for months, and even years, alone in the taiga, Nikolai
was building up a reputation of somebody who wielded very strong sur-
vival skills. This would certainly quash any attempt by local villagers to
characterise him merely as a ‘city boy’ brought up and educated in a ser-
ies of boarding school. Eyewitness accounts of professionally-performed
shamanic ritual, from objective outsider observers, could only increase
the respect he could expect in local and regional political circles. Finally,
in the aggressive post-Socialist economic environment of free-wheeling
middlemen and poachers, having a reputation for dabbling in dark
matters could serve as a relatively inexpensive form of protection. With

this reputation, chronically-superstitious Russians would be more un-
likely to poach on his territories, or block his movements, if they could
just as easily hunt or trap on other unoccupied stretches of taiga, of
which there are many.
What is interesting for an ethnography of post-Socialist forest sub-
sistence economies is not the question of the authenticity of observed
ritual, but the way that ritual fits into an ecology of social practice
after the collapse of the Soviet state. To my mind, this event presents
two important ethnographic facts. The first is that the peculiar social
ecology of a collapsing industrial state has provided certain opportuni-
ties for Orochens to re-occupy their lands and a certain necessity for
them to re-employ ritual forms that have not been practised for many
generations. The second is that even though rituals of reciprocity have
always been practised in this region in both the Imperial and Socialist
periods by Evenkis and Russians alike, there is something unsettling
to anthropologists, and to locals, when respect is marked by erecting
a tangible public monument. Both facts together suggest that in post-
Socialist conditions, there is a tension—or a debate—about what forms
of ritual are important in conditions of the ‘wild’ market. For me,
this suggests that the heart of the Orochen ‘psycho-mental complex’—
that part which adjusts personal embodied behaviour to the social
environment—is still very much alive in this region of Siberia.
ON IDENTIFYING AND CULTIVATING THE OROCHEN TAIGA

Overtly, rituals of respect are directed at the taiga (or, at spirits living in
the taiga). However, where exactly is the taiga? At first glance, it is not
difficult to find uninhabited and forested areas in this region of Siberia.
Since the end of the Soviet period, there has been a steady collapse of
most publicly funded economic activity in all but the largest settlements.
If in 1987, the taiga was covered with reindeer-herding bases, military
outposts, geological exploration camps and meteorological stations,
today there is little evident built occupancy other than a few scattered
home-made hunting shelters and a few villages (and those often with-
out electricity). At least conversationally, the taiga is everything in be-
tween the population points of Tungokochen, Ust’-Karenga and Kyker
(Figure 3.1)—an area of approximately 1,000 sq km.
However, when looking at the post-Socialist taiga with the eyes of
an independent reindeer herder, it is not such a big space at all. Both
the Socialist period, and the first 10 years of post-Socialist reform, has
left tangible material markers which limit the ways in which the forest
can be used. A common ecological feature here, as all over Siberia, are
the overburdened forests and meadows in the immediate vicinity of
artificially-constructed settlements. Beginning after the end of the War,
and continuing through the 1970s, central planners forcibly resettled
hunters and small-scale agriculturalists into larger and larger settlements
which were designed to be serviced by centrally-subsidised state farms
and their industrial networks of electricity, sanitation and distribution.
These expensive networks were the first to collapse at the end of the
Soviet period leading residents to harvest out the most saleable, edible
and combustible resources immediately surrounding the settlements.
The first stage of any trip to the ‘taiga’ is a sprint across a zone of 20 to
30 km in diameter where it is difficult to keep reindeer or to feed oneself
for more than a few days at best.
Zabaikal’e has its own Soviet-era industrial features which place
further limits on the places where one might be able to live. One large,
but officially-invisible feature, is the now abandoned military poligon
directly to the south and west of Tungokochen. This is an area where,
in the Soviet period, large cohorts of hungry armed soldiers were kept—
soldiers who often enjoyed hunting in their free time. The poligon was
also a weapons-testing range—a practice which is probably the most im-
portant spark in the fire history of the region (Fondahl 1998; Pyne 1997;
Soja 1996). Similar problems, although on a smaller scale, occurred at
the geological camp to the north of Ust’-Karenga. Uncontrolled fires
in the region are extremely destructive over the medium term of seven
to ten years. The sharp hills and ridges are made of a type of shale,
lightly covered with a thin layer of turf, roots and soil. A fire destroys
not only the trees and the surface lichen, but also the overburden that
holds roots and allows bushes to grow again. The usual result of a wild-
fire is a barren, eroded hillside made up of the ghostly hulks of fallen
larches, projecting their sharp, burnt trunks at random odd angles over
the sharp exposed edge of the fractured bedrock. These landscapes are
not only barren of forage for many years but are hazardous to walk
across. During my fieldwork in 1987, the extent of damage from fire
was cited as the reason for instituting a drastic cull in the size of reindeer
herds from 2,000 head to 500 head.
The post-Soviet period, apparently, led to a surprising acceleration
in the erosion of the taiga environment. According to all members of
the Beiun collective, and villagers in Tungokochen and in Ust’-Karenga,
one adaptation to the new economy in exotic animal parts encourages
traders to set fire to the taiga in the autumn in order to better expose the
whitened hulks of discarded antlers. The antlers are gathered, broken
up and sold for oriental medicines. Some of the people interviewed even
hinted darkly that fires were set in order to destroy the trap lines held
by competitors. Using his characteristically mystical way of speaking,

Nikolai also spoke of the taiga withdrawing and hiding itself from the
touch of anyone using mechanised equipment. He claims that all the
valleys which have been crossed repeatedly by all-terrain tank-tracked
vezdekhody and snowmobiles sooner or later are destroyed by fire.
Sirina (2002, Chapter 5) describes similar places in the northern part
of Irkutsk oblast’. The immediate causes, according to Nikolai, are the
sparks from the engine, or a carelessly discarded cigarette. The deeper
fact, according to him, is the fact that the taiga only protects itself in
places where people and reindeer choose to walk.
It is difficult to give an authoritative reason for the fires in the re-
gion but the fact that the fires were there is evident to anyone walking
through the forest (Figure 3.8). Whether the result of malice, industrial
pressure, climate change, or ‘feeding the spirits’, it is indeed true that the
Aruneevs’ taiga, lying high at top of the Inner Asian continental divide,
looks and feels like a sanctuary in between a series of burned-out and
barren regions.
Ust’ - Poperechnaia
Ust’-Bazarnaia
Bazarnaia
Poperechnaia
Baza
Base camp - baza lakovun mortuary scaffold
Summer camps Aerial Grave
Storage platforms Recent wildfire area
Scale: one square is 5 sq km
Figure 3.8 Schematic map of the Poperechnaia River valley showing summer camps,
storage platforms, mortuary structures and burned-out areas. (Prepared by David G.
Anderson.)
The reaction of Aruneev and his work-unit to this insecure envir-

onment is characteristically constructive. The area surrounding the
abandoned poligon geological camp is viewed as a handy source for
abandoned metal and canvass useful for making tools and tents. The
sanctuaries in between the burned-out valleys are in turn cultivated to
preserve or enhance their productivity. Unlike in other Evenki areas in
the Arctic, Aruneev seems to follow a strictly-planned pattern of ro-
tating pastures for his flock by moving up and down the Poperechnaia
valley (Figure 3.9). Our team encountered the work-unit at their
lowest camp called Ust’-Poperechnaia. Over the course of July and
August, Aruneev shifted camp once upwards to the head-waters of
the Poperechnaia (camp ‘Poperechnaia’) and were speaking of moving
again higher to the Bazarnaia camp. According to Aruneev, their win-
ters are spent high up on the mountains surrounding these two alpine
rivers, with forays out for hunting. As the year moves to spring, the
reindeer gather themselves in the damp valley bottoms at specially-
maintained kever meadows. As spring moves to summer, the herders
provide reindeer with salt at specific places, as well as light smudge
Approx. direction of Springtime -

Base camp - baza Kever meadows -
autumn migration
controlled burns
Summer camps
Alpine winter pastures Approx. location of
Recent wildfire area summer foraging
Approx. direction
of spring migration
Scale: one square is 5 sq km
Figure 3.9 Schematic map of the Poperechnaia River valley emphasising the
yearly round and the specially-maintained kever meadows.(Prepared by David G.
Anderson.)
fires (to drive away insects) in order to provide them with an attract-
ive living environment. If the herders do not alter the environment,
the reindeer would grow wild, seeking out pastures and insect-free
escarpments independently of their human hosts. To make this herd-
ing strategy even more effective, the herders also deliberately choose
damp areas infested with mosquitoes and black flies in order to ex-
aggerate the reindeer’s dependency on the environment that people
create.
The phenomenon of the kever meadow is quite a unique adaptation
to the region and perhaps to Siberian reindeer herders although it is
well documented for Canadian Cree hunters (Lewis 1989; Pyne 1997).
The kever is an open marshy place kept clear of bushes by the delib-
erate application of fire either every year, or every other year, in the
early spring. If burned at a point in time before the snow melts on the
hillsides, the damp and frozen trunks of the surrounding forest naturally
ensure that the fire does not spread. The blackened space attracts more
solar energy than the snowy regions which in turn melts the snow even
further providing a rich and fertilised meadow to encourage growth. In
these spots, a type of grass (nirgate—Ev.) sprouts early rapidly becom-
ing ready forage for the herd. The animals are automatically attracted
to these instant meadows eliminating the need to run after them. When
the mosquito season falls, the herd then gathers itself around the smudge
fires provided by the herders. Preliminary discussions suggest that this
adaptation may have come from the horse pastoralists who have always
lived beside and between Orochen reindeer herders. Whether or not this
is true, the kever meadows also allow herders the option to keep horses
in summer giving them easier access to a more robust form of summer
overland transport.
This rather clever but strict pattern of migration is described by
Aruneev by a rather formal calendar of dates which are interspersed with
key feast days of the Russian Orthodox ritual calendars (Table 3.1).
During our short visit, one particular day (2 August), said to be an
Orthodox feast day, was organised to be a day of rest in between cer-
tain days reserved for harvesting velvet antlers, inoculations, antler-
trimming, and so on throughout the year. The use of ritualised days to
structure hunting and herding activity is not unusual to Siberian herding.
Reindeer herding all over Siberia in the Soviet period was also structured
according to an industrial ritual calendar punctuated by New Year’s,
the Day of the Reindeer Herder, and the ‘First Bell’ of the Village School
(Anderson 2006b). According to Aruneev, strict respect for feast days
and the natural rhythms of the reindeer herd gives one ‘luck’ (kutu).
This element of being able to place oneself best to take advantage of
ecological opportunities would seem to be of much greater importance
Table 3.1 A sketch of the Beiun Yearly Round. (As dictated by Nikolai Aruneev.)
March Velvet antlers begin to grow.
March Calves and castrated deer lose their antlers.
End of March The burning of the kever meadows to encourage the growth of
Begin. April nirgate grass.
7 April–22 May The dropping of calves as the cuckoo-birds start to sing.
15 June forward Velvet antlers can be trimmed if they are more than 20 cm long.
20 June–1Aug Trimming of the bull’s antlers in preparation for the rut.
2 August Ilin day. Holiday
15 June–15 Sept Maintenance of the smudge fires against mosquitoes.
Up to 15 Sept The cows rub the velvet off their antlers up to this date.
15 Sept forward The bulls start to rub the velvet on their antlers.
Begin. October The immature bulls begin to lose their antlers.
in the post-Soviet economy than it was when one could rely on the provi-
sions of a publicly-funded welfare state.
Given the limitations of time and space in this post-Socialist burned-
out ecosystem and the need to cultivate special places to attract reindeer,
it is not surprising to me that Aruneev is also cultivating new forms of
ritual.
ON BUILT AND EMBODIED FORMS OF RITUAL

What is perhaps more surprising than the ritual itself was the level of
puzzlement and concern among local Evenkis that Aruneev was eager
to build structures to signal his respect for the land. It is difficult to de-
scribe this sentiment, but it seemed to involve a collective opinion that
such actions were old fashioned, a little childish and perhaps a little
dangerous. It would be not unreasonable to say that most people in the
Tungokochen region evaluated hunting and herding using a productivist
register—by means of quantities of deer and fur, the quality of housing
and the ability of the hunter to generate a cash income. Given the over-
whelming dominance of Soviet productivist ideology in the recent past,
this is not surprising. Nevertheless, we cannot forget that some forms
of local belief blended well with Soviet modernity. Local forms of rit-
ual seem to survive in a much more robust form in embodied forms of
actions—forms that were not so visible to the Soviet state (Long 2005).
Built structures, on the other hand, seem to challenge Soviet sensibilities

more radically (Humphrey 2005).
The offering of a reindeer (or rather a reindeer skin and some parts)
was only one rather overt ritual endowing ‘luck’ among others which
were judged to be uncontroversial. Among the uncontroversial forms
we observed (and the others participated in) were the feeding small bits
of meat to the fire,4 placing ribbons or other small gifts at mountain
passes between river systems, leaving coins or matches at the places
where medicine is harvested5 and throwing small offerings (or lighted
cigarettes) in the direction of known gravesites. Offerings are made at
the special rocks or cliffs where prophecies can be read (these are often
sites of Neolithic rock art) (Arbatskii 1978). In addition to these active
actions which ensure luck, we were told that hunting luck can be indi-
cated by a dog lying on its back, a dropped knife landing blade-up, the
presence of spider’s webs on dishes, a woman who comes to a hunter in
a dream (incidentally, guests are foreseen when unfamiliar dogs arrive
in one’s dreams), etc. All of these rituals or signs are extremely subtle.
They are conscious acts, but they are never announced or discussed. My
impression is that this is the case not so much since people wish to hide
these rituals as the fact that they are regarded as an important and obvi-
ous part of everyday life. They are embodied as part of people’s personal
repertoire much like familiar routines around the campfire.
Of course, many forms of everyday practice leave material signatures,
but one could argue they are one step less than constructing a monu-
ment. The ritual placing of coins and bones obviously leave material
signatures. Similarly, the everyday routines around a camp leave a signa-
ture of deposition providing the ethnoarchaeologist with proof of regu-
larities in everyday life (Anderson 2006a; Pastukhova 2006). Perhaps the
most important architectural signature today, as in the Soviet period, are
the prohibitions surrounding re-occupying a camp built by members of a
different family or clan. To this day, each of the four named camps along
the Poperechnaia River is actually a collage of a dozen or so individual
camp-sites established by known individuals over the last 20 years. Even
during high Sovietism, Orochens never re-occupied the spaces used by
other people or re-used the tent-frames or structures they left behind. In
each of these cases, the material or ghostly signatures were artefacts of
the practice of concrete people. They were not deliberately built to out-
last person or to serve as agents in their own right.
Aside from the scaffolding for the sacrificial reindeer, there are other
ritual structures which I would argue were designed to have a monu-
mental quality—and which are recognised and generally respected.
The most important of these are graves and other mortuary structures.
Orochens, and other Evenkis, traditionally used aerial burials—and in
Figure 3.10 lokovun mortuary structure for depositing the clothing and personal
goods of a deceased person.(Photograph by David G. Anderson.)
this region continued the practice well into the 1960s (Arbatskii 1982;
Vetrov 1999). Even after the vast majority of Orochens were interred in
graveyards, their personal possessions continued to be given aerial buri-
als. Clothing, personal dishes and basins, hunting equipment, personal
idols and even reindeer were ripped, broken, or slaughtered and sus-
pended from poles usually at the gravesite. If through some tragedy, the
person died and was buried away from his or her possessions, the objects
themselves could be suspended separately in a lokovun scaffold similar
to that which we constructed for the reindeer (Figure 3.10). All of these
places would be subject to avoidance and gifting rituals—even during the
Soviet era. If a mortuary site was accidentally encountered, the hunter
would leave an offering as a sign of respect (and would not harvest any-
thing at that site). Some valleys which were reputed to hold the remains
of powerful shamans, would be avoided entirely, even if their specific
mortuary structures were not visible. In these cases, the mortuary monu-
ments became synonymous with the geography. These built mortuary
sites, while clearly associated with a concrete historical person, should
be considered to be more than the signatures of embodied practice. They
were clearly built as monuments—and everyone respected them as such.6

Party instructors tolerated them as exceptions, presumably because even
Soviet planners could not plan away death. Perhaps they felt that this
type of mortuary structure would itself die off over time with older gen-
erations, and indeed they are not that common today.
Another interesting exception is the carving of wooden images on
mountain passes—idols—as a focus for accepting offerings. This is an
old and well-documented Evenki practice that is enjoying a strong re-
vival not only among forest Orochens, but among urban Russians as
well. Nikolai carved and placed an idol at the top of a pass between
the Poperechnaia and Kotamchal River valleys along the path that con-
nects his main base and storage area and the outlying reindeer camps
(Figure 3.11). Each time he passes the kunakan inuvun [child’s toy], he
leaves a lighted cigarette. This is consistent with his belief that luck (and
the spirits that hold it) is confined to specific watersheds. He sees this
idol as sitting at the main entrance to the places where he holds his rein-
deer. During our visit, he was anxious to feed it to try to forgo prob-
lems with a troublesome bear—an animal that managed to harvest two
Figure 3.11 Aruneev’s kunakan inuvun [child’s toy] at the mountain pass between
the Poperechnaia and Kotamchal rivers. The plastic sheet is to keep gifted cigarettes
dry. (Photograph by David G. Anderson.)
reindeer silently, at night, while we were asleep. The construction of

idols, while not very monumental, has until recently been treated with as
much suspicion as the construction of mortuary scaffolds for reindeer.
Given the varied ways that members of indigenous national-
ities, and Russians, indicate their respect for places, and entrances to
places today, it is surprising that Nikolai’s mortuary scaffold attracted
such suspicion. I suspect that the real reason for this reaction was the
context of the meeting between an indigenous Orochen and foreign
anthropologists which implied a deeper quality of authenticity than
might have been the case if we had all been Russians. Beyond this, I
also suspect that there still is a deeply rooted suspicion of vernacular
architecture with a monumental aspect—the quality of transcending
the person who built it. Finally, I suspect that making an idol out of
useful resource (a reindeer) cleaves close to deep Soviet productivist
taboos (in the Soviet period, it would have been illegal to eat a state
reindeer let alone sacrifice it). Ritual forms which are embodied, or
closely part of everyday practice (such as feeding the shaman along
a busy highway), do not attract such censure. Nevertheless, even this
element is changing under post-Socialist conditions. I would not at all
be surprised if in a few years, Nikolai Aruneev is successful in making
traditional built reciprocity rituals popular once again, as he cannily
observed in Canada and in Buriatiia, and as Lavrillier has documented
in Amur oblast’.
CONCLUSION
Our departure from the Poperechnaia River valley, and our farewell to
Nikolai Aruneev, was as memorable as our arrival. To compensate for
the lack of public transport in the region, we were hiking with a set
of portable canvass canoes (baidarki) which we now planned to un-
fold into the Nercha River and in that way paddle and float our way
back to the highway at Kyker (Figure 3.1). With an impressive escort
of 12 freight reindeer, Nikolai and his brother Iura escorted us to the
top of the mountain pass that marked the continental divide between
the Vitim and Nercha watersheds, and the divide between the Arctic
and Pacific Oceans. It was a blustery autumn day with a touch of rain
turning to snow. Just short of the top of the pass, we stopped to make a
fire and have a last cup of tea together. Nikolai gravely informed us that
he could not travel with us any farther since his Buriat shaman friends
had advised him to stay within the watershed of his home spirits. At
this spot, at the top of the world, we left his sanctuary to Orochen rein-
deer culture to continue our adventures back to the industrial centres
of Southern Siberia. It seemed a departure touchingly more appropri-

ate; Conan Coyle’s Lost World than a 21st century ethnoarchaeological
expedition.
Despite Nikolai’s penchant for drama, one of my goals in this
chapter was to describe a monumental ritual of reciprocity in an active
mood—as part of the colourful and chaotic way that rural hunters are
adapting to post-Socialist economic conditions. With the collapse of the
Soviet state, with its centralised networks of procurement and distribu-
tion, and its capricious social guarantees, people are searching for a new
way to dispel the uncertainty of the present with the impression that
they are building a secure future. Coveting ‘luck’ is one way to this end.
Unlike with entitlements to resources in a Socialist state, well being in the
post-Socialist ‘wild’ economy revolves around maximising one’s flexibil-
ity and ability to take advantage of opportunities. Profitable opportuni-
ties for a taiga hunter revolve around encounters with prey animals as
well as cultivating a safe and secure place for one’s domestic animals.
They also involve chance meetings with a variety of informal and quasi-
criminal traders involved in the distribution of furs and animal parts to
external markets. In unpredictable conditions such as these, one cannot
rely upon fax machines, bank accounts and lawyers to ritually structure
one’s life. Rituals of reciprocity, as with rituals of hospitality, are per-
haps the most permanent markers of relationships that one can expect.
In conditions like this, one should not be surprised to see the hearty re-
vival of older ritual forms.
Rather than treating them as peculiar, these rituals are best seen
as a healthy persistence of a type of intuition perhaps mistakenly for-
malised as a neo-shamanistic ‘return’ to the past. The inspiration for
these revitalised rituals may have initially come from templates taken
from stories, old ethnographies or from an old photograph. But they
are nevertheless ‘placed’ within existing social networks and a taiga
environment that itself is recovering from 70 years of Soviet indus-
trialism. The ideology of ‘placing’ was highlighted by Shirokogoroff
(1935, 150, 160, 191–92) as a uniquely tungus concept which gram-
matically and pragmatically blurs the line between spirit, place, respect
and action.
NOTES
1 The fieldwork for this article was organised jointly with the Vitim Archaeological
Expedition of the Irkutsk State Pedagogical University in Irkutsk under the
leadership of Dr. Viktor Vetrov. The members of our joint expedition were
Dr. Vetrov, Anastasiia Pastukhova, Dmytrii Shergin, and Petr Drievskii from
Irkutsk, and me and Donatas Brandisauskas from Aberdeen. Our travel was
sponsored by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada
through the Baikal Archaeology Project. I am grateful to colleagues for com-
ments on earlier versions of this paper presented at the Departmental Seminar at
the Institute of Social Anthropology at the University of Tromsø and to Virginie
Vaté, Jorun Jernsletten, Joseph Long and Peter Jordan who gave extensive com-
ments on an earlier draft of this chapter. The Research Council of Norway
provided a research leave stipend attached to the NFR project ‘Homes Hearths
and Households in the Circumpolar North’ which allowed me time to work on
this article. The NFR project was part of the BOREAS research initiative co-
ordinated, but not funded, by the European Science Foundation. I am especially
grateful for the hospitality of the Aruneev family in the Beiun tovarishchestvo
and hope that this article will serve as a monument to their dedication to a life
in the taiga.
2 Alexandra Lavrillier reports that Evenkis in Amur district of the Sakha republic
link their poor economic conditions to their failure to honour their spirits ‘nous
vivons mal parce que nous n’honorons plus les esprits de la nature’ (Vaté and
Lavrillier 2003, 103). (I am thankful to Virginie Vaté for pointing me to this
citation).
3 We were told that in 2004, the validity of the Aruneev’s lease to this area of
the taiga was being challenged by authorities in oblast’ capital of Chita as part
of general revisions and re-registration of the lands privatised during the first
period of economic re-structuring.
4 As in other Evenki places, sharp bones should not be fed to the fire.
5 This is specifically true of the places along cliffs where momeo ‘petrified sap’ is
harvested.
6 One of Nikolai Aruneev’s more controversial practices during our visit was to
directly visit a grave with gifts and cleansing rituals to directly ask for luck from
the deceased owner. Although this is a fascinating and rather humorous story, it
will have to be told in a different place.
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Parkin, 223–46. London: Routledge.
CHAPTER 4
LANDSCAPES IN MOTION: OPENING

PATHWAYS IN KAMCHATKAN HUNTING
AND HERDING RITUALS
Patrick Plattet 1
INTRODUCTION
Ethnographic sources frequently mention the ‘sacrificial places’ (Vdovin
1971) that indigenous Kamchatkans identify among the topographic fea-
tures of their natural environment. It is believed that these special places
are occupied by various kinds of spirits, with whom the community
renew their connections through annual rituals. With the Kamchatkan
landscape occupied by a range of communities engaged in diverse sub-
sistence practices, it is interesting to note how the form and content of
these annual rituals vary according to whether hunting or reindeer herd-
ing is the primary economic focus. Given these interesting patterns, my
aim in this chapter is to investigate the different symbolic logics that
underlie these contrasting hunter and herder engagements with ‘places
of significance’ (Degai 2009) in the indigenous cultural landscape of
Kamchatka.2
The first written descriptions of ritualised behaviour towards the
land are found in 18th century explorers’ accounts of Kamchatka. For
example, the German naturalist G. W. Steller, member of the second
Kamchatkan Expedition (1733–1743), recalled that Itel’men hunters
‘never pass by [salient places] without depositing a piece of fish, meat
or anything else’ and believe ‘they would die if they did not sacrifice in
passing’ (2003 [1774], 202). Important to note here is the significance
placed by indigenous Kamchatkans on mitigating the risks of movement
through the landscape; sacrifices to the land are a condition for moving
safely through it.
97
Co-member of the 1733–1743 Expedition, the Russian geographer

S. P. Krasheninnikov developed further insights: his intriguing observa-
tions of religious practices among Koriak reindeer herders led him to
draft an embryonic distinction between different forms of sacrifice to the
land which emphasised key distinctions in both what was being offered
and how it was being offered.
On my travels in the north, I myself saw several places where

passersby throw offerings [brosaiut zhertvu], as if they believed
that evil spirits inhabited these places; [...] When they have to
pass certain rivers or mountains they believe to be inhabited by
evil spirits, they think about offering sacrifices [daiut zhertvu].
Shortly before they come to such places, they kill a reindeer, eat
the meat, and put the head on a stake, turned toward the place
they imagine the spirits live (1949, II [11, 21], 408, 455, my
emphasis).
These intriguing distinctions were later ignored by the synthetic work

of Russian and Soviet ethnographers who classed most forms of offering
as zhertvoprinoshenie (‘offering of sacrifice’) irrespective of whether this
referred to more general ‘gifting’ or the ritualised slaughter of a living
being. In this chapter, I would like to return to the early reflections of
Krasheninnikov, expanding the distinctions between ‘gifting’ and ‘sac-
rifice’ as a point of analytical departure. Following the arguments of
Hubert and Mauss (1968 [1899]), I will also argue that a fundamental
distinction must be drawn between religious acts involving the ‘sacrifi-
cial’ slaughtering of a living victim, for example, a domesticated animal,
and those rituals concerned with the oblation of a non-victimised entity.
In the current study, I use the sacred landscape geography of Kamchatka
as a framework for examining how contemporary pastoralists have
come to regard sacrifice as the key ritual for ensuring the future welfare
of herders and their animals, while hunters draw on different symbolic
logics to achieve the return of the animals that will further provision
human society.
The chapter consists of two ethnographic case studies, each illustrat-
ing how contemporary ritual engagements with the Kamchatkan land-
scape differ according to the ideological framework in which they are
enacted. The first examines Ololo, a ritual conducted by Koriak hunters
in Lesnaia, located on the shores of the Okhotsk Sea (Figure 4.1). Ololo
employs acts of imitation to symbolically secure the return of large game
animals via the opening of ‘pathways’ in the landscape. The second case
study focuses on the reindeer sacrifices that form a central part of fu-
nerary and commemorative rituals conducted among Chukchi reindeer
Landscapes in Motion: Opening Pathways in Kamchatkan Hunting 99
0 200 km
Figure 4.1 Location map of Lesnaia and Achaivaiam in Northern Kamchatka. (Map
drawn by Alison Sandison.)
herders in Achaivaiam in Northeast Kamchatka (Figure 4.1). In this pas-

toral community, sacrifice and substitution serve as the key principles
of ritual action, whose concern is to establish ‘access routes’ for the de-
ceased to travel to the world of ancestors.
Despite the obvious differences between the form and content of
these rituals, I will go on to examine how they both form ways in which
Kamchatka’s salient ecology of ‘inhabited’ hills and symbolic pathways
is ‘set in motion’, thereby ensuring broader continuation in endless cycles
of life, death and regeneration.
THE OLOLO RITUAL

More than two and a half centuries after Krasheninnikov’s visit, the pre-
dominantly Koriak inhabitants of present day Lesnaia (474 persons out
of 503) have not lost their inclination to make offerings in passing des-
pite Christianisation. The ritual gestures they perform complement en-
during patterns of journeying out of the village and into hunting areas
(see Plattet 2005, 102–34). While numerous villagers are concerned with
tracking birds (duck, goose, ptarmigan) and to a lesser extent fur animals
(sable, fox, ermine, otter, wolverine), fewer have the ability, desire or
time to go hunting for larger game animals. However, while there are
relatively few full-time hunters, the ideological and cosmological asso-
ciations central to hunting remain meaningful to the wider community,
most of whom engage in its annual ritualisation through participation in
collective festivities.
In contemporary Lesnaia, this grand ritual undertaking occurs once
a year when local indigenous families gather together to ‘play Ololo’
(igrat’ Ololo). Organised in the Fall, the Ololo ritual is closely linked to
the procurement of spotted and bearded seals caught along the coast of
the Okhotsk Sea, as well as the hunting of grizzly bears and mountain
sheep in the mountainous interior.
The Ololo ritual has been described by Soviet and Russian ethnogra-
phers as a ‘rite of accompaniment’ (e.g., Urkachan 2002, 44) or a ‘rite of
thanking’ the big game (e.g., Gorbacheva 1985, 61). For example, at the
end of the seasonal hunt for maritime mammals, ‘Koriaks “accompan-
ied” the souls of the killed animals back to the sea [where] they would
find a new body, and would be able to join again the humans’ (Gurvich
and Kuzakov 1960, 107). Following a parallel approach, I have suggest-
ed that participants in Ololo—whatever their personal understanding
of the ritual—share the implicit conviction that their actions help ‘send
back’ each seal, bear or mountain sheep killed during the preceding year
(Plattet 2005).
The specific manner in which these ritual goals are accomplished
can be explored through a focus on ‘strategies of ritualization’ (Bell
1997, 81–82). In this analysis, it is clear that the topographic features
of Kamchatka provide an important conceptual setting to the ritual.
Having been killed and consumed by the human collective, large land
and sea mammals will only return again to hunters if a cycle of life, death
and departure has been completed. For this reason, the animals’ return
journey requires the crafting of ‘doubles’ to undertake the travel, as well
as the opening of symbolic pathways in the landscape to ensure their de-
parture back to the mountains and sea.
‘Fixing’ the Hunting Landscape: Crafting as Imitative

Procedure
A special feature of the Ololo celebrated in contemporary Lesnaia is that
the same underlying ritual framework is used for both terrestrial and
marine mammals. Successive waves of epidemics, acculturation and re-
settlement have not diminished the ideological significance of hunting—
in practical terms, this involves travelling the pathways that lead ‘down’
(vniz) from the village and towards the sea, as well as ‘up’ (naverkh) to-
wards the mountains. This upwards/downwards distinction is also very
much in evidence during the Ololo, when women prepare two variants
of a ritual meal (*tylqtl 3 ) which is prepared by pounding and mashing
various food substances, each of which is obtained from a different part
of the landscape. The first variant is ‘white’ and its ingredients are held
to be able to attract bears and sheep back towards their inland ‘home’,
whereas the second variant is ‘black’ and is supposed to attract seals
back towards the sea.4
The prominent hill of Kamakran, located near the village, forms
an important feature in the local landscape, and is thought by many to
possess intentionality and other ‘special powers’ (see King 2002, 71).
Encountered regularly by almost all the village community—and often
on a daily basis—the path that crosses it forms a primary route to the
up-river fishing, hunting or gathering sites that lay in the interior. Many
locals mark the passing of the summit by throwing a notched cigarette
down its rocky side, and from this lofty vantage point stunning vistas of
the contrasting mountains, plains and ocean that make up the local land-
and seascapes unfold all around.
In the past, Kamakran also received special attention prior to the
bear hunt (Oshima 1997, 11); today mourners who decide to share a
meal on the hill during ‘Orthodox’ commemorations marking a person’s
death also make sure they leave some tylqtl on the ground in hope of
securing good fortune for the living. Regularly fed with these kinds of
offerings, Kamakran is also able to provide substances that ‘feed’ into
the Ololo hunting ritual.
Most importantly, Kamakran provides alder wood for the ‘tree of
luck’ (*l’ikron ’mrai) which forms a central part of the Ololo celebra-
tions; the ritual tree is fashioned from two or three young alders cut at
dawn on the hill’s slopes. At the start of the feast, no one wants to miss
the opportunity to welcome ‘the tree’ and all help decorate its branches
with strips of dry grass. These components of the ritual connect the par-
ticipants together irrespective of whether they are active game hunters or
not, and reflect a general commitment to the main themes and intentions
of the ritual.
The lucky nature of the tree is further ensured by stripping off its
branches; these are used to create miniature images of seals, bears and
sheep. A hunter who has killed a seal will bend a branch into a cross
which signifies a seal. Images of bears or sheep are created by stripping
the bark off a branch and carving it into a short wooden stub, whose
form approximately resembles the intended animal.
According to the tradition, each hunter is obliged to create a spe-
cific token for each of the animals he has procured since the last Ololo.
For example, if a hunter has killed two seals, one bear and one moun-
tain sheep, he will have to craft a total of four animal ‘tokens’, as each
model is thought to provide a corporealised ‘double’ of each animal
killed throughout the year (Figure 4.2). The finished animal images are
then placed in different locations: the symbolic doubles of the bear and
sheep are hung on the lucky tree; the seal images are assembled close to
the stove and placed on a tray of melting snow.
Manipulation of the lucky tree during the Ololo ritual appears to
express a much deeper understanding of the specific roles of humans and
animals in the wider conceptual landscape. Particularly important are
the representations of the symbolic landscape pathways followed by the
killed game as they depart the world of humans. For terrestrial animals a
‘welcome and farewell’ pathway is prepared by stripping the bark from
a forked branch cut from the lucky tree. A further straight section of
branch, around 20–30 cm in length is cut away, stripped of bark and
suspended horizontally over the stove, marking the entrance and depart-
ure route of the seals.
Following the establishment of these ‘pathways’, the animal substi-
tutes are laid out in their corresponding domains of the cosmos: the seal
images are placed in the tray of melting snow which equates with the
islands and shoreline of the local sea, while the other animals are hung
from the lucky tree which ‘connects’ them to the terrestrial domain
Figure 4.2 The crafting of a wooden seal during the 2006 Ololo ritual in Lesnaia.
(Photograph by Patrick Plattet.)
(Figure 4.3). In this overlapping topography, the proximity of the seals’

route to the household fire—believed by the coastal Koriak to be a do-
mestic guardian associated with the marine world (Gorbacheva 1985,
62; Jochelson 1905–1908, 73)—expresses the desire that sea mammals
descend their pathways and reach the sea safely again. Conversely, the
placing of the bear and sheep carvings on the tree of luck recalls the
role of the hill Kamakran in helping the terrestrial mammals as they
‘climb back’ towards their homelands in the interior.
Setting the Hunting Landscape ‘in Motion’: Dancing as

Imitative Practice
The creativity inherent in the performance of Ololo generates an extra-
ordinary ritual context in which supernatural guardians (the Kamakran
hill, the household fire), emblematic animals (bears, seals, sheep) and
members of the human collective can interact and engage with one an-
other within a reconstructed and ritualised model of the cosmological
Figure 4.3 Detail of the ‘tree of luck’ and of the Y-shaped wooden ‘pathway’ with
the wooden bears and sheep attached to it (Lesnaia, October 2006). (Photograph by
Patrick Plattet.)
landscape. At the same time, this ritual setting needs to be brought to life
if the event is to achieve its main symbolic purpose: the animal substi-
tutes cannot be magically dispatched to the sea or mountains; they can
only be accompanied to the starting points of the pathways that lead in
these directions. Even with their new ‘bodies’, the animals still require
injections of physical strength and vitality to journey back to and resettle
in the original landscapes or seascapes from where they were removed
during acts of hunting.
To complete this cycle, the assembled hunters draw on their know-
ledge of the unique characteristics, movements and gestures that equip
bears, seals and sheep with their distinctive identities. This pool of em-
bodied knowledge is drawn upon during acts of dancing, shuffling,
moving, growling and shouting, all of which play out the unique person-
alities of the animals they have procured (Figure 4.4). All of this serves
to further open the pathways of regeneration and set the landscape in
cosmological motion. Simultaneous performance of the imitative acts of
carving and dancing generate a unique ritual atmosphere in which the
creation of new body forms runs in parallel with the acting out of ani-
mal movements and sounds, together providing the combination of vital
factors that enable each individual prey animal to become anchored in
their new body and ‘fed’ with the ‘strength of life’ (Vdovin 1977, 160).
Figure 4.4 Moving like a bear—man on the left—and diving like a seal—woman in
the centre—during Ololo (Lesnaia, October 2006). (Photograph by Patrick Plattet.)
Dressed in new bodies—and animated by unique forms of vitality

and movement—the prey animals are then expected to make their own
return journeys along the pathways opened by the ritual. However, the
human collective must first perform some final ritualised acts to trigger
this departure.
After the night of celebrations, the figurines of bears and mountain
sheep are carried out of the dwelling space together with the tree of
luck, and taken back in the direction of their origin: the lower slopes
of Kamakran hill which touches the edge of the village cemetery. Here
the male ‘ritualists’ (Humphrey and Onon 1996, 30) who presided over
the Ololo ‘feast of the animals’ (prazdnik zverei) detach the Y-shaped
wooden ‘pathway’ from the tree and lay it on the ground along with the
figurines. The departure route is then brushed with white tylqtl in order
to draw the animals back into the mountains. No acts of ‘slaughtering’
are involved in any way: the elders ensure that the wooden pathway is
pointed upwards and in an inland direction, towards the mountains.
Moreover, the figurines of bears and sheep are carefully placed and then
left in peace. Alone in this quiet setting, the re-constituted animals are
able to embark on their final journey back into the interior. Their final
departure is marked by a further and final offering of ‘white’ mashed
food: this gift is addressed both to the bears’ and sheep’ doubles, as well
as to the sacred hill which will aid them in their journey.
Gestures ensuring the final departure of the maritime mammals are
more ambiguous. Their doubles are not taken to Kamakran mountain
after the night of celebrations, but are cast into the domestic fire where
they are consumed entirely by the flames. The female elders in charge of
this ritualised departure pronounce an incantation which expresses how
the seals’ doubles represent a gift to the fire: ‘This is for you, fire, seals
full of tylqtl so that our hunters come back with luck [that is, game]’.
While this might resemble an act of sacrifice to the flames, it is important
to note that they are not treated as victims. Instead, the throwing of the
seal substitutes into the fire represents them being re-launched as ‘revital-
ised’ marine mammals back along the symbolic pathways that lead to the
world of water, and to which the domestic fire is believed to give unique
access. In this view, the closing act of casting them into the fire can be
understood as the final stage in a ritual process of de-victimisation.
REINDEER HERDERS’ FUNERARY RITUALS

Although they sometimes carry out auxiliary hunting, the indigenous
residents of Achaivaiam (597 inhabitants) do not highlight their past
history as caribou hunters. Rather, local Chukchi and Even families
(respectively 373 and 89 persons) emphasise their current identity as

reindeer herders, despite the fact that they only converted to large-scale
pastoralism in the second half of the 18th century (see Krupnik 1993,
164; Znamenski 1999, 17–19). In 2007, approximately 6,000 reindeer
were kept in four herds created since the collectivisation of the local pas-
toral economy in the 1930s–40s.5
Despite the important economic distinctions between the pastoralist
communities in Achaivaiam, and the hunting communities in Lesnaia
discussed earlier, it is important to note that the landscapes experienced
on a daily basis by olenevods (‘reindeer herders’) are not fundamentally
different from those crossed by okhotniks (‘hunters’) around Lesnaia.
Both herders and hunters travel along remote pathways, and encounter
similar successions of vistas, topographic features and ecological niches
experienced in various configurations. However, the ritualised ways in
which herders try to control the risks inherent in these landscapes are
fundamentally different from those practised by hunters.
For reindeer herders, sacrifice forms the main strategy for ‘setting
the landscape in motion’: only appeasement of local spirits makes safe
passage possible. For example, if herders intend to cross a river at a
potentially hazardous stretch, they will not hesitate to ‘kill [a] reindeer
for [the] river’ (*voiamqozianmatyk). Similarly, herders never forget
to sacrifice one of their domestic animals for the ocean when reaching
the shores of the Bering Sea during their summer migrations. Sacrifices
are also conducted for the Moon when competing in reindeer sled races
during winter (see Plattet 2002a), and to the ‘East’ (*jonatgyiŋyn, the
direction of life) before the birth of the fawns in spring (see Plattet
2005–06).
Significantly, even the numerous people in Achaivaiam who are not
directly nomadising with the herds also take steps to fulfil similar sets of
sacrificial obligations to the land. For example, when travelling out to
herding camps for short periods of time in order to assist the full-time
herders with demanding seasonal work (such as the corralling activities
in spring, or the slaughtering expeditions in winter), these ‘ordinary’ per-
sons return to the village with an essential set of reindeer products that
are used for special rituals. These items include the fourth stomach, fat
and dorsal tendons, and are believed to serve as substitutes for the living
flesh and bones of real animals. After being cooked together and dried,
they serve as the symbolic ‘doubles’ of domestic reindeer, and can be
consumed in acts of sacrifice (Bogoras 1975, 369–70; Ingold 1986, 255;
Plattet 2002b, 2005, 283–91). In this way, herders and villagers share
a common commitment to keeping symbolic pathways open, enabling
them to inhabit the same conceptual landscape in which community wel-
fare can only be guaranteed by repeated acts of animal sacrifice.
At certain times in the seasonal round, the herders’ brigades also

make special detours into the village for religious purposes. One of
the main stops is made in the late Fall in order to participate in rituals
commemorating the dead (*tantegiŋin). At this time, the herders lead
only the ‘private herd’ (chastnyi tabun) towards Achaivaiam so that
mourning families can sacrifice their own reindeer for their deceased
relatives. These gestures help express and fulfil special relationships
and obligations towards the ancestors, resulting in a ‘ritual reframing’
(Houseman 2006, 415) of the more general and routinised pastoral
landscape.
Around the Pyre: ‘Fixing’ the Herding Landscape

As in Lesnaia, relationships between the mixed indigenous commu-
nity of Achaivaiam and the sacred landscape have a particularly central
focus on a ‘sentient hill’ which stands up on the edge of the village.
In Achaivaiam, this topographic feature is named Shamanka (the
‘Shamaness’) and is thought to act as a nodal point in a wide network
of connections that extend into the world of the living, and also into the
worlds of the dead. For these reasons, this hilly setting is the location
for the funerary cremations and associated reindeer sacrifices that are
practised by the non-Christianised indigenous population of the settle-
ment. The hill is also termed ‘grand-father’ (*appapo) in the vernacular
Chukotko-Kamchatkan dialect, further hinting at the close associa-
tions between the hill and a ‘cult of ancestors’ (Bauerman 1934, 74–75;
Vdovin 1971, 275–79). For example, it is believed that the human dead
and the reindeer sacrificed to mark their passing are ritually dispatched
‘to the other side’ (na tu storonu) from this spot.
In Achaivaiam, the funerary structures used in these inter-connected
cremation and sacrifice rituals consist of two basic elements: a funeral
pyre and an altar. The pyre is built on or around Shamanka hill after
three days of funerary rituals and is used to cremate the corpse of the
deceased. In contrast, the altar, made of willow branches and reindeer
bones, is erected in the Fall, during the time when Chukchi herders gather
together to commemorate relatives who have died during the preceding
year (*tantegiŋin). These distinct collective ceremonies—the individual
cremation and the communal commemoration—nevertheless constitute
closely-linked moments in a single ritual complex. This complex of prac-
tices is defined partly by the ritual treatment of a salient topographic
feature (the ‘ancestral’ hill), as well as by the marking of the key Fall
threshold in the annual cycle (the transition from summer, warmth and
light towards winter, cold and darkness).
Closer analysis of the creation of the commemorative altar provides

particularly rich insights into the symbolic logic of herders’ funerary
rites, as well as their more general engagements with the land. The total
number of animals that a family chooses to sacrifice—for example one,
three, five or (more rarely) seven—has little bearing on the conduct of
the ritual or its core symbolic logic. Prior to the sacrifice of the reindeer,
initial offerings (of non meat-based substances—tobacco, sugar, bread,
tea, etc.) are arranged in a small pit dug into the ground. The sacrifices
then start; each reindeer is killed swiftly by inserting a knife or spear
through the left side of the body and directly into the heart. The officiat-
ing women then start skinning and disarticulating the carcass, and then
boil up the various body parts.
This efficient culinary operation makes it possible to feed the mourn-
ers with fresh meat at the same time as extracting certain anatomical
elements which are used to construct the altar: the first cervical bone
(*gitgym), the femur of the rear left leg (*gytkatmylŋyn) and the two
lower jawbones (*vannaimalqyl). Together with the antlers (*jynno),
these bones are intertwined with willow wood and assembled into an
altar which reflects the image of a ‘de-fleshed’ yet fully ‘articulated’ rein-
deer (Figure 4.5). The altars built for these kinds of commemorations
‘Direction of life’, ‘East’,

Sunrise
Figure 4.5 View from above of the sacrificial altar built in Achaivaiam in funeral
context, with the femur of the rear left leg (1) the antlers; (2) the lower jawbones;
(3) and the first cervical bone (placed under the basis of the antlers) displayed around
willow branches; (4) laid out on the ground (drawing made by Cody Strathe, University
of Alaska Fairbanks). (Drawn by Cody J. Strathe.)
never contain flesh or blood from the sacrificed animals, and are quite
unlike altars built in other ritual contexts (see Plattet 2002b, 2005,
282–94). As a result, the ‘model’ of the reindeer built for these Fall com-
memorative rites serves as a substitute—via metonymic transfer—for a
de-fleshed reindeer.
Funerary rites also include the optional sacrifice of two sled rein-
deer (*mgokhoi) during the actual cremation event. These sacrifices are
carried out at Shamanka hill, and next to the pyre. In contrast to the
sacrifices carried out during the Fall commemorations which are con-
sidered successful when the reindeer being put to death die quickly and
silently, these pyre-side sacrifices involve the animals being slowly put to
death—the animals are first stabbed in the right side, and a few minutes
later the blade is inserted directly into the heart from the left side, finally
killing them. However, in the agonising period between the first and
second stabbings, the animals which lie bellowing in their own blood,
are whipped and have their reins pulled. This causes the reindeers’ legs
to twitch, reassuring the participants leading the sacrifice that the ani-
mals are being ‘trotted’ and will start to travel ‘to the other side’. These
additional aspects of the sacrifice deliberately emphasise that the sled
reindeer are playing long and drawn out roles as victims in the ritualised
acts of killing. The effect is even more pronounced because these draught
animals are the most domesticated reindeer in the herd, and have the
closest bonds with their human masters.
After the animals have been killed by a final stab to the heart, the flesh
is never actually consumed by humans; first the officiants cut the fur along
the length of the animals’ spinal column, pull it away from the body, and
then lay it on either side of the animal, exposing the naked flesh of the
carcass underneath. The dead animals are then left at the site. Exposed
to ravens and other scavengers, the carcasses are rapidly stripped of flesh
and the bones eventually scattered.
This latter form of sacrifice is striking in its apparent over-victimisation
of the sled-reindeer. The main motivation for these gestures appears to
stem from the desire to deliberately remove the mgokhoi as far as possible
from their potential status as animal prey by subjecting them to abnor-
mally unpleasant treatment. In this way, their agony stems directly from
the deliberate choice of pastoralists to prolong the suffering of their do-
mestic reindeer whenever this is thought to be appropriate. This appears
to exercise the herders’ ultimate sanction over their domestic animals; they
are able to decide on the timing and nature of their animals’ ultimate fate,
confirming ultimate human mastery over their herds.
The logic expressed in this ritual differs from non-funerary sacrifices,
where expression of the power inherent in the act of killing a reindeer
is somewhat muted, and also stands in stark contrast to that of hunters’
ritual practices which refer back to more equalised engagements with

their wild animal prey. Perceived as sentient beings, these wild game
animals are pursued by human persons in a lengthy and often uncer-
tain encounter, whose ultimate outcome remains unclear until the very
final act of killing or escape. After an animal has been ‘taken’, hunters
make every effort to minimise the pain or suffering of their prey. And
during the Ololo rituals described above, the human participants go to
great lengths to be abnormally pleasant to the killed seals, bears and
sheep, thereby removing them as far as possible from their potential sta-
tus as ‘victims’. Viewed in these terms, the ideological framework used
by Kamchatkan reindeer herders in their ritual activities could not be
more different from that of hunters living near the Okhotsk Sea, despite
the fact that they interact with very similar kinds of sentient topographic
features.
Employing Sacrifice to Set the Herding Landscape ‘in Motion’

How does sacrifice open symbolic pathways and set the herders’
landscape in motion? The funerary altar—like all sacrificial altars in
Achaivaiam—is always oriented eastwards, towards the ‘direction of
life’. In Achaivaiam, the East also corresponds to the residential domain
of human ancestors, to whom the sacrificed reindeer are supposed to
journey (see also Gurvich and Iailetkan 1971, 47). From this direction, it
is thought that the ancestors ‘are watching us’ (na nas smotriat’) and that
they are able to play a regulatory role in the lives of the living. In con-
trast, the deceased play little discernable role in the hunters’ landscapes
at Lesnaia. For the pastoralists of Achaivaiam, the central importance of
this auspicious easterly direction is also expressed by the orientation of
the cut end of the branches, the front of the antlers and the positioning
of the jawbones (Figure 4.5).
The reindeer sacrifices carried out on and around the Shamanka
hill express notions of mobility through use of symbolic substitu-
tion. Closely related to sacrificial phenomena (Evans-Pritchard 1956,
128; Lévi-Strauss 1962, 268), the deployment of substitutive logic at
Achaivaiam rituals is also combined with imitative dances. In general,
northern pastoralists ‘use reindeer as [the main] idea’ (Vitebsky 2005,
232) in the dances conducted at their annual rituals. However, in the
context of funerary rites on and around Shamanka hill, it is the raven
that is singled out for imitation.
Equipped with armbands and belts that protect them from the
threat of predatory spirits, two women pull themselves up onto the pyre
and perform small jumps with joined feet, croaking to evoke both the
behaviours and sounds of the raven (Figure 4.6). As the funeral pyre is lit
and the first smoke begins to rise, they simulate a fight during which they
tear the protective belts and armbands from one another with a small
hooked branch (which represents a beak), and then cut into the abdo-
men and stomach of the deceased with a knife. This ritual performance
is held at each funeral.6
The performance of the ravens on the pyre also serves to embed
the Shamanka hill into a much broader cosmological setting: in wear-
ing belts and armbands, the dancers seek to protect themselves from
the much-feared kala spirits thought to live in the darker world of the
West—these beings hunt for human flesh with bows and arrows. In con-
trast, and as noted earlier, the East is associated with sunrise and the
upper world of ancestors. As a result, the extraordinary encounter on
the pyre involving two women-ravens, a dead person, an old Shamaness
(the hill) and a swarm of predatory spirits occurs at exactly the point at
which routes ascending upwards intersect with those descending down-
wards to the lower world.
In contrast to the logic of the Ololo hunters’ rituals which stress
that animals must be fed, ‘re-clothed’ in new bodies and animated
before they can make their departure through the pathways running
across the symbolic landscape, the gestures performed on the pyre
Figure 4.6 Imitating the ravens on the funerary pyre (Achaivaiam, March 2007).
(Photograph by Patrick Plattet.)
suggest that the ‘nourishing link between flesh and bone’ (Hamayon
1990, 565–66) must be cut in the funeral ceremonies of pastoralists.
Moreover, the ritual practices observed in Achaivaiam suggest that
humans and animals will travel more quickly to the home of ancestors
if they are both starved and stripped of their flesh which is symbolically
removed by the ‘ravens’ as well as by the flames of the all-consuming
pyre. As a result, it appears that the sacrificial principles of cutting,
dismantling, separating, destroying and substituting are primarily
mobilised by pastoralists in order to initiate the final funerary journey
towards the ‘other side’.
Other preparations are made to ensure that deceased herders are
fit to travel to ‘the other side’. For example, successive inversions are
carried out by mourners on the funerary garments to be worn by the de-
ceased on the pyre (see Plattet 2002b, 169; 2005, 369; and see Habeck,
this volume)—the left glove is placed on the right hand (and vice versa);
a piece of leather is placed over the deceased’s face, thereby closing the
front of the hood, and turning it into the ‘back’.
During the funeral event, the human participants also take steps to
protect themselves from the kala spirits journeying upwards along path-
ways leading from the West by erecting a miniature system of fences and
gates that mirror the corrals regularly used in herding practices. The kala
spirits are also placated by gifts of food—these offerings consist of the
fat and blood of domestic reindeer which are formed into zioziat (‘saus-
age’), and used as substitutions for the sacrifice of real flesh-and-blood
animals. Nevertheless, in serving as the symbolic ‘double’ of a domes-
ticated reindeer, these sacrificed ‘animals’ are manipulated according to
the same ritual logic deployed in the pyre-side reindeer sacrifice—the
sausage is deliberately ‘opened’ along its length, maximising its ‘suffer-
ing’ and emphasising its role as a victim subject to sacrifice at the hands
of a human master (Figure 4.7).7
CONCLUSION: PATHWAYS IN THE LANDSCAPE AND

PRINCIPLES OF RITUAL ACTION
Hunter and herders inhabiting the varied Kamchatkan landscape of
mountains, plains, tundras, forests and coastlines appear united in their
belief that certain topographic features of the landscape require ritual ac-
knowledgement. In general, these sentient features correspond to higher
ground, for example Kamakran which is closely integrated in the col-
lective Fall hunting ritual of Ololo, or Shamanka which is the focus for
pastoralists’ funerary rituals. The main collective desire in both forms
of ritual is to ‘set the landscape in motion’, facilitating the departure of
Figure 4.7 Detail of a sacrificial ‘sausage’ after its victimisation (Achaivaiam, March
2007). (Photograph by Patrick Plattet.)
hunted animals and human deceased along symbolic pathways that can
only be opened by specific offerings, gestures and practices.
As explored in greater detail earlier, the indigenous Kamchatkans
are able to mobilise a wide range of ritual logics to achieve these general
outcomes, though the inherent diversity in particular rituals is poorly
captured by more categorical notions of ‘sacrifice’ (zhertvoprinoshenie).
Instead, I have argued that the logic of sacrifice is deployed within a
broader suite of symbolic gestures which include substitution and imi-
tation. Various combinations of these different logics can be integrated
and practised in different ways. Appreciation of a broader repertoire of
ritual logics enables us to explore the constitution of the Kamchatkan
sacred landscape geography in more localised detail—it is clear that dif-
ferent symbolic logics underwrite contrasting hunting and herding ritu-
als, despite the fact that they are practised in a broadly similar range of
landscape settings.
For example, in Ololo hunting festivals, the wooden images of seals,
bears and sheep are not sacrificed. Rather, they serve as substitutes for
the flesh-and-blood living bodies of large game animals, while their ritual
efficacy as models is derived also through the imitative procedures (carv-
ing the images, dancing like the animals) that are central to the ritual.
In contrast, the ritual efficacy of the reindeer ‘doubles’ erected by pas-
toralists at sacrificial altars derives mainly from the primary importance
of sacrificial procedures which extend to include acts of dismantling,

transferring and substitution to amplify the desired symbolic outcomes.
As we have seen throughout this chapter, these different combina-
tions of ritual logic can be played out by different communities living
in the same region, opening different pathways and setting the same
underlying landscape into different kinds of symbolic ‘motion’. As
Krasheninnikov had already suggested during 18th century expeditions
to the region, contemporary Kamchatkan hunters appear concerned to
symbolically de-victimise the large game animals they have taken in order
to reduce the unpredictability of future hunting. Present day herders, in
contrast, still seek to over-victimise some of their sacrificial reindeer in
the hope of placating the ancestors and improving the predictability of
pastoralism. As examined in this chapter, these contrasting religious ori-
entations are deployed strategically and enable the challenges inherent
in contemporary hunting or herding to be met through the practice of
contrasting ‘ritualscapes’ (Singh 1999).
NOTES
1 I want to express my gratitude to Roberte Hamayon and David Koester who
helped in developing this chapter from my Ph.D. dissertation (Plattet 2005).
I also want to thank Rane Willerslev for the discussion we had in the sum-
mer of 2007 which helped me realise how my doctoral research on notions
of ‘sacrifice’, ‘victim’, and ‘substitute’ may contribute to the study of cultural
landscapes. The timing of this publication has unfortunately prevented me from
pursuing this discussion on the basis of Willerslev’s own recent work on related
topics.
2 Subsistence economies in Kamchatka usually combine activities such as salmon
fishing, herding, hunting and gathering. Now, the different combinations are
always hierarchised according to local preferences: hunting societies never had
more than small reindeer herds and are not carrying out an extensive pastor-
alism; inversely, members of herding societies only practise an auxiliary hunt
when circumstances allow it. In my text, I use the term ‘hunters’ to refer to those
village communities where everyone feels concerned about hunting and the dis-
tribution of hunting products. Similarly, I use ‘herders’ to characterise contem-
porary village societies whose residents are all concerned to various degrees with
reindeer herding and with the circulation of pastoral products.
3 In my text, the indigenous terms preceded by the sign * (e.g., *l’ikron ’mrai) are
drawn from Chukotko-Kamchatkan terminologies (and not from Russian).
4 White tylqtl is made of wild tubers, crowberry, mountain sheep fat and meat or
salmon flesh (if sheep meat is not available). Black tylqtl is made of wild tubers,
crowberry, pulp of fireweed, seal fat and dry salmon eggs.
5 This number makes the livestock of Achaivaiam one of the largest in the
Kamchatka territory.
6 For a full description of the chain of operations completed during funerary rites
in Achaivaiam, see Beyries and Karlin, In press.
7 By contrast, ‘reindeer-sausages’ are dismantled in non-funerary context and the
pieces cut are arranged on a miniature altar which reflects the ordinary way to
sacrifice (see Plattet 2002b).
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CHAPTER 5
MATERIAL AND LINGUISTIC PERSPECTIVES

ON SEL’KUP SACRED PLACES
Alexandra A. Maloney
THE SEL’KUPS AND THEIR TRADITIONAL WORLD-VIEW

The Sel’kups are indigenous peoples of Siberia who speak one of
Samoyedic languages which is part of the Uralic language family. The
total number of Sel’kups in the Russian Federation was 3,564 according
to the census of 1989. They form two groups based on their geograph-
ical location and their language differences (Figure 5.1). The Northern/
Tundra or Tas-Turukhan group, numbering 1,833 people, occupies a
few dispersed districts in the Iamalo-Nenets autonomous area, Tumen’
region, and the Turukhansk district of the Krasnoiarsk territory. The
Southern/Taiga or the Narym group totalling 1,347 people, resides in
Tomsk region. The Tas-Turukhan Sel’kups were originally part of the
Narym Sel’kup group, but migrated in the 17th century from the River
Vakh, in Tomsk region, to the River Tas and to the Elogui, Turukhan,
and Kureika tributaries of the lower Yenisei River’s. The Narym
Sel’kups live on the banks of the Middle Ob’ and its tributaries between
the Chulym and the Tym. These southerly groups occupy areas of taiga
while the Tas-Turukhan Sel’kups live partly in the taiga and partly in the
tundra (Kazakevitch 1996, 310).
The Tas-Turukhan Sel’kups call themselves söl’qup or šöl’qup:
‘taiga man’, a name which has been spreading since the 1930s. Among
the Narym Sel’kups, there are other self-determined names: shöshqum
(Middle Ob’ group by Kolpashevo), süs(s)üqum (Ket) ‘taiga man’,
chumyl’ qup (Tym, Vassugan, Parabel group), and t’ujqum (Tshulym)
‘earth man’. This classification, which is based on self-determined names,
117
0 400 km
Figure 5.1 Map of indigenous minorities of Russia (Kazakevich 2002). (Map drawn
by Alison Sandison.)
appears to correlate closely to linguistic classification of Sel’kup dialects

(Dulson 1971).
All Sel’kup groups live in areas with a sharply continental climate,
with long winters lasting for six to seven months in the Tomsk region
and seven to eight months in the Tas-Turukhan region with about one
metre of snow and the temperature sometimes reaching 40–50°C below
zero. The humid summers often start with floods caused by melting
snow and are also characterised by swarms of biting insects in both the
taiga and tundra.
Hunting and fishing were the basic occupations of the Sel’kups and
remain important even to this day. The Tas-Turukhan Sel’kups also
adopted some very basic reindeer herding practices and there are still
Sel’kup families living with reindeers along the Tas tributaries. These
families migrate year round, moving their chums (conical tents) from
place to place in the taiga in the winter, during which time they com-
bine reindeer herding with hunting, and staying at the river bank in the
summer, when smudge fires are lit in special huts to help the reindeer
survive the difficult mosquito season. In the late autumn, families typic-
ally moved into the taiga ready for the squirrel hunting season. By late
December, they moved back to big villages where they could sell fur and
buy hunting supplies and other provisions. In February, they returned to
the forest to hunt sable. By spring, families moved to rivers for fishing. In
Material and Linguistic Perspectives on Sel’kup Sacred Places 119
winter, the reindeer could find richer pasture in the remote areas of taiga,
whilst in summer there was more food and fewer mosquitoes along the
windier and more open river banks. The Sel’kups at the Tas and its tribu-
taries still use traditional chums (conical lodges) while engaging in sum-
mer fishing at the capes of rivers.
In more southerly regions, the Sel’kups did not keep reindeer but
raised cows and horses and took up vegetable gardening from Russian
settlers. The Sel’kups use dogs for hunting and dugout canoes for fishing.
Women of both Sel’kup groups gather berries and certain kinds of herbs
for tea and medicinal purposes.
Like other Native Siberians, the Sel’kups were shamanists with a
broad range of shamans. The main role of the shaman was communi-
cation between the humans and the spirits in order to cure illness and
to tell fortunes. The shamanic activities were just one dimension of the
particular understanding that Sel’kups had of the relationship between
human beings and what could broadly be termed the ‘natural’ world. It
was taken for granted that outstanding skills in hunting, trapping, cur-
ing, singing—in fact, any activity—reflected at least some supernatural
power or influence. An important concept and value in Sel’kup trad-
itional thought was the establishment and maintenance of good relations
with the natural world. The key to these adjustments was communica-
tion which was established by means of shamans’ mediation. Failure
to observe the appropriate social and ritual practices could have dire
consequences for success in hunting and other activities.
A central concept of Sel’kup world-view is the three-tier universe
of the upper (sky) world, the middle (earth) world and the under world
(underground). The space of human persons and animals is the middle
world; the upper world (sky) is the space of the sacred deities; and the
under world is the space of the dead.
The three-tier world is also conceptually transposed onto a hori-
zontal plane where the under world equates with the cold north and the
upper world with the south. The souls of the dead travel down the river
to the under world and burials in dug-out canoes have been typical for
the groups of Western Siberia at least as far back as AD 700. Disease
and illness come from lower world and spread either upstream or up-
wards from the earth. Holy sites, where the local guardian spirit lives,
are always upstream from the settlement, while graveyards are located
downstream.
All three tiers of the Sel’kup universe are inhabited by different groups
of spirits (male and female, good or bad and anthropo- or zoomorphic):
local spirits; social or household spirits; clan spirits; and universal spirits.
For all Sel’kups—at least until the early 1970s—space was not homoge-
neous; some places were qualitatively different from others.
Concepts of sacred and profane, as introduced by Eliade (1987),

are useful points of departure in the development of more contextual
understanding of Sel’kup world-view, and in particular, the importance
of human communication with the sentient forces that inhabited the
landscape. Eliade argued that:
For profane experience, space is homogeneous and neutral; no

break qualitatively differentiates the various parts of its mass…
within the sacred precincts the profane world is transcended. On
the most archaic levels of culture this possibility of transcend-
ence is expressed by various images of an opening; here, in the
sacred enclosure, communication with the gods is made pos-
sible; hence there must be a door to the world above, by which
the gods can descend to earth and man can symbolically ascend
to heaven (Eliade 1987, 22–37).
The Sel’kups were certainly aware that contact between the differ-
ent planes of the universe was both possible, and repeatable, and in the
following sections, these different axes of communication are explored
in more detail.
COMMUNICATION WITH THE UNDER WORLD

The under world was associated with underground, water surfaces and
holes or deepening in the landscape. For the Tas-Turukhan Sel’kups, this
landscape was considered under control of the people of the Nutcracker
moiety, since this moiety represented the earth, underground animals
and certain birds. Kyzy was the chief evil spirit of the under world
(Prokofieva 1952, 90).
One of Sel’kup common ‘Mothers’—Ylynty Kota ‘the underworld
Granny’ (from Sel’kup yl ‘bottom’) taught the girls to master sewing.
A Sel’kup girl when she came to young adulthood went to a hole in the
Earth where fire came from, and offered some food for Ylynty Kota.
She appeared from the hole to examine the girl in her domestic skills.
If the girl passed the test, the Granny presented her with a sewing bag
(Prokofieva 1977).
Journeying from the real world to the under world and vice versa
could be performed in different ways. The river is one of the main means
of transportation to the under world, and the main way to the realm of
Kyzy was the River Kåssyl’ ky. According to the Sel’kup myths, Kåssyl’
ky had seven reaches with guards on each of these sections of river, who
did not let anybody either leave or enter the land of death. Kyysy himself
lived in the town (qveččy) of the dead (Lattaryl’ Ketty) behind the sea of
the dead. Kyysy and his servants used the river if they wanted to deliver
stolen human souls to the under world, but shamans also used the river
if they wanted to rescue and return these stolen souls in order to cure
people (Prokofieva 1961, 54–60).
The Narym Sel’kups call the chief spirit of the under world Loo or
Tšugyl Loosy ‘earth spirit’. Loo also acted like Kyysy, harming people
and stealing their souls. The servants of Kyysy or Loo represent spirits
of ground, underground and watery landscapes. Living nature was per-
sonified in the form of special local spirits whose number was limit-
less in the same way that nature has no limits. Local spirits represented
all spheres of nature: the under world, the middle world and the upper
world. All their names have two components, one of them is a key word
specifying the sphere of influence, and the second one is loosy~loos~looz
‘spirit’. For example, the names of the under world spirits are as follows:
(Tas) karräl loozy ‘mountain foot spirit’; ütqyl’ loozy ‘water spirit’; tet-
tyt puutyi loosi ‘underground spirit’; (Tym) üidyjgol looz ‘water spirit’
(he lives close to water in a tent made from a fish skin; he helps fisher-
men if they respect him, speak to him, and offer him fish from the first
catch); kwelel looz ‘fish spirit’; elγal loo ‘lower spirit’ (he usually lives
in water); (Voldzha) üdykol loγ ‘water spirit’ (he lives under the water,
and requires offerings of money); (Ket) ölγəl loos ‘lower spirit’, ödəγol
loos ‘water spirit’; k’oldəl loos ‘river Ob spirit’; takkəl loos ‘down stream
spirit’; uarga-tšuotšel loos ‘great-earth spirit’; korγəl loos ‘bear spirit’
(the bear was considered as an animal of the under world) (Kim 1997,
122–23).
The source of the river was closer to the world of death. Sooj (the
source), lit ‘the throat’, aak—the mouth/source of the river is the place
of the transition between the middle and the under world. There are
beliefs that the person who gets lost in sacred sogra (water-meadow)
can find a way out by crossing the source. In order to stay in the real
world, the person should offer money, tobacco to the water spirits or
just pure water from one side of the boat to the other. There are stories
told that crossing the source the person can suddenly enter the under
world (Kuznetsova et al. 2004, 102).
Marshland and mud were also connected to the under world. At
sogur (water-meadow), a marshy place near the village of Ivankino on
the Middle Ob’, there was a sacred place where wooden idols in birch-
bark boxes were kept. The hillocks there were identified as witches’
heads (Kuznetsova et al. 2004, 265).
According to vertical conceptions of the world, a further route to
death was provided by a deep hole in the ground. Until recent times,
some Sel’kups believed that there are spots in the taiga with ‘openings’
to the ‘other world’. Sel’kup hunters could lose their way in the forest
and enter the world of spirits through these openings. This could be
very dangerous, for as the Sel’kups of Parabel District point out, it is
much easier to enter the world of spirits than to lave it. The passageway
back to the real world could suddenly disappear, and the person could
then only return after undergoing metamorphoses, or by making special
offerings to the spirits.
In the Sel’kup world-view, the tree also served as a link, with the
birch or larch often serving as a symbolic connector between the three
worlds (Kuznetsova et al. 2004, 91). For example, the inhabitants of the
under world could enter the middle world through hollows, or roots.
Black alder (wild cherry) was considered as a tree of the dark or under
world. In one Sel’kup tale, the hero used a rope made of black alder bark
in order to reach the under world (Kuznetsova et al. 2004, 90–96).
To the present time, the Sel’kups believe that there were transition
points between the world of human and the world of dead. Memories
of sacred places in Sel’kup territories remain alive and vital. Usually a
cedar, pine or birch was chosen to be the sacred tree in these locations.
One example is at Ust’ Ozernoe where a tall cedar was chosen as a sac-
red tree. The Sel’kups hung fabric on this tree as offering to Chvochen
Kedy ‘the spirit of the earth’ (Tuchkova 1997).
The cemetery, lattar eety or lattaryl’ mekty, lit. ‘village of the
dead’ or ‘dead’s hill’, is another kind of special place. It is a ‘bad place’
according to the Sel’kups, and a visit to the cemetery without a special
purpose can open the way to death. Reflecting wider conceptions about
the ordering of the world, the cemetery was always situated down-
stream, closer to the north and thereby to the realm of ancestors. The
body was placed in the grave with feet towards the North, down the
stream. No one dared to camp in the area of the cemetery, hunt or pick
berries.
Another dimension to this perception of burial grounds can be
reconstructed and is probably linked to complex understandings of the
soul and its survival and even reincarnation after death—the deceased
were viewed not as dangerous, but as an active member of the wider
social group which included both living and dead. As a result, the de-
ceased was kept in the house on his or her sleeping place for a few days
before the funeral. Family members spoke to their deceased relative and
fed him or her; the Sel’kup believed that the deceased relative protected
their habitual landscape from strangers, preventing the intruders from
hunting or gathering. Even the name for the cemetery (lattaryl eed) and
the grave (lattaryl maat) resembled the words for village (eed) and the
house (maat) with addition of the adjective from lattar ‘deceased’. These
generate the sense that the grave and cemetery were understood as being
places in the landscape where the dead lived on, exerting a powerful
presence among their surviving kin.
If a Sel’kup died on the land of a different Sel’kup community—
or another ethnic group—then the relatives offered money to the local
spirits in order to buy some grave land for the deceased. This meant that
a Sel’kup should, wherever possible, be buried in his or her own land.
The northern Sel’kups preserved more of those features than the south-
ern ones and their cemeteries were often small family cemeteries not far
away from the camp. There was also a tradition of transporting the de-
ceased in cedar dugouts down-river to the cemetery. If the person died
in winter, he or she was left in the forest on a tree until the river opened
from ice (Kulemzin 1994, 356–59, 415–17). Innäl’ pool’ kor ‘upper cof-
fin’ is the term for the wooden hut built over the grave. In the front wall
of this hut, there is an opening for the symbolic communication with the
dead. The relatives put gifts for the dead at this opening. During the in-
ternment, the relatives prepare a feast over a fire which is lit at the grave
side. During this event, a portion of the food is cast into the fire for the
deceased. There is also a feast at home after the funeral. There is a fur-
ther commemoration for the dead 1.5 months after the funeral with a
feast also held at the grave (Kulemzin 1994, 356–59). Thereafter, most
groups did not hold further commemorations although relatives would
place gifts (food, tobacco or papirosy (Russ.)—cigarettes without filter,
or coins) for the dead at the graveside if they were passing the cemetery.
Tym Sel’kups are reported to have held further funeral commemora-
tions a year after the death—relatives visited the grave, cooked food
and offered it to the dead. Usually they made tea and ate fish, bread and
other food. They also talked to the dead for the last time (Uraiev 1994,
84). The feet on the human body can also be associated with the under
world. In one tale, a woman put her toenail cuttings into her husband’s
meals to make him sick and weak.
Qəqqy—a hole in the ice—can also serve as a link to the under
world. In the legend of the shaman Kaŋyrsa, the hero hears through
the ice-hole the conversation of the giants of the under world. Finally,
sacred places associated with spirits of the upper world can also result
in death. According to Sel’kup folklore, one of two brothers who spent
the night in a sacred ambarchik turned into a corpse (Kuznetsova et al.
2004, 99–185).
COMMUNICATION WITH THE UPPER WORLD

The upper world of Tas-Turukhan Sel’kup horizontal tradition is situated
in the South near the head of ‘World River’. At the foot of the common
tribal tree, Nut k’enal’ po ‘celestial leaf-tree’ which is a birch-tree, Ilynty

Kota ‘Grandmother of life’ (from Sel’kup il—‘to live’), the demiurge of
the Sel’kups, lives in an iron house. The ‘grandmother of life’ controls
all the life of the Sel’kups. She protects the birth of Sel’kup babies, gives
cradles to babies, gives to the shaman his major paraphernalia—the
drum, and also gives coffins to the dead.
In the vertical world-view, there are several levels of the sky—three,
seven or even nine. The sky is considered as being hard like the ground.
Num (lit. ‘sky’) is the celestial mail deity in both of the Sel’kup groups.
Folklore of the Tas Sel’kups mentions Num as originally an ordinary
mortal person, an old man named Limanchira or Limancha (ira ‘grand-
father’) who went to the sky with his wife when the evil spirit Kyysy
threatened him. Once the old man left the earth for the sky, he became
a deity. This information allows us to speculate that the meaning of the
name ‘God grandfather’ places it in the period of transition in Sel’kup
culture when the cult of the common Mother demiurge, Ilynta Kota
‘Living Grandmother’ was declining in importance and being supplant-
ed by male sky God. The appearance of this new God reflected social
changes: the father’s clan began to replace the mother’s clan as the most
important one (Prokofieva 1961, 55).
It seems that Num is rather neutral and has little impact on the
everyday life of the Sel’kups. Even in Sel’kup myths and folklore, there
is not much information about him. The Tas Sel’kups however prac-
tised worship to the sky and called it nun sunči, literally ‘sky’s or God’s
insight’. The purpose of this cult was to influence all natural phenom-
ena such as thunder, lightening and other kinds of weather. Both sha-
mans and ordinary people applied for the Num’s intervention in hope
of getting the better weather. In an Narym-Sel’kup tale, the Sel’kup hero
Ide went on the advice of his granny to Num to ask for warm weather
(Bikonia et al. 1996, 32).
According to Tym Sel’kup view, Num also gives souls to humans
through his servants. The Narym Sel’kups thanked Num for successful
hunting or fishing. They put the best parts of their game on a point of the
land in the River Poopargesoq and burned them as an offering for Num
(Plotnikov 1901, 153). The sky hole was a channel for God to send his
gifts to the people. The first sky has a hole through which everything fell
to the earth: birds, animals and insects. The Sel’kups told ‘Nop ütympat’
—‘the God gives’ (Kuznetsova et al. 2004, 213). Num also controls the
weather. According to Sel’kup mythology, Num and his son Yj stay in
the first level of the upper world.
There are a few names of Sel’kup spirits of the upper world which
include a lexical component of belonging to the upper world: (Tym)
mergo looz ‘spirit of wind’ (this spirit influences the weather, and people
made him offerings for sunny days); εne loo ‘upper spirit’; nuul loos ‘sky
spirit’ (Kim 1997, 122).
The way to the upper world is possible on Num’s invitation. The
God’s servants (Nuvyn quula) assist one of Sel’kup folklore hero to get
him to the upper world. Kybai Id’a (younger son), the hero of the other
tale at the River Ket entered the space of the upper world on his steed.
The folklore hero Iitt’e used cherkan (a triggered bow set up in the for-
est for hunting) as transportation to the sky (Ivankino at the middle
Ob’). The group of Sel’kup hunters with Iitt’e entered the sky chasing
the moose. One man in a tale lifted his arms to the sky and flew upwards
(Kuznetsova et al. 2004, 76–77).
In the Sel’kup landscape, every mountain or hill is a step to the upper
world: Seeld’u qeet paari ‘the peak with seven mountains’—connects the
middle world with the upper world. This peak is higher than the clouds,
and the heroes’ horse can reach heaven jumping up from this peak.
The Sel’kup Soq understood as ‘promontory, elevation, hill, island’
often is considered as a place of spirits of ancestors. Poopaarge soq ‘the
land of the wooden idol’ was a sacred site at Ivankino, a Sel’kup village
at the Middle Ob’. There were kept wooden images of people, and offer-
ings (money, skin, fabric). It was also a place of tribal rituals. Sometimes
a shaman made a wooden image of a sick person to remove the disease
from a patient and insert it into a wooden doll. Such dolls should be kept
in sacred places because they could be again a source of infection.
An ear of a supernatural creature represents also a channel between
the worlds. In the Sel’kup mythology, one can see the unreal world
through the ear of the Granny (the mother of God’s son).
The shaman tetypy could travel using assistance of different spirit-
helpers: animals, birds, fish or even a frying pan (saqly) instead of the trad-
itional drum. Teetypyl’ wetty—shaman’s road—is a common phrase to
describe the route between the worlds (Kuznetsova et al. 2004, 111–280).
SACRED LOCATIONS IN THE MIDDLE WORLD OF PEOPLE,

ANIMALS AND FOREST
The Sel’kup pantheon of supernatural creatures includes spirits of the
middle world, whose names usually contained a key word associated
with life on earth (Tas) mačil loozy ‘forest spirit’; (Tym) matjegul loo-
za ‘forest spirit’ (the spirit of animals and birds who assisted hunters);
surul’ loos ‘animal spirit’; säγ šil loos ‘black sable spirit’.
Every Sel’kup clan and often a single family had sacred places to
communicate with supernatural beings. On the sacred place at iurty (vil-
lage) Luk’ianovy, there was also a storehouse for shamans’ masks and
paraphernalia. It was a rule to keep the paraphernalia of a deceased

shaman in the forest if the shaman did not have an heir (Tuchkova 1997,
206).
The habitual place of the Sel’kups expanded far beyond their vil-
lage. It included all places of their hunting, fishing and gathering, cem-
eteries and all the sacred places in the woods and at the rivers or lakes.
The central part of Sel’kup’s landscape was water. All Sel’kup villages
or camps were situated at the river banks or at the lakes. The choice of
place of inhabitance included two main variants: flood plain, at its upper
border, e.g., between the flood meadow (n’ur) and flood forest (šö:t); or
at the edge of the river terrace not flooded in spring (soq) (Kuznetsova
et al. 2004, 25). The stationary Sel’kup settlements were established
at the mouth of a tributary and the main river, often opposite of the
mouth. This fact is reflected in the Sel’kup place names, e.g., Kikkiakki,
Kolguiak, Tebinak, Kananak, Vadzhilkinak, and several others with
akki/ak ‘mouth of the river’. Even the Sel’kup camps were and still are
situated at the mouth of the river or a creek. For example, the Sel’kup
camp Se:ry Mač at the mouth of Mačijany Kikka and Vatolky (drawing
of Sel’kup Kargachev in 1999 in KrasnoSel’kup district, Tiumen’ region).
Usually the sacred places were situated to the southeast or east of the
villages, at the upper river, opposite of cemeteries which were situated to
the northwest or north down the river (Tuchkova 1999, 19). There were
descriptions of a few Sel’kup sacred places at the Tym River. Lymbelskii
ambarchik was situated in the pine forest at the left side of the Tym,
about 1.5 km from its mouth. Yiskii ambarchik was situated in a similar
place also 1.5 km from the mouth of Yi, the tributary of the Tym. The
Sel’kups of the villages Kananak and Kandzhi visited these places and
maintained communication with the spirits and ancestors. The Sel’kups
of the Tym refer to one location as Shaman’s Island which was located
7 km to the south of the village Varganandzhino. The Sel’kups often
found knives, beads, iron ornaments and other artefacts at this sacred
place until it was destroyed in the 1970s (Uraiev 1994, 81–82). In the
early 1950s, Tomsk ethnographer Rafail Uraiev took a picture in the
taiga not far from the village Potegovo (Parabel district, Tomsk region)
of Sel’kup Gennadii Dmitrievich Soispaev, who stands at a sacred site
and holds a basket with shaman’s lo:sy (Figure 5.2).
The Sel’kup tradition knows several kinds of sacred locations. The
places of tribal sacrifices were called kåssyl’ tзtty ‘sacrificial land’. Such
places were situated out of sight in the taiga. The Sel’kups built huts
on high piles (Russ. ambarchiks) on such places (Prokofieva 1977, 68).
They call them lozyl sessan (Tas-Turukhan) or poory (Narym). The
Sel’kups kept in those huts different attributes: wooden images of the
tribal ancestors, shamanistic paraphernalia and gifts to the local spirits.
Figure 5.2 Sel’kup wooden shamanistic images. (Photograph reproduced by per-

mission of Svetlana Innokentievna Osipova, widow of the Tomsk ethnographer Rafail
Amirovitch Uraiev.)
The word goes back to a Prasamoedic stem *kåsəj ‘gift, sacrifice’ since
it was found in all Samoyedic languages (Janhunen 1977, 61), and can
show that this is an old Samoyedic tradition.
Bloodless sacrifice, kåssy was widely spread among the Tas and
Narym Sel’kups. The word kåssy was found in different anthropological
descriptions, dictionaries, glossaries and texts. The material representa-
tion of the sacrifice kåssy could be of various things: skins of valuable ani-
mals, cloth, head kerchiefs, money, adornments, etc. More often, cloths
of a certain colour were given as the sacrifice kåssy. In one of the Sel’kup
shamanistic drawings, there were two light ribbons as the sacrifice kåssy
to the spirits of the upper world. There is a phrase on the Tym: kozyn
meteku ‘to make sacrifice’ for this action (Uraiev 1994). The Sel’kups had
special sacrificial trees kåssyl’ po and they hung on them such sacrifices.
Kåssyl po usually represented a real tree (a larch, birch or cedar), grow-
ing in the forest near the sacrificial hut. These trees symbolised the trees
of the upper world. According to the anthropological data, every Sel’kup
shaman had in the front of his chum his own kåssyl po, on which he hung
sacrifices and travelled symbolically to the upper world. The colour of the
cloth had to agree with certain kinds of trees; e.g., white for the birch;
red and yellow for the larch and black for cedar. These were the colour
symbols of different worlds, with white, red/yellow and black equating
to Upper (white), Middle (red and yellow) and Under world (black). The
shaman’s own sacrificial tree symbolises his life, for the destruction or
damage of it could cause his illness or even death. Any sacrificial tree
served as a link between the worlds and symbolised one of the seven com-
mon sacrificial trees of the upper world. According to the myths of Tas
Sel’kups, seven sacrificial trees (sel’chi kåssyl’ po) linked the sky with the
earth. Three of them belonged to limpyl’ pelat ‘the Eagle clan’ (lit. Eagle’s
half), three other trees belonged to kåssyl pelat ‘the Nutcracker clan’ (lit.
Nutcracker half). The seventh tree, the birch, was a common tree of all
Sel’kups. The corresponding tribes of the Sel’kups brought their sacrifices
to those trees, but all Sel’kups of any tribe could make their sacrifices to
the common tree (Prokofieva 1961).
Among the Narym Sel’kups, after the introduction of Christianity,
old traditions were modernised—sacrificial gifts in the sacred huts in the
taiga could include not only traditional Sel’kup things such as fabric,
head kerchiefs, skins of animals, tinned pendants, but also Russian icons
(Shatilov 1927).
Narym Sel’kup poory, store huts on piles in the sacred places were
considered as the transition points between the worlds. The Sel’kups
of the Tym kept wooden images of tribal spirits in these huts. In the
early 1950s, A. Dulson made field notes concerning such huts among
the Tym Sel’kups. He wrote that in Tebinyak, not far from the house of
Sel’kup Irabirov, stood loyol poory 15 years ago. There were two piles
with a beam for hanging gifts. There was a big birch tree at that hut.
The hut was on high piles so that a person standing under it could only
reach the floor with an outstretched hand. Later the people moved this
hut to another place (TSPU Archives). In the other place at the Tym, at
Kompas there was loyol poory in the pine forest at the hill. There were
loozy, wooden images of spirits, kept (Uraiev 1994). Characteristically,
they had iron heads on. In the other place of inhabitance of southern
Sel’kups, iurty Vol’dzha, Daria Chinina remembered porelika (poory +
diminutive suffix) where the souls of the dead lived, and poory—the hut
where dead bodies were placed before the funeral (TSPU Archives).
Those store huts represented rather an ancient phenomenon in
Samoyedic culture because in Miller’s material of the 18th century was
given the Motor (extinct Saian Samoedic tribe) thäre which was linked
with the Prasamoedic *pärä ‘wooden construction on four piles for stor-
ing goods’ (Helimski 1987, 83). With the assimilation of traditional
beliefs, the specialisation of the sacred huts changed: they turned to
store houses in the forest or in the villages. Even the word poory de-
veloped new meanings: (Tiukhterevo) por ‘a wardrobe or a cupboard’,
(Ivankino) por ‘a shelf’.
The word poory also means sacrifice before fishing and hunting to
cajole spirits. For poory, some fish from the first catch or fish-soup, other
food, or material things could be taken. Every Sel’kup hunter and fish-
erman started his season with poory. Before hunting and fishing, the
Sel’kups called great intertribal gatherings which included a potlatch on
a sacred place, where the ambarchik with wooden images symbolising
spirits were kept. The spirits were fed first with the flavour of the food,
and gifts were presented. The people ate after. The poory-sacrifice was
given to the local spirits—hosts of forests, water ways, and certain places
(Kim 1999, 186). This was a food sacrifice, not a blood sacrifice. The
blood sacrifice was pyly—a soul gift to a spirit master. The term was
received from the Tas Sel’kups, but there was not much information
about it.
The most esteemed holy Sel’kup tribal place in the Tas area was and
still is Loozyl’ to ‘spirits’ lake’. There is an island in this lake, and a little
lake on the island that is the main sacred place. The Sel’kups guarded
this place and visited it to fulfil their obligations. However, only men
were allowed to this place. There were numerous kåssyl po with offer-
ings and also piles of other gifts like animal skins, money, metal things,
etc., around this lake (Prokofieva 1977).
At the mouth of the Shirta, the tributary of the Tas, and at the vil-
lage Makovskoe (Turukhan), there were sacred places loosi makka
(Sel’kup makka ‘mound/hill’) (Prokofieva 1977). According to Golovnev
(1995, 500), another sacred place was situated on the Tas in the mouth
of Malaya Shirta (Little Shirta)—Porge (loozyl’) mač ‘shaman hill.’ The
Sel’kups avoided these places as dangerous and unpredictable.
Sacred places could be found not only in nature, but also inside the
Sel’kup dwelling. The most important place is sytqy which was situated
opposite the entrance behind the hearth. The back part of the house
or chum (at the place of sytqy) was also conceived to be sacred. It was
strictly forbidden to walk through this place inside or near it outside. A
deceased person was usually placed on this spot inside if he or she was
kindred. In the shaman’s dwelling the shamanistic paraphernalia were
kept (Prokofieva 1949, 354). Later, with assimilation of the Sel’kup cul-
ture, wooden idols were kept in the attic or even under the bed.
Visits to the sacred places coincided with points of change in the
cycles of seasonal activity, such as departure for hunting or fishing and
included the general practice of making a fire, a cleansing ceremony
involving smoke, and the preparation of food for the spirits. After the
spirits consumed the food’s flavour, the humans ate it and left the gifts.
The traditional offerings included fur, fabrics, hand kerchiefs, beads,
clothing and money. Food offerings included fish or meat, tea, vodka
and modern items such as pastry and candy.
The Tym Sel’kups also practised a bear festival similar to that of
their neigbours, the Khanty. After killing a bear, it was treated in as
respectful a way as their clan ancestor. The Sel’kups also treated bear
skulls in a very special way: they placed bear skulls on the attics of their
houses or on the roof of ambars.
CONCLUSION
My aim in this chapter has been to explore how the Sel’kup tradition-
ally understood their place in the world, with a special focus on the role
of different kinds of sacred places and cosmological ‘crossing points’ in
broader cultural landscape settings. As stated at the beginning of the
chapter, it is possible to identify some general concepts of profane and sac-
red running through different aspects of the Sel’kup world-view, though
the borders between the two are not sharply defined. Rather, the relative
differences between sacred and profane tend to be emphasised through
specific actions and practices that are found in both routine and ritualised
forms of activity that take place in different parts of the landscape.
As a result, the constitution of Sel’kup cultural landscapes is charac-
terised by several recurrent and interlocking features. First, rivers serve
as the major source of life, but also as a route to death. All groups of
Sel’kups consider fishing as one of the major subsistence occupations,
and so important fishing places were core parts of their everyday life,
and yet also formed part of the sacred geography since Sel’kup fishermen
made offerings to the water spirits at the same locations. Rivers formed
the main arteries of daily travel and social contact, yet also provided
conceptual routeways to the world of ancestors and lower world spirits.
Second, trees provided both practical resources for making shelters, fish-
ing and hunting equipment, including skis and boats. On the other hand,
trees—like rivers—could also form a link to the sacred realms of the
under world or upper world. Third, topographic features mirrored the
more general conceptions of a multi-level universe, with areas of higher
ground associated with upper world, and lower places understood as
pathways to the under world.
Using these fundamental distinctions, members of the Sel’kup com-
munity were able to actively maintain relationships of interaction, reci-
procity and respect with the world of spirits, enhancing their chances
of health, welfare and hunting success. Maintaining these relationships
within a complex and sentient ecology involved making different kinds
of material offerings to the spirits and deities in the appropriate loca-
tions. Often this involved the deliberate gifting of money, fur, fabrics
of specific colours, food, tea, vodka and other material items at scared
places marked by the construction of ambarchiks and the carving of
wooden images of spirits and ancestors.
In summary, we can understand Sel’kup relationships with the land

from complimentary perspectives. First, in terms of families and small
communities moving around the landscape and engaging in different
forms of practical activity which included fishing, hunting, gathering
and small-scale reindeer herding. Second, we can open out local per-
ceptions of these practices, especially the concern for appropriate com-
munication with spirits and for making offerings, both of which were
fundamental dimensions to seasonal journeys and procurement activity.
The seamless fusion of these different perspectives illuminates how the
Sel’kups inhabited culturally-constructed landscapes through an array
of day-to-day routines and practices which include the marking out of
certain particularly meaningful locations for special veneration through
material offerings.
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Part 2
Landscape, Dwelling
and Practice
CHAPTER 6
DWELLING IN THE LANDSCAPE AMONG

THE REINDEER HERDING CHUKCHIS
OF CHUKOTKA
Virginie Vaté1
The Chukchis are one of the indigenous peoples of the circumpolar zone.
Numbering today 15,800 (12,600 in Chukotka, 1,500 in Kamchatka and
600 in Iakutiia), Chukchis dwell in the Arctic reaches of Northeastern
Siberia, a region of open tundra bounded to the east and north by coast-
line (Figure 6.1). For about three centuries (Vdovin 1965, 4, 14), the
Chukchis, taking advantage of this environmental diversity, have been
split into two distinct socio-economic groups, each exploiting different
zones. This complementary ‘Dual Model Subsistence’ (Krupnik 1998),
comprising inland reindeer herders (Savsu2) and coastal sea-mammal
hunters (Aŋqal’yt), enabled the Chukchis to specialise in different ac-
tivities while maintaining access to maritime and terrestrial products
through regional exchange networks. In the Soviet period, there also
emerged a third group which was diverse in composition: the urban
Chukchis. This division has consequences for the way each group relates
to its environment.
This chapter focuses exclusively on reindeer herding Chukchis
(Savsu also hunt and fish, but both of these activities provide only sup-
plemental food). It aims to explore how Chukchi reindeer herders per-
ceive and actively appropriate the tundra landscape through acts of
‘dwelling’ (Ingold 2000). I try to show that mobility, relation to the
landscape, kinship, the perpetuation of reindeer herding and rituals
must be approached through practices and representations linked to the
Chukchi nomadic housing (called iaraŋy or iaranga) and its hearth. I will
examine how the iaranga forms a microcosm symbolically connected
135
0 400 km
Figure 6.1 Location map. (Map drawn by Alison Sandison.)
with the herd and the land. Through representations connected to its
hearth, the iaranga constitutes a moving landmark defining the relation
to the landscape and a kind of ‘sacred’ space where various prohibi-
tions and prescriptions are permanently at stake. I then go on to stress
the importance of women: by dwelling, taking care of the housing and
performing most of the rituals, women have an indirect but important
responsibility with regard to the herd and the wider landscape (see also
Vaté 2003).
SOME NOTIONS ABOUT THE CHUKOTKAN LANDSCAPE

Chukotka is a territory of 737,700 km2—i.e., one and half times the size
of France—situated between 60° and 70° north latitude which means
that the greatest part of the region is above the Arctic circle. Located
in the Arctic and Subarctic zones in an area of permafrost, Chukotka
is subject to many different climatic fronts making atmospheric condi-
tions highly unstable. The annual average temperature is below zero
for all regions of Chukotka. Strong winds are present all through the
year, often reaching up to 100 km/hr during winter storms. Winter lasts
from seven to nine months, depending on the area. Chukotka has 27
rivers and numerous streams flowing through it. The rivers run into two
oceans (Arctic Ocean, Pacific Ocean) and three seas (Bering Sea, Western
Dwelling in the Landscape Among the Reindeer Herding Chukchis 137
Siberian Sea, Chukchi Sea). Due to climatic conditions, there are only a
few species of flora and fauna. Approximately three dozen mammal spe-
cies live in this landscape (such as reindeer, fox, arctic fox, brown bear,
polar bear, wolf, etc.). Chukotka’s earthen surface is mostly covered by
tundra, composed of moss, lichen and willow trees, and includes areas
of forest-tundra which lie mostly in the south.
MOVING ABOUT IN THE LANDSCAPE

In this landscape, Chukchis reindeer herders have developed several
kinds of mobility: movements with the herd and to the herd; movements
with the nomadic housing and to the nomadic housing; movements in
the tundra for everyday life activities (collecting water, wood, etc.);
movements to the village where most Chukchis have a small house or flat
to visit their family and relatives, or to enjoy village life (Television and
disco, for instance), or more generally, to get products such as wheat,
petrol, tea, sugar, cigarettes, etc.; and lastly, movements from the vil-
lage to the city (the main city of the region and/or Anadyr, the capital),
undertaken for diverse reasons but often for products and services, such
as health care. In this chapter, I will address only the issue of movements
‘in the tundra’.
Nomadisation3 in the tundra does not follow established routes, but
varies depending on general environmental conditions, such as the qual-
ity of pastures and weather, and familial events, such as the obligatory
visit to the funeral site of a deceased family member a year after he/she
died. As a rule, herders usually go north in the summer and, when pos-
sible, somewhere in the vicinity of the seashore, whereas in the winter
they go south. Groups, defined by several authors as ‘ethno-territorial’
(Nuvano 2006; Vdovin 1965, 157), used to move in an area of ap-
proximately 500–700 km (Nuvano 2006, 130). The resulting flexibil-
ity in the choice of routes was thus an important feature of nomadic
life prior to the collectivisation of reindeer herding under the Soviets
(Nuvano 2006, 125), a feature which remains today but to a lesser ex-
tent. Collectivisation indeed aimed to organise the movements of herd-
ers and to restrict the surface they covered: the idea was to transform
them into ‘sedentarised’ herders by preventing them from going further
than 100–150 km from the village (Nuvano 2006, 130). In addition,
routes were established, maps of which are to be found in almost every
‘sovkhoz’ office, though these maps seldom reflect real practice (see also
Vitebsky 2005, 54–55). Nowadays, each brigade (a Soviet term desig-
nating a group of workers) moves predominantly in one area within the
territory of its sovkhoz (today, most often referred to as the kontora);
but the brigadir (the leader of the brigade, R) can decide, with the sup-
port of the elders, where his brigade will go and which route it will take.4
Herders usually settle in a new place; they might settle in the vicinity of
an encampment previously used by themselves or others, but they avoid
staying in exactly the same place.
Depending on the season and the brigade, reindeer herders change
encampments using several means of transport: all-terrain vehicles
(vezdekhod), snowmobiles and reindeer sledges (Figure 6.2). Sometimes
they also walk alongside reindeer-drawn sledges. According to the elders
I interviewed, the caravan of sledges is in principle carefully organised
during movements (for more details see Vaté 2003, 189–91). However,
from what I could observe today, the organisation of sledges is not al-
ways perfectly rigorous.
In Chukotka, there are no sacred sites as there are in Khanty-Mansi
or Nenets’ territory (see, notably, Jordan 2003, 135–81, and other
chapters in this volume). However, there are places which have special
stories associated with them. I was told, for example, that there are
caves to which it is now forbidden to go because people had died there
in wars or gotten lost. There is no special way of marking the land, for
instance with oboo in Mongolia and Southern Siberia (see Hamayon
1990) or inuksuit among the Inuit (Hallendy 2000). It is mostly marked
by what is left from previous encampment (for instance, by the fireplace
Figure 6.2 Changing settlement (April 1999, Kanchalan tundra). (Photograph by

Virginie Vaté.)
and in summer the stones that surround the tent and the fireplace) and
by funeral sites (for instance, by the stones around the corpse of the
deceased, broken gifts and piles of small wooden branches mixed with
antlers from reindeer slaughtered during rituals). In winter, sledges—
used to store things necessary during the summer (taken together, called
magny)—are usually left at the previous summer’s encampment or at
some other convenient place. They are well sealed so that no animals
can touch them. Today, barrels have also become landscape markers of
a special kind.
A YEAR OF MOVEMENT
Herding Chukchis’ mobility in the landscape reflects not only the basic
needs of the reindeer, but also the necessity, through the movements
themselves, to assert a symbolic change in time. For the Chukchis, gen-
der is a variable that alters the performance and experience of mobility.
While men are always on the move with the herd in the tundra, women
mainly stay close to the iaranga, the nomadic housing. Depending on the
herd’s required degree of mobility, this can result in the men and women
remaining apart for rather long periods.
I shall now give a description of the yearly cycle of movements based
mostly on my experience in the tundra of Amguema (district of Iul’tin).
At the same time, however, it should be kept in mind that the organisa-
tion of this yearly cycle may slightly differ in other regions.
Around the end of September or the beginning of October, the first
snowfall signals the time for the ‘first nomadisation’ (pervaia pereko-
chëvka, vulyk). From then on, the site of the encampment is frequently
changed. The tundra’s inhabitants move onward regularly to take the
greatest possible advantage of the little light available until the end of
November—a period of movement called gytgatylan.
During the winter, both men and women live together in the iaranga.
Throughout December and January, when there are only very brief peri-
ods of daylight, the encampment site does not change (this period of time
is called quulet). It is thus necessary to find a place that is surrounded by
good pastures for the reindeer. During this time, the herdsmen do not
stay with the herd constantly, but visit it frequently throughout the day
and night.
From February onwards, as the days become longer, the tent is again
moved regularly, depending on the quality of the pastures, up until calv-
ing time (called niuvletlen, meaning movement in the direction of the
birthing place when the days become longer). The end of March and
beginning of April mark the time when everyone starts preparing for
the birth of the reindeer calves. The herdsmen seek out a place for fe-
male reindeer and future calves that is shielded from violent winds,
for example, in hilly areas. The reindeer are divided into two separate
herds: a female one called rêkvyt, and another one, made up of the males
and the year-old reindeer which is known as pêêsvak, a term which
refers more specifically to the year-old reindeer. This separation, called
Pêêsvakënratgyrgyn and accompanied by a ritual, is meant to prevent
the bucks from trampling the newborn calves and to stop the one-year-
old reindeer from taking the mother’s milk from the calves. From this
moment on, the herdsmen have to take care of two herds. The men who
look after the pêêsvak return to the iaranga to spend the night, whereas
the others, usually the younger herdsmen, pitch a small camping tent
(made of cloth) close to the pastures of the female herd so that they can
keep constant watch over it. The herdsmen attending to the female herd
return to the main encampment only to get provisions and bring back
the stillborn calves. The iaranga remain at the same encampment until
the end of this birthing period.
When all the females have calved, a ritual called Kilvêi is held (see
Vaté 2005). Then begins a rapid movement towards the summer en-
campment, a movement known as têgrityl’yn. The herd of female rein-
deer follows separately at a less intense pace. During this period, the
snow conditions force an inversion in the rhythm of life. With rising tem-
peratures, the softer snow makes progressing on sledges difficult. So the
day is reserved for sleeping. At night, the crisper snow allows the sledges
to slide more easily, and the Chukchis use the light of the polar penum-
bra which gradually yields to permanent light, to continue on their way.
Around the end of May, shortly before the snow has fully melted, the
herders finally arrive at their summer settlement.
The moment when the first green vegetation appears in the tundra is
crucial: the reindeer must gain as much weight as possible if they are to
make it through the next long, harsh winter. During this period, greater
mobility is required in order to maximise access to fodder. The rein-
deer need to be provided with fresh pasture and water everyday. That
is why, at this time, the men leave their iaranga and their families for
three successive transhumant movements: qytqytqaal’atyk, also called
malen’kaia letovka in Russian (small summer pastures), lasts approxi-
mately from mid-June to mid-July; qoral’atyk, or bol’shaia letovka in
Russian (big summer pastures), from mid-July until the end of August;
and gargarqaal’atyk, or osenniaia letovka in Russian (autumn pastures),
from the beginning of September until the first snowfall. When men re-
turn from the two first transhumances, two important rituals are per-
formed: the first one by mid-July (Ulvev); the second one at the end of
August (Ŋênrir’’un).
During these transhumant movements, men camp in a cloth tent

which they pitch in a different place almost everyday. During the Soviet
period, all-terrain vehicles began to be used for such movements, whereas
previously the men would walk and carry all they needed (food, tent,
pots, clothes, etc.,) on their backs. In the meantime, the women remain
at camp with the children and elders. For them, it is also a period of
intense activity, for this is the time when they have to make provisions
from freshly-grown plants, tan reindeer skins, make new clothes for their
family members and renew parts of the tent.
Throughout the entire summer, the settlement remains in one place.
The iaranga, however, will twice be moved a few metres forward: once
when the reindeer grow their new summer fur (this is the sign to perform
the ritual Ulvêv); and once again after the ritual Ŋênrir’’un, when the
rutting season starts. Although the iaranga does not follow the move-
ment of the reindeer from the end of spring until the beginning of winter,
it takes part in the changing rhythm of the reindeer through its ritualised
mobility over a few metres.
These complex patterns of gendered mobility and herding activ-
ity in different parts of the landscape as the seasons change might
give the impression that only men interact with the herd and with the
landscape. However, as I shall now show in some detail, at the very
core of Chukchi social and symbolic appropriation of the land and
maintenance of the welfare of the herd, women have an important
responsibility. This responsibility which is at the crossroad of mul-
tiple symbolic meanings, finds expression in rituals and in women’s
care for the iaranga. I shall now expound on the way in which each
iaranga which is the responsibility of the mistress of the house, may
be seen as a discrete social, herding and symbolic unit that connects
reindeer and humans and plays a role in the ‘domestication’ of the
landscape.
THE DOMESTIC SPACE, THE IARÊN

Without strictly delimiting boundaries, reindeer herders divide space
into two main areas (see also Vaté 2006, 2007a). The first space, called
iarên, includes an area of a few kilometres around the tent, compris-
ing the encampment, its immediate surroundings, and the pastures of
the reindeer (except during periods of transhumance). The second space
(divided into two) is the area surrounding the iarên. It is called nutênut,
the ‘land’, ‘the territory’, also translated as the ‘tundra’. Closer to the
sea, this space is named êmnuŋ, the tundra, or anqasormyn, the shore
or the seaside.
The term iarên seems to come from the same root as iaraŋy. In the
Chukchi language, the term iaraŋy means ‘house, dwelling’. Lygêran
refers more specifically to the Chukchi skin-covered nomadic housing;
a precise translation would be ‘the house par excellence’, built with
-ran /-raŋ, from iaraŋy, and lyg-. Lyg- is a prefix that gives a special
meaning, sometimes translated as ‘par excellence’, but also regarded by
some people as meaning ‘something that is really Chukchi’. This prefix
is found in the self-designation of the Chukchis, Lyg’’oravêtl’at, and also
in several categories of things. In order to make it easier for the reader,
I have chosen to use the more familiar Russianised forms (e.g., iaranga)
in the text.
The ethnographic materials I have collected have led me to con-
clude that the iarên corresponds to the space under the influence of the
hearth. I shall thus argue that the hearth also plays a role in the way
Chukchi herders establish their relation to the landscape. Once the rein-
deer and the men have left the iarên space for the big summer pastures
(qoral’atyk), they are welcomed on their return to the encampment by
fumigations (called qinêlë) which bring them back under the protection
of the fire but also to a certain extent reintegrate them into the human
sphere. Most of the time, these fumigations are performed by the mis-
tress of the house or a daughter of the family. Before men enter the tent,
the woman takes some kênut (cassiope tetragona), a plant used to light
the fire, and makes a gesture with it in front of the men (Figure 6.3).
Figure 6.3 Passing the burning kênut in front of the herdsmen coming back from
the summer pastures (Amguema tundra, August 1997). (Photograph by Virginie Vaté.)
People say that this ritual is performed in order to drive away spirits
and disease. Travel to outlying areas is supposed to be dangerous since
one is more likely to encounter kêly spirits in places located outside the
protection of the domestic hearth. Furthermore, it seems that a human
being who stays far from the domestic fire for too long can lose his/her
human qualities (see also Vaté 2007a).
Thus, ‘human’ territory can be defined as a space that is symbolic-
ally in interaction with the fire of the domestic hearth. This interaction
is not a permanent state: Chukchi herders’ appropriation of the iarên
territory is an ongoing process redefined each time they arrive at a new
settlement. It has no permanent effects, but needs to be asserted and/or
strengthened regularly, in particular during rituals. Being in interaction
with the hearth of the tent, women bear an important role in the process
of appropriating territory. In order to understand how this appropri-
ation operates, it is necessary to approach notions about the iaranga and
representations connected to its hearth.
THE IARANGA, A FEMALE SPACE?

An encampment is composed of several iaranga, approximately
three to five, depending on the brigade. The iaranga is a movable
dome-shaped tent, approximately 7 m in diameter, made by stretch-
ing a cover of reindeer hide over a wooden frame (Figure 6.4). The
Figure 6.4 Building the iaranga (Kanchalan tundra, April 1999). (Photograph by
Virginie Vaté.)
interior of the iaranga consists of two parts (Figure 6.5). The ëroŋy
is a small inner tent of about 2m × 2m built against the back wall of
the iaranga. It is just large enough for approximately five people to
sleep in, and is well sealed to retain body heat and the heat of can-
dles (in the past, oil lamps were used). The interior of the iaranga
that is outside of the inner tent, the sottagyn (literally, ‘what is be-
yond the pillow’, the sot-sot), is the larger, unheated part where
many everyday activities occur (e.g., cooking, softening hides, etc.;
see also Vaté 2006).
Figure 6.5 Sketch 1: Organisation of the space inside the iaranga (see also Vaté
2006). (Diagram drawn by Alison Sandison based on fieldwork data collected by
Virginie Vaté.)
Key:
1) Tytyl (tytlyt): door, entrance.
2) Pên’’ëlgyn: hearth.
3) Sotsot: pillow.
4) Ëroŋy: inner tent where people sleep.
5) Iaŋaan (also jaŋan, jaŋaaŋ): behind the ëroŋy, place for the personal things be-
longing to the family.
6) Sottagyn: what is outside the ëroŋy, literally ‘what is beyond the pillow’ (sotsot).
7) Orvyt: sledges, used to hold down the iaranga so that it can resist strong winds.
Sledges are also used as a place to store things.
8) Otlëol: heap of branches on which kitchen utensils are put in summer (uttuut:
wood;—ëol: place).
9) Otkyntagyn(yt): side of the ëroŋy (otkyn [otkyntê, plural]: outside corner, end;
têgyn / tagyn: limit, ‘what is beyond’).
Women are responsible for building and looking after the iaranga.
This involves renewing part of the reindeer cover (composed of approxi-
mately 60 skins) every year and sewing a new inner tent (made of 15
skins) every two years. The maintenance of the iaranga also requires
much effort. If the skins are to retain their capacity to keep out the cold,
women must beat the covers of the inner tent and of the roof everyday
with a snow beater. This is crucial in winter, for if the cover in the inner
tent is not beaten, the accumulated frost on the skins melts when every-
body is inside, making all the bedding wet and therefore cold and in
danger of freezing.
In contrast to the Nenetses for instance (Golovnev and Osherenko
1999, 32–39), there is no strictly gendered division of space in the tent.
However, most female activities take place inside the iaranga or in its
proximity: sewing, tanning, butchering, cooking, child care, etc. When not
with the herd, men do not spend much time inside the iaranga, and in the
day, they are welcome to spend time there only for short periods. In this
sense, the iaranga may be considered to be a predominantly female space.
THE IARANGA, A HERDING UNIT

Each iaranga plays the role of a herding unit and has, or used to have,
its own reindeer earmarks. The relation of each iaranga to the herd is
reflected in the spatial organisation of the encampment. In each encamp-
ment, iaranga are usually built in a line going from north to south5 , with
the doors opening to the east. Prior to the Soviet era, the northernmost
iaranga was that of the êrmês’yn, that is, of the one who owned the herd
or, in the case of an association of herders with a united herd, of the one
who had the biggest part of it. In most of the brigades I was able to visit
in contemporary Amguema, the ‘first’ or northernmost iaranga was that
of the family whose herd made up the largest part of the brigade herd
at the time of collectivisation. In many cases, the earmarks used in the
brigade are the ones of the man who was the owner of the herd, that is
to say, the earmarks used by the first and northernmost iaranga. The
brigadir is very often related in some sense to the northernmost iaranga,
perpetuating despite Soviet and post-Soviet changes the idea that some
families have a more legitimate claim to the herd.
A ‘HOUSE SOCIETY’?
The iaranga also plays a central role as a kin unit in the constitution of
the social organisation. This is reflected at many different levels. This
role can be partly compared to what Lévi-Strauss has described as a

‘house society’:
[The house is] a moral person holding an estate made up of ma-

terial and immaterial wealth which perpetuates itself through
the transmission of its name down a real or imaginary line, con-
sidered legitimate as long as this continuity can express itself in
the language of kinship or of affinity, and most often, of both
(translation of Lévi-Strauss 1983a, 174, in Carsten and Hugh-
Jones 1995, 6–7; see also Lévi-Strauss 1983b, 1224, 1984,
89–191; Lamaison 1987).
Lévi-Strauss stresses that the house as a grouping endures
through time, continuity being assured not simply through suc-
cession and replacement of its human resources but also through
holding on to fixed or movable property and through the trans-
mission of the names, titles, prerogatives which are integral to
its existence and identity (Carsten and Hugh-Jones 1995, 7).
Indeed, each iaranga plays a central role in the definition of the fam-
ily. It functions as a kin unit: a newborn child is said to ‘belong’ to the
particular iaranga in which he/she is born. Biological brothers and sisters
may well belong to a different iaranga, if, for example, the oldest child
of the family is born when his or her mother was still living with her
parents. In Chukchi, ‘family’ and iaranga appear to be based on the same
root, and the term family (roiyr’’in) literally means ‘the filling of the
house’ (Bogoraz 1937, 58). The association seems fundamental, so much
so that one proverb states that: ‘not having a family is like not having a
house’ (aroiyr’’yka, qynur araka) [Pimonenkova 1993, 30]. In Chukchi
terms, members of the same family are also called ‘those of one hearth’
(ynnanjynl’at) or ‘those of one blood’ (ynnênmutlyl’yt) (Bogoras 1975
[1904–1909], 537–38; Ragtytval’ 1986, 172). These two terms must be
understood in connection with ritual practices.
‘Those of one blood’ cannot be understood from a Western bio-
logical perspective because it does not refer to the notion that people
belonging to the same family share common blood. The phrase should,
rather, be seen in its connection to the kêlikin (from kêlikêl, drawing)
phase of the Ŋênrir’’un ritual, when all the members of the family have
various signs drawn on their faces and other body parts, such as armpits,
ankles, etc., with the blood of a reindeer (called iitriir) that is slaughtered
or ‘sacrificed’ during the ritual and the body of which is subjected to spe-
cial treatment (Figure 6.6).
Membership of the tent is therefore ‘performed’ through ritual. These
blood drawings were once also an integral part of wedding ceremonies,
Figure 6.6 Blood drawings performed at the ŋênrir’’un ritual (Amguema tundra,
August 1997). (Photograph by Virginie Vaté.)
constituting a sort of rite d’agrégation, as Van Gennep would say (Van

Gennep 1994 [1909]). Each family has its own characteristic way of
making its drawings, and these also form part of the familial tent-based
identity. Through such acts of painting, the person—man or woman—
getting married was fully integrated into the identity of the new iaranga:
he or she had to forgo being drawn in the style of his or her house of
origin. Similar drawings were made whenever two couples formed sup-
plemental marriage relations (Bogoras 1975 [1904–1909], 603) which in
Chukchi are referred to as ŋêvtumgyn—literally ‘friend by the woman’,
better known as the exchange of women. These blood drawings, made
by the mistress of the house during the Ŋênrir’’un ritual, are also a way
of reasserting the bonds existing between humans, the iaranga and
reindeer.
‘Those of one hearth’ refers to the central role of the hearth. The
hearth is an indicator of familial identity. Just as with blood, charcoal
from the hearth may be used to draw symbols of tent-based identity on
family members to reassert their connection. Charcoal is also used to
integrate non-human components into the familial unit. For instance,
when one receives a new dog from a neighbour, the animal is marked
with some charcoal from the fire; or, again, after the mistress of a house
has sewn a new inner tent, she draws signs on it with charcoal from
that fire (Figure 6.7). As with blood drawing practices, each family has
Figure 6.7 Drawings of charcoal on a newly-sewn inner tent inside the iaranga.
In this family, the representation of a dog is one of their tent-based identity signs
(Amguema tundra, August 2005). (Photograph by Virginie Vaté.)
its own signs, such as ravens, bears, dogs, etc., but also non-figurative
drawings such as lines, zigzags, etc., and combinations thereof.
Ideally, the woman will go to live in the iaranga of her husband (and
be integrated into it). The iaranga itself, along with the herd and the rit-
ual objects belonging to the house, should in principle be passed down
to the eldest son. If a family has several sons, two options are conceiv-
able: on the one hand, the younger sons can try to marry a woman who
is without brothers and who is the main heir; on the other, the family
may decide to ‘divide up’ the iaranga (with the herd and ritual objects)
amongst the sons. Dividing up the iaranga means that family members
will unite their strength in order to make an additional iaranga (wooden
poles, reindeer hide covers, inner tent, ritual objects). Although most of
these parts will be new, some of them will be taken from the ‘mother’
iaranga, that is to say, the one from which the family members originate.
This allows the newly-created iaranga to maintain the same symbolic
identity as the ‘mother’ iaranga; the two families will for instance con-
serve the same way of making blood drawings during rituals and, if they
are in close proximity during festivals, they will perform their rituals
side-by-side. These tent-based affiliations are a source and expression of
social identity.
To this must be added the association of each tent with a group
name, also called an ‘ethno-territorial’ group. In answer to the question
gyt mikigyt (who are you?), a Chukchi may well refer to the group to
which he/she belongs. Some authors call these groups ‘ethno-territorial’
since many of these names are affiliated with a topographic space: for in-
stance, the ŋêsqêl’yt are the ones from Neshkan (today a village located
on the northern coast in the district of Chukotka), while the kuliusil’yt
are the ones from Koliuchin, an island located in the north of the dis-
trict of Iul’tin, opposite the present mainland village of Nutepelmen. In
the past, this affiliation to certain groups was probably reflected in ter-
ritorial use. However, it is difficult to say today how it used to operate
precisely due to a lack of information, but also because many of these
group names are not obviously related to well-known topographic areas.
Belonging to one group is in principle transmitted patrilineally to those
sharing one tent-based identity, although today the rule seems confused
due to changes in family structures and residential rules. When, after
marriage, one is integrated into a new iaranga, one does not change
one’s ‘ethno-territorial’ group. Still—although I have been told that the
blood drawings were the distinctive markers of the ‘ethno-territorial’
group—newly-integrated individuals adopt the drawings of their new
iaranga. The existence of such groupings implies neither exogamic nor
endogamic rules.
Despite the disruptions of collectivisation and Soviet/post-Soviet
life, several aspects of this notion of iaranga are still very much present
among contemporary reindeer herders in Chukotka (at least in the area
in which I carried out my fieldwork). This does not mean that the system
has remained entirely consistent with the above-mentioned principles
laid down by my informants. It is understandable that after collectivisa-
tion, the rules pertaining to the transmission of the herd were disrupted,
since from then on it belonged to the sovkhoz or kontora. However,
most of the herders still have some privately-owned reindeer, and it is
these ones that will be slaughtered in most of the rituals that reaffirm the
symbolic link between the iaranga and the herd.
The creation of a new iaranga from a ‘mother’ iaranga for children
coming from the same family no longer occurs. On the contrary, since
few people choose to carry on herding life in the tundra, tents tend to
be destroyed when they are not being used, and there are actually fewer
and fewer iarangas. But there are still herders living on the tundra in
iarangas, and for these communities, the question of residence, at least
while in the tundra, remains an issue. Today, applying residency rules
has to be reconciled with the major problem of contemporary tundra
life: the fact that more and more women want to stay in the village (see
also Vitebsky and Wolfe 2001). In the area where I undertook my field-
work, there are still women who enjoy living in the tundra. But since
they are not very numerous, and in a way more ‘looked after’, they often
have the decisive say about where they live with their partners. From
what I saw, young ‘tundra’ women seem to prefer living in their own
iaranga and remaining the main mistress of the house. Therefore, young
‘tundra’ men, embarking upon marital life, often take up residence in
their mate’s iaranga. The young women whom I saw living in their hus-
band’s iaranga, and thus often with the mother-in-law or the parents-
in-law, were frequently young ‘village’ women, that is to say, women
whose parents no longer owned an iaranga.
PERFORMING SYMBOLIC CONNECTIONS BETWEEN THE IARANGA, THE

HEARTH AND THE REINDEER HERD
The hearth of the iaranga is central not only to people’s identity and
kinship affiliations, but also creates a link between the iaranga, the fam-
ily that lives in it and the reindeer herd (see also Vaté 2007b, Vaté and
Beyries 2007). This mediating role of the hearth is one of the reasons
why it has to be protected, particularly from contact with other hearths.
Pots or utensils that are liable to come into contact with the fire or with
the food prepared on the fire must not come into contact with food
or items coming from another hearth. Such contact is permissible only
when two tents share the same origin (i.e., come from the same domestic
fire or the same ‘mother’ iaranga). Contact with ‘other’ hearths is said
to bring misfortune and disease to the families in question. Due to its
importance, this prohibition has been transposed by some elders to the
stove in the village, and they forbid their relatives to let food cooked out-
side the house come into contact with their usual utensils.
What happens with the hearth is also said to have direct conse-
quences for the welfare of the herd. Behaviour in relation to the hearth
is therefore strictly regulated. For instance, it is forbidden to let the pot
hung from a chain, move over the fire since the movement the pot makes
is considered to have an influence on the movement of the herd: follow-
ing the swinging of the pot, the reindeer may well run away. It is also
forbidden to cook the meat of migrating wild animals (such as ducks) on
the hearth or to mix it with reindeer meat in the same pot as this would
result in the herd becoming unmanageable. The qêmêŋy, the wooden
dish on which the meat is served, is also subject to behavioural regula-
tions. Some rules pertaining to it are linked to notions of respect for rein-
deer and food: singing while eating is prohibited, for instance. Children
are told that if they do so, the qêmêŋy will jump up and hit them. Other
rules have more direct links with the herd and with the consequences
that misbehaviour may have for herding. For example, it is not allowed
to step over the qêmêŋy; transgressing this rule would again cause the
reindeer to be disobedient, more precisely, to jump over the corral in
spring.
Such rules extend throughout the entire iaranga. The connection

between iaranga and herd is also evident in a rule that applies at the
moment of the birth of baby reindeer. As I mentioned earlier, women
have to beat the covers of the roof and of the inner tent with a snow
beater in order to get rid of the accumulated frost. However, this activity
stops when the female reindeer start to give birth: from that moment on,
beating the skins with a snow beater is forbidden since for Chukchis, it
would mean beating the reindeer themselves, and this would have disas-
trous consequences on the birthing process.
The fire is the subject not only of negative regulations or prohibi-
tions, but also of positive rules or prescriptions. Through the hearth,
humans can intervene in a positive way in the herd’s circumstances. This
is the case, for instance, during the rutting period. At this time, start-
ing with the Ŋênrir’’un festival, the hearth should be kept smoking at
all times. While usually little branches are used for the fire, or wood is
cut in small pieces due to its scarcity during the rutting season, special
pieces of wood big enough to produce continuous smoke are gathered.
In the tundra, this is not such an easy task. This smoking is intended to
help the male reindeer which often become exhausted during this period.
According to Chukchi herders, smoke helps them maintain their viril-
ity and their strength which is so crucial to the herd’s reproduction. In
addition to this, the smoke must be of a particular quality: during the
rutting season, the hearth is particularly well tended and must always
be kept totally clean. Before Ŋênrir’’un, the rules are more relaxed and
small pieces of rubbish, such as paper, are often burned in the hearth;
but when preparations for the ritual begin, the rules are taken very ser-
iously, and those who break them would have to deal with a very angry
house mistress (at least, this is what you are threatened with). Indeed,
before the ritual, the mistress of the house thoroughly cleans the hearth
of its old ashes, thereby permitting it to enter into the specific temporal-
ity of the rutting season. For Chukchis, not following these prescriptions
might have terrible consequences for their herd’s reproduction.
I have described the way in which prescriptions and prohibitions
connected with the fire influence the situation of the herd. I would
like to push this further and argue that the fire plays a symbolic role
in perpetuating domestication. Relying on Jochelson’s material about
the Koriaks, Ingold has observed that ‘the fire […] recharges the do-
mestic herd’ (Ingold 1986, 271). Indeed, I was told about a man who
tamed wild reindeer by putting ash from his fire into the reindeer’s nose.
Bogoraz also mentions an incantation aimed at taming wild reindeer say-
ing: ‘Smell the odour of my smoke’ (Bogoraz 1900, 3). This is one rea-
son why, at the beginning of the Ŋênrir’’un ritual, when the herd comes
back to the encampment after the summer transhumance, a fire (made
with the fireboards) is thrown towards the herd and arrows whose ends
have been lit with the fire are shot in the same direction. In addition,
fumigations also take part on several occasions during the first day of
Ŋênrir’’un. Fire sent towards the herd and fumigations are meant to
‘cleanse’ the herd of spirits encountered in the outlying tundra, to reinte-
grate the reindeer under the protection of the hearth, and to perpetuate
reindeer domestication (Figure 6.8).
The iaranga is then a microcosm that is directly related to the outside
world through an entire system of symbolic connections: human actions
influence the herd’s behaviour, and the iaranga—made up of reindeer
by-products—remains completely connected to the reindeer as a kind
of metaphor of it. The iaranga is thus the space par excellence where
humans have to express their respect for their herd. This is particularly
true concerning behaviour related to the hearth since, as we have seen, it
plays a symbolic role in the perpetuation of reindeer. As a female space,
the iaranga, and its hearth, are the responsibility of the women. They
are the ones who must be careful that all members of the family and all
guests respect the rules concerning the tent space and the hearth. In fulfil-
ling this role women have an indirect responsibility for the herd: if some-
thing goes wrong with the reindeer, this may be attributed to a violation
of the corresponding rules and prohibitions.
This indirect responsibility held by women is particularly present
in rituals. Space constraints do not allow me to develop this point here.
Figure 6.8 Fumigations during the first day of the Ŋênrir’’un ritual (Amguema tun-
dra, August 2005). (Photograph by Virginie Vaté.)
However, one aspect of rituals needs to be addressed and this is the role
of wooden anthropomorphic fireboards.
THE APPROPRIATION OF LANDSCAPE AND REINDEER: THE ROLE OF THE

FIREBOARDS
Wooden anthropomorphic fireboards are blocks of wood with a ‘head’
and ‘body’, used with a leather bow and wooden drill to create fire by
means of friction (Figure 6.9). Like all ritual objects, wooden anthropo-
morphic fireboards stand in a special relation to the specific iaranga and
the specific domestic fire to which they belong, just as the people born
in an iaranga also have a symbolic attachment to it. They are handed
down from generation to generation and are sometimes extremely old.
Fireboards have a central function in the ritual as they are used to pro-
cure the ritual fire which must be distinct from normal, everyday fire,
made today with standard matches.
To make fire, the fire-maker—in most cases, the mistress of the
house—places the board on the ground, under the ball of her foot
(Figure 6.10). A drill (ŋilêq) is inserted into a round depression (called
Figure 6.9 Anthropomorphic fireboards in front of an iaranga during the Ŋênrir’’un

ritual (Amguema tundra, August 2005). (Photograph by Virginie Vaté.)
Figure 6.10 Making the fire with fireboards during the Ulvev ritual (Amguema tun-
dra, July 1999). (Photograph by Virginie Vaté.)
lylet, eyes), created by earlier uses of the fireboard. The person making
the fire holds the top of the drill in place by means of a piece of antler
(gyrgysysos’yn) that allows the drill to rotate freely. The bow consists
of a reindeer-antler handle and a strap of reindeer hide that is twisted
around the wooden drill. The bow is drawn back and forth to make
the drill rotate. The friction of the drill on the fireboard creates embers
which are used to ignite a piece of dry moss that burns very quickly and
allows the ritual fire to be lit. Sometimes embers are also put in the fire
of the hearth.
Anthropomorphic fireboards are considered to be the symbolic or
‘supernatural’ herders of the reindeer (Bogoras 1975 [1904–1909], 351–
52). According to Ragtytval’ (1986, 171), fireboards used to be called
‘masters of reindeer’ (qorên êtynvyt), entities which were considered
the real/spiritual masters of the reindeer, while humans were thought
to have only usufruct of them. This link between the master of the herd
and the fireboard has also been stressed by Jochelson (1908, 32–36) and
Gorbacheva (2004, 28) with reference to the Koriaks.
Fireboards are present in most of the herding rituals. These boards are
called milgyt in Amguema which can be translated as ‘matches’. They are
also called gyrgyr and qaamêlgymêl (Bogoras 1975 [1904–1909], 350).
Qaamêlgymêl could be translated as ‘reindeer matches’; this is constructed

with the root milgy/mêlgy (the fire), to which is added qaa, meaning rein-
deer. This name emphasises the symbolic link existing between the fire,
the fireboards and the reindeer, stressing the fundamental role that fire-
boards have in establishing relations between the hearth and the reindeer.
In light of the role of the fire mentioned previously, it seems evi-
dent that Chukchi women, by activating their anthropomorphic fire-
boards during rituals, recharge the capacity of their fire to protect
family members and to perpetuate the domestication of the herd. What
is more, they also carve a temporary dwelling space, an iarên, out of
the tundra landscape. This is why the anthropomorphic fireboards
must be protected, in particular from animals living in the tundra. If
they happen to be touched by non-domestic animals (in particular a
bear or a wolverine), the fireboards lose all their capacities. To assert
this link between the reindeer and the fireboards, at one point during
the Ŋênrir’’un ritual, one places on the fireboard the head of the iitriir
reindeer which is removed along with the skin from the animal that
was ‘sacrificed’ and later provides blood used for drawings on the
tent-based family members. Then, fireboards are fed with the mar-
row from the left leg of the iitriir reindeer (nyqymlëqênat). Finally, on
several occasions, the fire is fed with marrow and different elements
(Figure 6.11).
Figure 6.11 (code 15-20): Fireboards and treatment of the reindeer iitriir during
the Ŋênrir’’un ritual (Amguema tundra, August 1997). (Photograph by Virginie Vaté.)
All these ritual activities, from the treatment of the iitriir’s rein-
deer body to the feeding of fireboards and the making of ritual fire, are
considered to be female tasks. This gives Chukchis women a crucial—
although indirect and symbolic—responsibility for the perpetuation of
reindeer herding and the appropriation of the landscape.
CONCLUSION
In the vast and open landscape of Chukotka, Chukchi reindeer herders
move depending on a number of factors, including: rules of the sovkhoz
(and today the kontora), seasons, pasture quality, familial and ritual
events, etc., but also depending on whether one is a man or a woman.
In this chapter, I approached relations to the landscape among
Chukchi reindeer herders through the way they dwell in it, putting the
iaranga, the nomadic housing and its hearth where women play a cen-
tral role at the core of multiple symbolic connections. The iaranga, a
predominantly female space, is simultaneously a herding and a kinship
unit, an ethno-territorial affiliation, a ritual space and a metaphor of the
reindeer. Its hearth and the smoke it produces not only protect family
members and perpetuate reindeer herding, but also play a role in appro-
priating temporarily the piece of landscape in which people dwell, the
iarên.
Fireboards, sometimes considered to be symbolic masters of the
reindeer, are used in the ritual context to make ritual fire, distinct from
the fire of everyday life. Before the Ŋênrir’’un ritual, performed partly in
order to prepare the rutting season, the hearth is cleansed of old embers
and new embers produced by the fireboards are put into it so as to ‘re-
charge’ it.
Women play a central role in all the activities dealing with the
iaranga and its hearth: they build it, take care of it, make the ritual
fire with the fireboards, and, during rituals, draw iaranga-based symbols
made with charcoal and reindeer blood, thus asserting the connections
between reindeer/humans/dwelling. In taking care of the iaranga and its
hearth, women bear a great responsibility for the herd and for the appro-
priation of the landscape: they bear what I called an indirect responsibil-
ity, in contrast to the men, who are directly involved with the herd and
enjoy the prestige of success in herding activities (Vaté 2003).
This raises the following questions about one of the current chal-
lenges existing for contemporary Chukchi herders: Since women are
increasingly absent from the tundra, how can one continue to build
relations to the landscape and to reindeer? If there are no women to
perform/maintain the symbolic links existing between the iaranga, the
hearth, humans, reindeer and the landscape, will it be possible to find a

new way?
NOTES
1 This chapter is based mostly on data collected during fieldwork. Since 1994, I
have spent approximately three years in Chukotka, mostly in the tundra and
the village of Amguema (which is dominated by reindeer-herding activities),
in the sea-mammal hunting village of Vankarem, and in Anadyr, the cap-
ital of Chukotka. I would like to thank the Max Planck Institute for Social
Anthropology for its support. I am also grateful to the French Ministry of
Research and Higher Education for its support in the form of a doctoral schol-
arship, to the Institute Paul Emile Victor (IPEV or IFRTP) for the funding of
ethnographic research, and to the Fyssen Foundation for a post-doctoral schol-
arship. I would like to thank David Anderson for his comments on the first ver-
sion of this chapter and Peter Jordan and John Eidson for commenting on and
editing this chapter.
2 I use a modified transliteration of the Library of Congress for the Chukchi lan-
guage, as spelt out in Vaté 2005, 58, note 4. Vernacular terms that appear in the
text are usually in Chukchi; Russian terms are indicated by adding an “-R” for
Russian.
3 In this chapter, nomadisation (kochëvka, in Russian) is used to refer to shifts in
the location of camp-sites over larger area.
4 Attempts at privatising reindeer herding in the 1990s resulted in failure and
had led to a dramatic fall in reindeer livestock. Reindeer herding is still a state-
related activity today. For more on the successive re-organisations of reindeer
herding in Chukotka, see Gray 2000, 2004.
5 In a previous article (see Vaté 2006), I showed that the translation of Chukchi
terms into Western terms of spatial orientation raises questions. Indeed, the
Chukchi terminology may be applied differently in different regions, depending
on the kind of winds existing in the area. However, to make the reading easier,
I use the Western terminology here with a reminder that it is not a translation,
but that it applies specifically to the region of Amguema.
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CHAPTER 7
‘MARKING’ THE LAND: SACRIFICES,

CEMETERIES AND SACRED PLACES
AMONG THE IAMAL NENETSES
Sven Haakanson Jr. and Peter Jordan
INTRODUCTION
Nenets communities living in Arctic Northwest Siberia practise large-
scale reindeer pastoralism, a subsistence strategy demanding long-
range seasonal migrations between the sheltered tree line and the open
expanses of tundra. With life-ways defined by relentless journeying, how
do herders understand their landscapes, and how do they construct en-
during places? In this chapter, we investigate how reindeer herders ne-
gotiate travel through sentient landscapes inhabited by ancestors, spirits
and deities. We conclude that the most permanent material expressions
of the cognitive landscape are associated with ritual practices, while tem-
porary habitation sites generate only ephemeral remains.
NORTHERN REINDEER ECONOMIES

Wild tundra reindeer (Rangifer tarandus) are extremely gregarious and
form large herds when undertaking seasonal migrations to the north to
escape summer plagues of biting insects. In contrast, woodland species
are more solitary and engage in more circumscribed patterns of seasonal
movement. Across Northern Eurasia, the slow processes associated with
the taming and domestication of reindeer had diverse origins but sub-
sequently evolved into a number of overlapping strategies that were
attuned to local ecological, economic and culture-historical contexts
(Krupnik 1993; Vitebsky 2005).
161
These herding and management practices tended to build on the di-

vergent potentials of the tundra and woodland wild reindeer. Smaller-
scale free-range herding is more typical of the boreal forest zone, and
there is often an intensive bond of tameness linking human masters and
individual reindeer. The animals are generally kept for transport rather
than meat, and their main attraction lies in their capacity to rapidly
increase the mobility of hunters, who can more efficiently exploit the
fish and game in larger and more distant territories (Ingold 1980; see
Anderson, Lavrillier, this volume). In contrast, large-scale reindeer breed-
ing involves the tending of immense herds that require intensive manage-
ment; this reduces time left over for other economic activities and so the
herd eventually comes to form the bulk of the diet (Ingold 1980), as well
as providing materials for tent coverings, clothes, harnesses and other
equipment (Khomich 2003; see also Plattet, Vaté, Habeck, this volume).
THE NENETSES
Nenets communities inhabit a long ark of territory stretching from the
northern tracts of European Russia, across the Ural Mountains to Iamal,
and extending onwards to the Gydan Peninsula (Figure 7.1; Golovnev
1995). Groups on the tundra practise large-scale and highly mobile
reindeer pastoralism, coastal communities are more heavily reliant on
fishing, while a more balanced hunting, fishing and small-scale reindeer
herding economy predominates in the forest zone further to the south
(Golovnev 1993).
These communities have had an extended history of association with
reindeer that is typical of many Siberian peoples. In Northwest Siberia,
experimentation with taming and management had begun within the
context of a mobile wild reindeer hunting economy, and gradually led to
small herds being kept for transport, possibly as early as the Ust’ Puloi
cultures of the early Iron Age (Fedorova 2004, 343–44; Golovnev 2004,
73; Golovnev and Osherenko 1999, 16). However, the emergence of
the large-scale nomadic pastoral economy amongst the most northerly
groups of Nenetses was a more recent development, and took place over
four or five human generations, sometime around the late 18th century,
although the role of various social, economic and environmental fac-
tors has been intensively debated (Golovnev 2004, 71–94; Golovnev and
Osherenko 1999, 15–30, 87–94; Krupnik 1993).
Due to their long absences out on the open tundra, away from larger
settlements and government, many Nenets pastoralists had only min-
imum contact with outsiders and were able to retain much of their trad-
itional culture well into the Soviet period and beyond (Golovnev and
‘Marking’ the Land: Sacrifices, Cemeteries and Sacred Places 163
0 300 km 0 100 km
Figure 7.1 General location map and Brigade 17’s migration route (1997–98). (Map
Osherenko 1999, 15). Today, there are around 35,000 Nenetses (1989)
(Khomich 2003, 3) and they form one of the most numerous, and least
assimilated of Siberia’s indigenous peoples.
TRADITIONAL MIGRATIONS
In spring, reindeer-herding brigades start the long journey northwards,
travelling up to 1,000 km with their herds, either to the northern shores
of the ocean, or to areas of higher ground, where steady summer breezes
provide the animals with some relief from the swarms of mosquitoes and
black flies. In autumn, they return southwards to the modest shelter of
the forest edge, where it is easier for the reindeer to dig through the snow
and obtain feed through the winter (Khomich 2003). Winter months
spent at the tree line also provide time and materials for woodworking
and some hunting of game and fur-bearers. Life either side of the short
and more settled summer and winter periods consists of constant jour-
neying (Khomich 2003, 11).
During these extended migrations, the Nenetses carry their portable
dwellings and possessions with them on a caravan of cargo sleds drawn
by reindeer. Their main shelter is the lodge, or ‘chum’ which consists of
long poles propped together to form a cone-like framework, covered with

either fur or tarpaulin depending on the season. On a practical level, the
enclosed domestic spaces of the chum provide protection for people and
possessions from the harsh climate, but the lodge also expresses deeper
symbolic conceptions of social space (see Golovnev and Osherenko
1999; Oetelaar 2000). In setting up the shelter, women reconstruct the
main aspects of cosmology in miniature, and the ordering of the lodge’s
internal areas has a range of inter-locking associations with gender, rit-
ual and status (Golovnev 1995; Golovnev and Osherenko 1999, 31–42;
Haakanson Jr. 2000; Khomich 1995).
Many of these symbolic themes extend outwards from the enclosed
‘domestic’ spaces of the lodge tent and run through the camp and into
the surrounding landscape. The Nenetses share many features of a
broader circumpolar world-view (Ingold 1986), including the practice
of shamanism (Lar 1998), and aspects of ritual and belief that might
broadly be defined as animism (Graburn and Strong 1973). The earth
is ‘alive’ with invisible spirits (CAFF 2004, 7; Khariuchi 2001, 81;
Khariuchi and Lipatova 1999, 289).
These spirits not only listen, but also have the capacity to inter-
vene and affect the outcome of activities like hunting, herding and fish-
ing, determining the ultimate fate of all individuals (Lar 1998, 20). The
spirit beings relate to a wider pantheon of gods, deities and ‘masters’
(Khariuchi 2001; Lar 1998), each inhabiting different parts of the phys-
ical landscape and the wider universe which is divided vertically into
upper, middle and lower worlds (Khariuchi 2001; Khomich 2003; Lar
1998). The upper world has many further levels; the middle world has
humans and reindeer, and the soil surface forms a thin membrane be-
tween this world and lower worlds. All lakes, rivers and bogs also have
their ‘custodial’ spirit masters (Khariuchi 2004, 161), and many deities
occupy holy places:
Sacred sites…reflect the intimate connections these indigenous

pastoralists have built over centuries….Nenets continue to
follow in their ancestors’ footsteps and…undertake sacrifices
and offerings at sacred sites and burial grounds located along
key reindeer migration routes (CAFF 2004, 2).
These special locations have no precisely-established borders,

but are sometimes located in relation to noticeable topographic fea-
tures (Khariuchi 2004, 162). Burial grounds marked by khalmery
burial boxes are always located on the tops of hills or on drier sand-
covered uplands (Fedorova 2004, 350–51). Many sacred sites and bur-
ial grounds are located close to areas used for economic activities such
as herding, fishing or trapping, but the areas themselves are closed to

this activity (Khariuchi 2004, 162). Carved deities serve as daily helper
spirits and are transported with the community on sacred sleds (CAFF
2004, 4). The relationships between the human collective, spirits and
ancestors are actively tended during explicit rituals, but there is also a
deeper consciousness of the animate and ancestral forces in the land-
scape (Khariuchi 2004, 161).
As with sacred places across Northern Eurasia, holy sites demand
offerings, and in the unfolding dialogue between humans, ancestors
and the spirit world, the ‘symbolic centrality of reindeer is…evident in
a number of ritual practices’, including the sacrifice of reindeer (CAFF
2004, 15). Recent studies have stressed the ‘profound cultural signifi-
cance attached to vast landscapes’ and to the ‘living’ nature of Nenets’
sacred sites (CAFF 2004, 2).
CULTURAL LANDSCAPES ON THE IAMAL PENINSULA

Several recent studies have examined how cultural landscapes (Feld and
Basso 1996; Hirsch and O’Hanlon 1995; Layton and Ucko 1999) can
best be understood as ‘actively inhabited space’ (Knapp and Ashmore
1999, 8). In the remaining parts of this chapter, we would like to focus
in more detail on how one ‘brigade’ of Nenetses perceive the open tun-
dra landscape of the Iamal Peninsula, how they encounter ‘significant’
locations and features, and how, in a world of constant movement, they
actively construct meaningful places through routine activity and ritual
offerings.
The Iamal Peninsula (Figure 7.1), 750 km long and lying en-
tirely above the Arctic Circle, lies at the strategic intersection between
Northeast Europe and Northwest Siberia, and has been described as a
‘core’ of Nenets culture (Fedorova 2004, 343). The topography is very
flat, with the ground made up of fine sediments, with few rocks larger
than 10 cm. With the mean annual temperature only around – 8°C,
most of this substrate remains permanently frozen, with only the top
30 cm thawing in the summer. The landscape supports typical tundra
vegetation, with dwarf willow and birch growing along the river val-
leys in the interior. Low stands of larch, spruce and birch growing in
some of the more southerly river valleys afford some shelter from the
harsh winter winds. The ecology includes a diverse fauna of polar bear,
brown bear, elk, wild reindeer, wolf, lynx, wolverine, arctic fox, red fox,
white hare, otter, ermine muskrat and lemmings. There are abundant
fish species and bearded seals and walrus along the coast; numerous
species of birds, including ducks and geese, nest in different parts of the
Figure 7.2 Members of Brigade 17. (Photograph by Sven Haakanson Jr. 1997.)
region during the short summer months (Fedorova 2004; Golovnev and
Osherenko 1999).
Iamal falls within the Iamalo-Nenets Autonomous Region. Some
Nenetses live in urban areas, others practise fishing, but most Iamal
Nenetses are reindeer herders who migrate as ‘brigades’ on a year-round
basis, moving an average of 10 to 15 km every five to ten days along
established migration routes (Golovnev and Osherenko 1999; Krupnik
1993). Despite the transformations brought about by Soviet collectivisa-
tion policies, many Nenets brigades continue to follow traditional clan
migration routes which generally trace a north-south axis up and down
the Iamal Peninsula. With most brigades consisting of members of the
same family, or close relatives, led by an experienced head man, some
ancestral linkages between the kin-group and the course of their migra-
tion route are maintained. ‘Brigade 17’ (Figure 7.2) forms the focus of
the following case study1 focusing on their winter 1997–1998 migra-
tion which is plotted in Figure 7.1, a route they had followed for many
decades.
‘CONSTRUCTING’ ROUTINE PLACES

On the morning of departure, the men would go out to bring in the rein-
deer, while women packed the sleds with household gear. After the herd
was returned to camp, personal draft animals were chosen (Figure 7.3).
Men needed to keep up with the main body of the herd, and so trav-
elled alone on light, fast-moving sleds; women followed behind in the
slower-moving caravans (Figure 7.4). Stopping sites were located around
10–15 km apart, and a single migration took around eight hours, with
Figure 7.3 Brigade 17’s reindeer herd. (Photograph by Sven Haakanson Jr. 1997.)
Figure 7.4 Brigade 17 crossing the frozen River Ob’. (Photograph by Sven Haakanson
Jr. 1997.)
two hours for packing, five hours for travel and an hour to set up the
new camp.
When the men arrived at a new camp-site, the lead man would
drive his tyr (herding pole) into the ground, marking the location for
the chums to be set up by the women. Each tyr marked the centre of the
chum and the point at which the fire pit or stove should be placed by the
women; it also marked the symbolic siyang line which served to symbol-
ically structure movement in and around the tent and throughout the
wider camp-site during the period it was occupied.
Once established, this line could not be crossed by the women in the
camp; as soon as the tyr is set into the earth, the open tundra is trans-
formed into a ‘place’ and the line comes into ‘existence’. After arriving,
the men released their reindeer and waited for the women, who arrived
some 20 minutes later with the caravan of slower-moving cargo sledges.
Women arriving at the new site location un-hitch and release their rein-
deer and begin setting up the chums, first by laying out the floor, then by
propping up the poles and covering the frame.
During the few days that the brigade remains at the camp, its male
and female members would acknowledge and observe the presence
of the siyangi line by controlling their movements and activities. For
men, this applied mainly to the interior of the tent; for women, it ap-
plied to both inside the tent and outside activity areas as well. While
the camp was in place, the siyangi line ran from the stove or fire pit
located at the centre of the chum, and then outwards into ‘infinity’
away in the west. The line was also made ‘visible’ by the placing of
a sled called ngoto which was propped against the back wall of the
chum (Figure 7.5).
The individual chums making up the camp were pitched along a
north-south axis, with each tent entrance facing outwards to the east or
southeast. In the morning, the brigade would also build a 20 m × 25 m
corral which consisted of sledges and lengths of old fishing net. These
measures ensured that the herd remained along the eastern side of the
camp. The corral was generally a U-shaped form that faced outwards
from the camp; here, the dense packing of animals often led to intensive
erosion and trampling of grounds, though associated manuring enriched
the soil and later vegetation.
The use of space inside all chums was structured by common con-
ventions which dictated that the areas on either side of the tent, near the
entranceway, were female areas, where they could keep their belongings
and engage in practical activity. The centre of the chum also included an
area (si) where the men could sit when they came into the chum. Within
the chum itself, men were also restricted from crossing the siyangi line;
people could move freely in and out of the chum, but not make a full
Figure 7.5 The symbolic siyangi line runs from the stove located at the centre of the
chum out through the back of the tent. A sled (ngoto) is propped here to make the
line visible. (Photograph by Sven Haakanson Jr. 1997.)
circle around the fire place. Anyone breaching these conventions was
thought to invite bad luck into the tent-hold and wider camp. Places for
sitting, eating and sleeping had further associations with status; only
honoured guests could bed down next to the host.
Outside the enclosed spaces of the chum, and within sight of the
camp, the siyangi line only restricted the movements of women of child-
bearing age; the line prevented women from making a complete circle
around the camp, a rule which women took great care to observe. Any
breaches would require a cleansing ritual to reverse the effects of the
wrong-doing and prevent bad luck from descending on the camp and its
herd. With this symbolic line running through each fire pit, and each of
the chums pitched in a line, the women tended not to venture into the
spaces directly behind the tents. If they did need to venture west to fetch
water, or gather firewood, they tended to walk out around the front
of the camp to the north or south, and only then to the west, before
returning along the same path they left on. Although walking due west
between the tents might have been a quicker and more direct route, this
form of movement was generally not practised. Once out of sight of the
camp, the women could move in any direction they pleased.
The siyangi line also structured the location of male and female activ-
ity areas: women worked at the front of the tent. This is also convenient
as a significant portion of their work includes chopping firewood which

is better conducted in the areas closer to the entrance. Women chop fire-
wood in a 2.5 to 4 m area on the left or right hand side of the entrance,
depending on which way the door opens. They also keep their drinking
water (ice or snow in the winter), firewood (mainly spruce in the winter
and dwarf birch or willow in the summer) and sleds that contain the
food near the entrance. The women’s sleds parked in front of the chums
contain not only food, but all their belongings including extra skins and
clothing.
In contrast, within the area of the camp, men had no specific restric-
tions on movement, although they tended to do most of their work to the
rear of the tents, in the space through which the siyangi line runs. In con-
trast, children and dogs are not bound by having to observe the line and
roam freely around the camp. More generally, men’s primary activities
were conducted outside; it was rare for men to actually work inside the
chums. Men stored and repaired their gear, made tyrs (long poles used to
drive reindeer), tent poles, new sleds and sled parts behind the chums. In
general, men did all their work at the back of camp, only deviating from
this pattern to work on sleds located on the women’s side. Even in these
cases, and unless they had to fix something for the women immediately,
they usually brought an object to the rear of the camp to fix it.
As the group prepare to move off, the tent is taken down again, be-
longings, coverings and tent-frames are packed back onto the sledges—
at this point, the ritual proscriptions are removed and the women can
move about freely again. In this way, the brigade rebuilds its miniature—
yet materially transient—symbolic architecture every time a new camp
is established. While the chums remain standing, the tents and the wider
camp-site serve as an exemplary illustration of the ways in which pas-
toral communities create ‘places’ that are symbolically structured, their
rich meanings reproduced through the cultural practices associated with
work, gender identity and religious belief.
But what enduring material residues are generated by these activity
patterns? Both Golovnev (1995, 208) and Haakanson Jr. (2000) have
observed how strikingly few physical remains are left after the commu-
nity departs. In summer, the chums are pitched on bare ground; in win-
ter, they stand on compacted snow. One might conclude from this case
study that the Nenetses do not permanently transform the tundra into
an ‘enculturated’ space. However, their mobile presence on the land does
not remain unmarked, and in contrast to the ephemeral residues left
at routine habitation sites, the deliberate acts of deposition and later
avoidance taboos associated with sacred places and cemeteries ensure
that these ritual places leave the most enduring material signatures on
the land.
SACRED SITES AND CEMETERIES

Due to the permafrost, Nenets cemeteries consist of above-ground box
graves, along with sleds and the remains of sacrificed reindeer. Most
cemetery sites are located on higher ground (Khariuchi 2004). The ac-
tual locations at which individuals died are marked by the scattered per-
sonal gear of the deceased. Every effort is made by all Nenetses to return
bodies to the clan ceremony (Khariuchi 2001, 136; Khomich 2003, 64;
Kulemzin 1994), but after the burial ceremony, the location is thought
impure and dangerous, with objects never to be touched or the place vis-
ited casually. Instead, it becomes another world within the space of the
tundra (Ovsyannikov and Terebikhin 1994, 72), a place to be avoided
at all costs.
Fieldwork with Brigade 17 indicated that sacred sites also formed
enduring places within the open tundra landscape, and that many were
further embellished by material deposits. Holy sites were located across
Iamal and beyond, and could be grouped into several broad categories
according to their social significance and location. The larger ‘general’
sites could be visited by anyone who wanted to pay homage to them.
Smaller ‘group’ sites were cared for by families and brigades along their
set migration routes, and a third group was made up of sites known and
venerated by individuals as a place for prayer based on a particular ex-
perience at that location.
The large general sites tended to consist of prominent topographic
features in the landscape which make them visible from long distances
and enable them to serve as navigational markers. Visible from afar,
most of these named places were known throughout Iamal and their
significance was passed on through legends and folklore associated.
Many Nenetses could also relate stories of how relatives had travelled
to particular sites to sacrifice reindeer, pay respects and give thanks for,
or request health welfare and general herding luck. Individuals visiting
such sites were usually instructed by shamans to give offerings to specific
deities residing there. In this way, Nenetses only visited these sites if mo-
tivated by specific intentions; the location of the sites was known to all
clans living out on the tundra.
Group sacred sites tended to be known and venerated by smaller
groups of people, usually a specific family or brigade who migrated
through the vicinity. These sites constituted the most common form
of sacred place in Iamal, and were usually located on higher ground,
sometimes visible for miles around. The locations were also marked by
large mounds of reindeer skulls and antlers, remains of reindeer, wooden
effigies, strips of fur and cloth, sacred sleds, driving poles (tur), empty
vodka bottles and other offerings (see also CAFF 2004; Golovnev 1995;
Haakanson Jr. 2000; Khariuchi 2001, 2004; Khomich 2003). Fieldwork2

and other ethnographic accounts (Khariuchi 2004, 171) indicate that
there were usually restrictions on females approaching sacred sites with-
out men; even at the site, women of childbearing age could only remain
in the general vicinity.
MARKING THE LAND: REINDEER SACRIFICE

During its Fall 1997 migrations, Brigade 17 conducted a reindeer sac-
rifice while passing their clan sacred site. At this time, the brigade
consisted of 20 individuals occupying four tents, and the ritual event
had been planned well in advance by the brigadier and elders, who
had decided to hold the event whilst heading southwards out of Iamal.
Motivation for the event stemmed from the community’s desire to ap-
pease the spirits who dwelt at the site. Somewhat earlier, a woman had
strayed out and cut firewood from an area close to the sacred site, and
later her child had become gravely ill. Only then did she admit that she
had used wood from near the site to boil water—this knowledge ena-
bled other adults in the group to take ritual steps that saved the child’s
life. Though these short-term placations were accepted, the group still
felt that a sacrifice would serve as a formal expression of group’s grati-
tude that the child had not been taken in revenge; the event would also
express thanks for the more general welfare the group had recently
enjoyed.
The site had been used by the clan for over a century and was lo-
cated close to the brigade’s annual migration route, about 2 km from
a temporary stopping point (Figure 7.6). The entire camp participated
in the afternoon ritual: a smaller group of men and an older woman
went out to the site first, travelling by sleds and taking the reindeer with
them. They took a roundabout route to the sacred area, moving first to-
wards the west, before arriving at the site itself which was located on a
hill overlooking a low valley where two rivers converged further to the
south: the rest of the camp arrived an hour later.
The site was marked by a tangled pile of more than a hundred rein-
deer skulls rising over 1 m high; there were also four small wooden idols,
numerous simsi poles leaning against a spruce tree, and the remains of
five sacred sleds, one with faces carved on the front of the sled runners.
Three of the sleds had been partially buried by blowing sand, confirming
the antiquity of the site and the practice of leaving sleds behind. This
kind of deliberate deposition of sleds, skulls, antlers and other artefacts
is a characteristic feature of Nenets ritual engagements with the land-
scape (Khariuchi 2004).
Figure 7.6 The sacred place at which Brigade 17 conducted a reindeer sacrifice.
(Photograph by Sven Haakanson Jr. 1997.)
Only one reindeer was sacrificed—it had already been selected in the
spring for this role, and was owned by the leader of the brigade. After
arriving in the vicinity, the group of men took the sacrificial reindeer up
to the site and commenced the process of sacrificing the reindeer to their
deities. Blood and small amounts of meat were used to feed the idols.
Once the idols had been fed, the men took carried the carcass of the
reindeer over to any area where the rest of the Brigade—including all the
women and children—were waiting. They had started a fire and were
boiling tea. The entire brigade—men, women and children—took part
in the consumption of the blood and raw meat which was accompanied
by tea, bread, butter, sugar and vodka (Figure 7.7).
Once the feast was over, and the elders satisfied, the men from each
household went back to the site and performed chants, drank small
shots of vodka and walked around the sacred area three times, each
time performing the same chant and moving in a clockwise circle. The
sacrificed animal’s skin, bones and entrails were all left at the site, and
the skull was placed on the pile of other reindeer skulls. On this occa-
sion, no sleds were left at the site, but the empty bottles of vodka were
left with ribbons, and roubles were tied to the tree as a closing gesture
(Figure 7.8).
This, and all other sacred sites, are deeply respected, rarely visited
and never disturbed. This leads to considerable accumulations of ritual
Figure 7.7 Consuming fresh blood from the sacrificed reindeer. (Photograph by Sven
Haakanson Jr. 1997.)
Figure 7.8 Tying gifts to the sacred tree as a closing gesture. (Photograph by Sven
Haakanson Jr. 1997.)
objects (sacred sleds, wooden idols, poles, the remains of sacrificed

reindeer, especially their skulls, vodka bottles, food and other personal
items) building up. Folklore and toponymic traditions are passed on over
many generations, reinforcing the position of these holy places within a
collective consciousness of the sacred landscape geography.
CONCLUSION
Many comparative studies of landscape have tended to assume that
hunter-gatherers and pastoralists do not physically intervene in the
landscape—these mobile communities carry their cognitive worlds
with them, projecting meaning onto unaltered topography and leav-
ing few, if any, material remains. In contrast, only sedentary societies
have the capacity to actually transform the landscape and create en-
during places through physical constructions (Knapp and Ashmore
1999, 10).
In this chapter, we have sought to reconsider some of these assump-
tions by focusing on the ways in which Iamal Nenetses create places in
the open tundra. For these reindeer breeders, ceaseless travelling is a de-
fining feature of their culture, and yet it is readily apparent that they in-
habit an extraordinarily rich cognitive landscape—journeying reproduces
continuity between ancestral beings, divine forces, social groups and the
land. For example, migrations proceed along long-established routes
which are marked by place names and conspicuous topographic features.
During the frequent halts, the symbolism attached to re-building
the conical tents serves to recreate an unchanging cognitive model of
the world. Laying out the hearth space, setting up the poles and cov-
ering the frame project a fundamental order onto the local landscape
(Golovnev and Osherenko 1999, 31–42). However, as the tent moves,
so this mobile conceptual order shifts with it (see also Grøn et al. 2002),
leaving few if any material residues behind.
The most intriguing insights that arise from the study are the ways
in which obligations to the dead and to the spirit world generate the
most substantial ‘marking’ of the Nenets cultural landscape—cemeteries
and sacred places are ‘signed’ with repeated offerings over many genera-
tions (Golovnev and Osherenko 1999, 31–42; Khariuchi and Lipatova
1999; Ovsyannikov and Terebikhin 1994). And so we might end this
analysis by concluding that Iamal’s nomadic pastoralists do engage in
the physical construction of places, but that it is sacred places and burial
sites—and not temporary habitation sites—that form the most enduring
physical features of the cultural landscape.
NOTES
1 Unless indicated by citation of specific sources, all information relating to the
case study of Brigade 17 is derived from Sven Haakanson Jr.’s fieldwork on
Iamal (1997–98).
2 Haakanson Jr. reports that this visit to the sacred place was a very moving per-
sonal experience. He had been there the year before with two younger men, but
after leaving the site, he had fallen gravely ill and had to leave the Brigade for
two months to recover. The elders attributed this sickness to the fact that he had
not been spiritually prepared to visit this site. They also felt it had been wrong
for the two men to have brought him there. In this way, his own participation in
the event was also a very personal way of apologising and giving thanks for not
having died the year before.
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London: Harper Collins.
CHAPTER 8
LANDSCAPE PERCEPTION AND SACRED

PLACES AMONGST THE VASIUGAN KHANTS
Andrei Filtchenko
INTRODUCTION
In this chapter, I will examine ‘traditional’ Khant perceptions of land-
scape from two perspectives, focusing in particular on the veneration of
sacred sites. First, I will draw on the published ethnographic literature
to provide a general analysis of Vasiugan Khant cultural landscapes; sec-
ond, I will present the results of my own recent fieldwork (1997–2005)
among the few elderly Khants who remain active hunters and fishermen
out on the land.1 The main aim of this study is to explore how Khant cul-
tural perceptions and cosmological beliefs are manifest physically, that
is, how Khant spirituality, economic practices, settlement patterns and
social organisation are manifest in the creation of cultural landscapes,
and in particular, how they are exemplified by activities at sacred sites.
The Vasiugan Khants (formerly known as Ostiaks; Steinitz 1966)
reside in Western Siberia, along the Vasiugan tributary of the main Ob’
River. The low-lying local landscape consists of a multitude of rivers and
lakes, which drain the world’s largest bog lands—Vasiuganskie Bolota
(Vasiugan swamp). Traditionally the Vasiugan Khants were subsist-
ence hunters and fishermen who lived in widely-spaced settlements—
iurts (toponym of Turkic etymology), or pukhol (native Khant term).
The rich spiritual life of these communities was described by late 19th
and early 20th century ethnographers (Karjalainen 1921, 1922; Sirelius
2001). However, after a period of tumultuous change—beginning in the
1930s with forced resettlement of kulaks and Volga Germans into what
179
had formerly been traditional Khant territories, followed by collectivisa-

tion, mandatory education and the rapid development of local oil and
gas reserves—there are today only about 20 Vasiugan Khant speakers
left on the river (Jordan and Filtchenko 2005).
ECOLOGY, SETTLEMENT AND KINSHIP

In contrast to other Khant groups, for example, those living along the
Middle Ob’ tributaries (Iugan, Agan, Tromagan and Vakh), the Vasiugan
Khants had no local tradition of reindeer husbandry. The local ecology
lacks extensive reindeer pasture and consists of denser mixed forests and
vast expanses of wetland (Figure 8.1). Vasiugan Khant patterns of sea-
sonal migration were therefore guided primarily by the scheduling of
hunting and fishing, rather than the need to move between reindeer pas-
tures. As a result, migrations were smaller in scale, consisting of repeated
trips from permanent riverside villages out to family hunting territories,
which were not particularly extensive.
The prevailing majority of the traditional Vasiugan Khant perman-
ent settlements are located along Vasiugan and its main tributary the
Niurol’ka (Figure 8.1) or on the region’s major lake, Tukh-Emter. The
extended family settlement pattern is also reflected in the main structures
of traditional social organisation (Martynova 1995). This is based on
patrilocal, patrilineal exogamous lineages, each resident in a particular
riverside settlement (Kulemzin and Lukina 1976). The native reference
term used for this social grouping is aj pukhol jakh, meaning ‘one vil-
lage people’. A typical Khant settlement of 2–3 wooden cabins, located
at the river or lake edge, would comprise a small community of 10–15
people. These local lineages formed exogamous clans sir (Kharuzin 1905;
Sokolova 1983) and were further grouped into larger unities described
in hydronymic/toponymic terms, e.g., tukh-emter jakh ‘lake people’, as
jakh ‘Ob River people’, wakha jakh ‘Vakh river people’, and wat’ jokhen
jakh ‘Vasiugan People’. Thus, at one end of the continuum, there was the
notion of the nuclear family—a married couple with children (Kulemzin
1993), while at the other, there was awareness of some equivalent to
localised ‘ethnic’ groupings, which distinguished themselves from the
neighbouring and in-coming groups on grounds of linguistic and cultural
affinity. Finally, at the general level, all Khant groups describe them-
selves in relation to unrelated outsiders as qantekh jakh ‘Khant people’.
According to folklore, the ancestors of Vasiugan Khants, warrior-heroes,
progenitors of the modern clans (areng jakh ‘ancient people’) have long
settled in these territories, fending off frequent attacks by the outsiders
(Lukina 1976). Vasiugan oral folklore includes interpretations of local
Landscape Perception and Sacred Places amongst the Vasiugan Khants 181
a River
Niurol'k
a River
Niurol'k
Tukh-Emter Lake
Tukh-Emter Lake
ke (Tukh-Pukhol)
La
er
-Emt
(Tukh-Pukhol) kh
Tu
Figure 8.1 Location map of the upper reaches of the Vasiugan River, Tomsk Region,
Western Siberia, showing details of local settlement, land use and sacred landscape
geography. (Map drawn by Alison Sandison based on field work data collected by
Andrei Filtchenko.)
archaeological sites, including the remains of fortified settlements, pit

houses, scatters of metal arrow heads, swords, pieces of body armour,
and burial mounds which shape Vasiugan Khants’ sense of a historically-
constituted identity grounded in the material and folkloristic features of
the local landscape.
THE SEASONAL ECONOMY

The Vasiugan Khants’ traditional procurement activities focused on hunt-
ing for meat (mainly elk [Alces alces]) and hunting for furs (sable, squir-
rel, Siberian weasel, hare) which were used to trade and pay fur tax. Most
hunting and transport equipment was made locally out in the bush, and
included the manufacture of wooden traps, self-triggering bows, sledges
and skis, fencing and baskets for fish weirs (Figure 8.2). Dogs (qantekh
amp) were of special value to the hunter who usually kept two.
Figure 8.2 Upper Vasiugan fish weir located near the settlement of Ozernoe.
(Photograph by Andrei Filtchenko.)
In Ozernoe village (tukh-pukhol), each of the hunters had his own ra-
ther compact territory (approximately marked by the boundaries shown
in Figure 8.1) so that extended hunting trips were not necessary. The win-
ter season was broken up into a series of four shorter trips out to small
hunting cabins (uri-qat) and tending to the winter fish traps on the smaller
streams which continued to provide fair yields over the cold season. In
some cases, two hunters shared a single territory, cabins and equal por-
tions of all meat and fur. Large game kills, for example elk, usually in-
volved transporting the carcass back to the village and sharing the meat
out.
In spring, as the rivers opened, the residents of remote clan villages
such as Ozernoe (tukh-pukhol) travelled downstream to the big villages
of Aipolovo or Timelga to visit relatives, share the spoils of the winter
hunting and fishing, and to trade. For this longer-distance family travel,
larger boats made from cedar planks were used (seran-rit— ‘Zyrian
boat’), while dugout aspen canoes (ajrit) were employed for more lo-
calised journeys. Later in the summer, the groups would descend to the
lower river to fish sandy shallow backwaters and smaller lakes from
known fishing spots (see Figure 8.1).
In late summer, the group would slowly return upstream, the men
continuing fishing, while the women processed the catch and rendered
fish oil. Each species of fish was caught with a special technique. The
most widespread methods involved the use of fixed nets in the shallows
and sweep nets in large open waters and lakes. On smaller rivers and
tributaries, such as Chvorovaia or Tukh-Sighat, fixed weirs (war) were

set (Figure 8.2), the baskets oriented according to the fish migration pat-
terns. When water levels dropped to a minimum, fishing shifted to the
still-water techniques in the lakes and backwaters. The fish were typic-
ally procured in large quantities with only a portion processed for food
and storage, while the rest was kept alive in fenced deeper bays.
The later summer also marked a period of intensive gathering of
a range of berries, wild herbs and Siberian pine nuts, which were pre-
served with a portion traded off. Birch bark (sukhmat) was also collected
for making various containers (qin). Mid autumn was also the time
of Vasiugan trade fair, typically taking place in Aipolovo village (see
Figure 8.1). Men from the surrounding area, sometimes with their fam-
ilies, would bring furs, fish and gathered resources, which they traded for
imported products. The fair was also an event marked by general festivi-
ties and interactions. Occasional trade networks also linked the Khants
with adjacent Tatars, with flax and sheepskins for coats exchanged for
wild furs and fish (Lukina 2005). The trade fair marked the end of the
summer season, and was followed by a period spent in the family vil-
lages during which time the men would make and repair skis, sleds and
hunting gear while women prepared fur winter clothing and foot wear.
The routines of seasonal mobility were reflected in the traditional
calendar terms. These terms do not equate directly to European notions
of months or seasons, and may vary in length, from one period to the
next, and from one year to the next depending on climatic, ecological or
other practical factors. These concepts map a sequence of behaviours,
each linked to different parts of the landscape. For example, the period
of making and setting fish weirs (war-iki) was approximately June of
each year but could vary relative to river-ice breaking, water levels and
fish migrations. Nevertheless, each period had a common lexical com-
ponent of iki, the loose equivalent of ‘moon’. Others include: korek-iki
‘time of eagles’ (approximately March); urn-iki ‘time of crows’ (approxi-
mately April); lontwasek-iki ‘time of geese and ducks’ (approximately
May); luwt-iki ‘time of oars’ (approximately September), walek-iki ‘time
of bare trees’ (approximately October); pojaltew-iki ‘time of the snow
crust’ (approximately December) and so on (Filtchenko 1998–2005; also
see Gulya 1966; Lukina 2005; Sirelius 2001; Tereskin 1961).
LANDSCAPE AND COSMOLOGY

Commonly for Siberia, the Khant universe was structured into three
vertical ‘worlds’. This cosmological model was also projected horizon-
tally over the rivers and wetlands where downstream (and North) was
equated to the lower world, the middle world was represented by the im-
mediate surroundings and upstream (and South) represented the divine
upper world. East and West had much less significance, mainly relating
to the directions of the sun’s motion, and places ‘where strangers come
from’ (Karjalainen 1927; Kulemzin 1984; Kulemzin and Lukina 1977).
The life of all Khants and animals was created and predestined by
Torum (torem), a very vaguely-envisioned chief deity, but universally
recognised as the highest spiritual being (Lukina 1995). Linguistic evi-
dence of the status of Torum is, for instance, in the fact that most of
the major natural phenomena have the same common reference term—
Torum ‘thunder, weather, heaven, wind storm’. Another ultimately-
powerful deity is the female progenitor-spirit, pukhos angki, the giver of
life and soul (il), the judge of its length and quality (Karjalainen 1927).
Finally, there is an awareness of the powerful masters of elements: the
river deity, the oldman of Ob' as’ iki, the master of fish and water spirits;
and the forest deity, the forest oldman wont iki, the master of animals
and birds and of the forest spirits.
Among the Vasiugan Khants, the exact whereabouts of the highest
deities is generally unknown, with a vague understanding that Torum is
present everywhere; the mother-spirit is also omnipresent, but physically
somewhere in the east or north; the oldman of Ob' ‘lives’ somewhere in
the lower Ob' flows; while the forest oldman is generally in the forest.
Offerings and worshipping of them is in a way a part of every and any
ritual ceremony with added emphasis in cases of addressing the specific
domains: health, hunting, wellbeing, children—torem and pukhos angki,
fishing and security on water—as’ iki (jengk iki), rich spoils and safety
in the forest—wont-iki. These perceptions and beliefs are reproduced in
the daily activities of Khants.
PERCEPTIONS OF THE ANIMAL WORLD

While fishing provided the bulk of the diet, activities associated with
hunting had a much more important role in traditional Khant spiritual-
ity and belief. The practical and religious aspects of hunting fused into
a general cultural tradition, which combined ethics of self-sufficiency,
cosmological concepts and relations with the world of spirit-masters and
other deities who were associated with sacred shrines located in various
parts of the landscape. As Kulemzin (1984) notes, much of the ritual-
ised behaviour associated with hunting served two overarching aims:
to secure current and future success in hunting and to mitigate the dan-
ger stemming from killed animals. Hunters often retained parts of ani-
mals (skulls of sable, hare, otter, fox, elk and bear), the skins or body
parts of unusually formed animals (white squirrels, six-fingered sable,

one-horned wild reindeer) which were thought to be chief exemplars
of a particular species (mit). One primary motivation for the special
treatment was the general belief in the rebirth of killed animals, which
ensured future stocks of game for successful hunting, safe-guarding the
welfare and prosperity of the community dependant on the animals for
food and fur clothing.
This rich complex of traditions and beliefs was highly developed in
relation to the elk, but especially to the bear, with a rich special vocabu-
lary existing to describe the body parts, and to appropriately treat them.
Across Siberia, the bear is regarded as the most sacred animal of the for-
est. For the Khants, the bear is an embodiment (or a son) of the power-
ful patron spirit ‘forest master’; at other times, the bear is regarded as
a dead relative. In both concepts, the bear is regarded as a special guest
entering the realm of humans, either as a heavenly messenger, spiritual
creature who has come to earth, or as a relative who has returned in a
new guise. The elaborate events and festivities surrounding the killing
and entertaining of this special emissary were termed the ‘bear festival’
and formed a tradition of central cultural significance, attended by mem-
bers of local and distant settlements. These events expressed fundamen-
tal ways in which the Khants understood their place in the world and
also brought together social groups that were dispersed over the vast
landscape for extended periods of the year.
In Khant language, direct reference to bear is a strong taboo, in-
stead it is typically referred to as ‘master’ (em wosh-iki), ‘animal’ (waja-
kh), ‘younger brother’ (qaqi-wajakh)) or ‘forest man’ (wont-iki/qu) but
almost never as ‘bear’ proper (ikh ‘bear’). Likewise, the names of the
bear’s body parts were taboo and so metaphorical (euphemistic) sub-
stitute terms were used. Instead of sojqa kokh ‘kidney (human or ani-
mal)’, the term nakhri kera ‘bear kidney’ was used; the term katel ‘bear’s
paw’ replaced the regular kot ‘hand, animal front paw’; kil ‘bear’s stom-
ach’ (cf. qon ‘(human/animal) belly, abdomen’); lakhl’ip ‘bear’s teeth’
(cf. pongk ‘(human/animal) tooth’; kalek ‘bear’s ribs’ (cf. angti (lokh)
‘(human/animal) rib bone’), etc.
Analysis of language use also reveals that events surrounding the kill-
ing of the bear are recounted periphrastically, for example, wakhelteta
‘to lower/send down a bear’ replaced the term welta ‘to kill (generic)’. In
addition, in verbal recounts, attempts are made to shift responsibility for
the animal’s death by the use of a special ‘demoted agent’ syntactic con-
structions, such that the hunter as a volitional agent (bear killer) is coded
in a way that makes him a passive observer or a mere space landmark
of the event, i.e., instead of saying ‘I killed a bear’ the hunter would say
‘near me/in my presence a bear got himself killed’ (Filtchenko 2006).
The most frequent use of these constructions is in hunting stories, tales

of bear hunts in particular.
Bear dens were usually found in winter by dogs during routine
hunting trips. A small party of hunters would then be assembled who
would return to the den and slay the bear. The body was dragged out
and skinned on the spot so that the head and paws remained attached
to the skin. The meat and skin were brought back as separate loads,
and, as the group got close to the settlement, the skin and head were
mounted on poles so that the ‘living’ animal guest could be ‘walked’ into
the house that would hold the festival (Kulemzin 1984, 86). This ‘visit’
was marked by an extended event made of days of singing and dancing
during which the bear was venerated, and the ancestors remembered and
commemorated. The slain bear, as sacred guest from the world of the
forest, took an honoured position at the centre of events, usually being
placed at the rear-centre of the house of the hunter who discovered the
bear den. In addition to the distinctive language, the Vasiugan Khants
traditionally used nicknames and special birch-bark masks during the
festivities in order to disguise from the bear the identities of the hunters,
or men acting as the hunters (Figure 8.3).
The meat was cooked in a single cauldron while the bones were
carefully disarticulated rather than chopped up, carefully gathered up
and disposed of in a special manner, either placed in special log houses
similar in form to human graves, or else taken to the forest (Kulemzin
1984, 84, 1995, 68–69; Kulemzin and Lukina 1977, 90–91; Lukina
1990). The skull was typically retained and stored either in the attic of
the house, or on the roof, in the belief that the bear could protect the
Figure 8.3 Bear festival mask (birch bark). (Photograph by Andrei Filtchenko.)
house and its occupants from illness-causing spirits welling up from the
lower world. The skull itself was occasionally wired up with tree roots
for fear that the bear would learn who had killed it and then savage this
hunter (Kulemzin 1984, 84–85). However, after three years, the skull
would be taken back into the forest and hidden away from dogs.
These very careful attempts to maintain the integrity and dignity
of the bear’s remains were aimed at ensuring the subsequent rebirth of
the animal, and maintaining, at the same time, the animal’s favourable
disposition towards the human collective. If its bones were damaged or
chewed by dogs, the bear would take revenge and attack the hunter the
next time it encountered him in the forest. In this way, responsibility for
the bones of the animal guest laid with the hunter until it was reborn
again. Normally a little meat was left near the joints of the bones to
help this process of regeneration. Veneration of the bear also stemmed
from the fact that this animal was an emissary of the high god, Torum,
and so treatment of the bear was regarded as reflecting the community’s
general attitudes towards this deity. Linked to this notion was the idea
that the bear had a wider influence over all the animals of the forest, and
could herd game towards a hunter who had shown an appropriate de-
gree of respect towards it (Kulemzin 1984; Kulemzin and Lukina 1977;
Tschernetsov 1974).
To varying degrees, attitudes similar to the bear cult can be traced
through Khant perceptions of other large animals. Amongst the Khants
living on the Vasiugan, these were particularly well-developed in relation
to the elk (Alces alces) whose treatment and veneration approaches that
of the bear. These similarities included individual aspects of behaviour
towards the animal’s body, as well as the underlying motivations and
beliefs related to this behaviour, namely to ensure the continued rebirth
of the animal, thereby the welfare of the human community who acquire
much of their meat from this animal (Kulemzin 1984, 86–87; Kulemzin
and Lukina 1977). Respectful treatment of the animal demanded that
bones were left intact, sinews left uncut with iron knives,2 dogs were
kept away from either meat or bones and the hair of the animal’s face
was never to be singed. Special value was accorded to the elk’s nose and
lips, which were eaten by the hunter to guarantee success in further hunt-
ing. The elk’s eyes could be boiled, but never salted while the brain was
to be eaten raw (Kulemzin 1984, 86; Kulemzin and Lukina 1992, 91).
In many areas of the Vasiugan, specialised treatment of the elk’s
head was attested, as the focus of communal feasting wajakh okh por
‘the animal’s head sacrifice’ (Lukina 2005; Sirelius 2001). These events
took place at sacred places, where the elk’s head would be boiled in a
large cauldron and then consumed ceremonially by the assembled fam-
ily, accompanied with prayers and fortune-telling led by a shaman (jolta
qu). One such location was the sacred Old Lady of the Lake Isle (paj-imi)
near Ozernoe village (see details in Figure 8.1).
The image of the elk was also a general symbol of prosperity for
the Eastern Khants in general. Stylised images were placed on various
household and practical items, decorated clothing and birch-bark con-
tainers as well as some elements of the shamanic paraphernalia (Ivanov
1954).
GENERAL: SACRED SITES

Among the Vasiugan Khants, hunters still believe that animals gave
themselves to the hunter and often address the bear and elk during hunt-
ing, asking them to give up at the moment of killing. The sighting of the
animal meant that it was revealing itself to the hunter, and the appropri-
ate response was to kill it. The process of hunting was also influenced by
a host of local spirits and deities, including the masters of the elements,
such as the forest spirit (wont-iki) and the water spirit (jengk jungk),
who were said to despatch game and fish to the community. In response,
a community was expected to address gifts and prayers to these deities
during visits to sacred sites and adhere to the restrictions and behaviour
(for example, Vasiugan Khants avoid scaling fish with a metal knife, or
cooking certain fish species together out of respect for the water spirit).
In landscape terms, these beliefs were linked to notions that particu-
lar areas, such as those rich in fish and game, had local supervisor spirit-
masters. Passing through the area or any economic activities conducted
there had first to be preceded by acknowledging local spirits by giving
offerings. Frequently, the exact names and descriptions of the spirits
were unknown or vague, so the sacrifice would be generally addressed
to ‘local spirits’ (jungket) (Karjalainen 1927; Kulemzin 1984; Sirelius
2001). Generally unfriendly spirits of local forests could also be placated
through the gift offerings to eventually assist in fishing/hunting, once suf-
ficiently appeased (Kulemzin 1984; Kulemzin and Lukina 1976). Finally,
individual family spirits were also given offerings to secure luck and rich
spoils.
As a result of this multiple involvement in the conduct of any subsist-
ence activity, it was not uncommon during a single ritual for a Vasiugan
hunter to address and offer gifts to all the ‘parties’ involved, starting
from the domestic spirit to the local spirits of the area, and further on
to the master-spirit, and finally, the animal itself (particularly in case of
bear and elk).
More identifiable both in their physical character and spatial lo-
cation were the local spirits of Vasiugan, mostly of anthropomorphic
nature. It should be noted though that, as observed fairly early on

(Karjalainen 1927; Sirelius 2001), Vasiugan local spirits, such as that of
Old Lady of the Lake Isle (paj-imi), lost their physical shape as it were.
That is, the tradition of making wooden or other figures to symbolize
the spirit was abandoned sometime in the late 19th–early 20th century
(Kulemzin 1984). However, it is still strong common knowledge that
a particular spirit had a shape of a woman or a man (Sarkany 1989),
and elderly Khants still remember the image of the old wooden figures.
The sacred sites, ‘homes’ of these spirits continue to be distinct to local
families and are regularly attended for offerings and paying respects.
They are also a strong part of the oral folk tradition where the majority
of the local spirits may have an ‘earthly’ embodiment—an animal, bird,
fish, and each clan/family worshipping a particular deity would also
have strong association with the corresponding animal. For Eastern
Khants, it is also typical to have anthroponymic group-names, which
were a subject of occasional descriptive research (Lukina 1976; Vertes
1967). Such names typically corresponded to the names of the hero-
warriors or clan progenitors, exemplified in Vasiugan Khants by kotch-
et ‘badger’ (official name Isubakov), kotcherki ‘chipmunk’ (Milimov),
qirakh ‘sack’ (Karaulov), polikh ‘stomach’ (Pechikov), etc (Filtchenko
1998–2005).
The sacred sites (jim takhi) were typically marked by a tree (jireng
jukh) on an elevated river bank (jireng toj), where objects were left as
material offerings (por) or sacrifice (jir) to local deities: coins, sheets or
strips of cloth, tools (fish-kebab skewers for luck in fishing, wooden
hammers for fishing success, arrows and bullets for hunting luck) and
shapes of animals and fish (Kulemzin and Lukina 1976; Lukina 2005;
Sirelius 2001). This may be viewed as a symbolic fishing/hunting, an ex-
plicit request for rich yield in exchange for an equivalent offering.
Images of elk, cut in wood or carved from stone or sheet metal,
were a central feature of some of the sacred sites venerated in the
upper Vasiugan. For example, one shrine was located on a small river
Tukh-Sighat (tukh-sikhat) between the Lake Tukh-Emter and the River
Niurol’ka (see details in Figure 8.1). Here, the elk images were left as
gifts to ensure safe and successful hunting (Sirelius 2001). The use of elk
images is significant because the success of hunting for other animals was
the domain of the chief deity of fur-bearers—the forest spirit/old man
(wont-iki), whereas elk and bear were the only animals accredited with
a sense of volition to the extent that each animal ‘chooses’ to give itself
up to the hunter. On the other hand, fish images were seen as male and
female masters of the species (Sirelius 2001) who were manipulated so
as to command the others, i.e., seasonally re-oriented downstream/up-
stream to drive fish into weirs, etc. (Filtchenko 1998–2005).
SHAMANS AND SACRED SITES ON THE VASIUGAN

It should be noted that the above rituals, ceremonies, verbal addresses,
sacrifices and requests were typically performed by the hunters them-
selves without involvement of the shaman (jolta qu). Shamans were
employed on occasions to make offerings to the spirits but mainly in
the roles requiring specialised knowledge and abilities (Dmitriev-
Sadovnikov 1911; Karjalainen 1922; Kulemzin and Lukina 1976;
Zuev 1947). Common for Siberia, the role of shamans was to ‘walk
the worlds’, communicate to spirits, act on people’s souls in case of ill-
ness, represent people in the spiritual realm and foresee the future. Thus,
at the beginning of the hunting period on upper Vasiugan, the shaman
from the Lake-people clan (tukh-pukhol jakh) would be asked to foresee
possible outcomes and help build the strategies for successful hunting,
make a prognosis for an individual hunter’s fate, advise on large-scale
fish migrations and times and places for fishing, etc. A shaman would
enter the state of trance by playing the shaman drum, occasionally con-
suming fly agarics,3 dancing and singing. In trance, the shaman’s spirit
(or helper-spirits inhabiting shaman’s paraphernalia), would travel to
a place of a particular spirit (jungk sur) and communicate the people’s
requests. In case of illness treatment, the shaman’s spirit was typically
expected to travel to the lower world to find and return the stolen spirit
of the ill person that would have been snatched and eaten by either a
powerful deity the Oldman of Disease (kin’ iki) or by one of the multi-
tude of ill-spirited demons associated with dead relatives. Alternatively,
the shaman would heal a person by expelling the spirit of illness from the
body and fighting it in the spiritual realm, often in alliance with either
the family spirit or the local patron spirit. On some occasions, shamans
could appeal to the high god Torum with requests to affect some spe-
cific lower spirits as all deities and spirits were perceived subordinate to
Torum (Kulemzin 1984).
Shaman’s skills were understood to combine both the intimate
experience-based knowledge of the pantheon of central, areal, local and
family deities, types and times of addresses and offerings, sacred places as
well as general close familiarity with the landscape, flora and behaviour
of and towards animals. The core of this knowledge was viewed as trans-
ferable from person-to-person in a single ceremonial event. However,
a need for some prerequisite abilities and rich personal experience was
also recognised. In the Tukh-Emter Lake area, a boy was expected to
inherit the shaman’s knowledge and abilities from his grandfather by
looking into the dying shaman’s overcoat sleeve. This did not happen as
the boy was too young and did not feel he had either predisposition or
courage to follow through. Though later in his life, this man came to be a
prominent hunter and knowledgeable practitioner of traditional religion

still residing in the area (even suspected to act as a shaman), he realised
that he missed the opportunity to become a shaman, the last in the area
of the upper Vasiugan.
CASE STUDY: ROUTINE AND RITUAL LAND USE AROUND LAKE

TUKH-EMTER ON THE UPPER VASIUGAN
This case study explores at the local scale how upper Vasiugan Khants
construct and inhabit cultural landscapes, marking beliefs with material
deposits.
A considerable area of upper Vasiugan, particularly the territory
around Lake Tukh-Emter (see details in Figure 8.1), is known to be the
domain of the ‘Old lady of the Lake Isle’ (paj-imi). The focal area of this
domain has been considered the peninsula which is cut off from the main
land in spring by seasonal flooding forming an island. Located on the
largest lake in this area, the Island of the Old Lady (paj-imi), is known
to most Vasiugan-River Khants as an important sacred site for making
offerings, asking for luck in hunting/fishing and for general welfare. The
most elevated part, the northeastern end of the island (Figure 8.1), is
where there was a regularly-maintained structure—the labaz ‘shed’, a
log cabin elevated on stilts, containing anthropomorphic figures of the
deities (see also Sirelius 2001). As a result of this ‘powerful’ presence, the
Khants residing along the lake (tukh-pukhol) for at least 5–6 centuries
(Kulemzin 1984; Kulemzin and Lukina 1976) ‘co-ordinate’ their rou-
tine subsistence activities conducted in the area—and especially around
the lake—with this local master spirit, the Old Lady of the Lake Isle
(paj-imi). Degrees of perceived success and failure in the outcome of
these activities are reflected through the prism of the relationship linking
the community or individuals and this spirit, as well as, to some extent,
other local and more general deities. Evidence of a deteriorating rela-
tionship demands an immediate response through additional sacrifices
and prayers.
The area of the lake is located some 35 km east of Vasiugan, in the
dense boggy terrain, demanding in summers the better part of the day
of tedious walking, for which the traveller is rewarded by the site of the
large serene lake and forests around it, rich in fish and game. This makes
it still natural nowadays to appreciate the distinctness of the place (see,
for example, the panorama in Figure 8.4). The village Ozernoe (tukh-
pukhol) faces the lake and directly the point of an island (peninsula)
crowned with massive conifer grove—a distinct landmark immediately
encountered. During the first visit to the area, newcomers are given an
Figure 8.4 A member of the Milimov clan (with Tukh-Emter Lake in the background).
(Photograph by Andrei Filtchenko.)
outline of proper conduct in relation to the site, for example, the need
to offer coins to the water spirit of the lake; the ban on hunting or gath-
ering anything, or talking loudly on site; advice against walking around
in a complete circle (particularly against the sun movement); restricted
access of strangers, etc. If possible and deemed appropriate, offerings
of fabric or shawls are to be left for the spirit under the guidance of the
local site attendant; or offering a self-made hammer to the water and
forest spirits at the cedar grove nearby, at the mouth of the Tukh-Sighat
(tukh-sikhat) River.
Ozernoe village (tukh-pukhol) is known along Vasiugan as the clan
lands of Milimovs and Sinarbins, comprising the tukh-pukhol jakh ‘lake-
people’, whose patron deity is the Old Lady of the Lake Isle (paj-imi)
and whose sacred site (jor takhi) is the island itself (see Figure 8.1). This
local spirit is recognised by other clans as a powerful local patron for
the whole of the Vasiugan area, for hundreds of kilometres all the way
to the confluence area, and is seen connected to other deities and spirits.
Adjacent clans, not necessarily closely related (though quite often it is to
some extent the case), would also worship the lake spirit and would be
typically referred to as the people of the same local patron spirit (ej jungk
jakh). This manifests significance as a cultural and landscape element for
the whole large ethnic sub-group of Vasiugan-River Khants (see Figure
8.1). For example, many locals, in order to have a child, make offerings
apart from paj-imi also to the powerful deity pukhos angki who gives
life to newborns, as well as the family spirit qat jungk, and to the chief
creator deity torem (Kulemzin 1984). The regular simultaneous paying
of respects to both the local master spirit paj-imi, and the general power-
ful deity pukhos angki is a reflection of the conventionally-perceived kin
relation of paj-imi and pukhos angki. Engagements with the spirit world
are therefore rich and tangled, involving both ritual activity and offer-
ings to a variety of divine agencies at various sacred sites and at home,
but are also played out through the conduct of different kinds of prac-
tical activities over the landscape.
Normally, the worship consists of verbal addresses with acknowl-
edgements and requests for health, prosperity, luck in hunting and fish-
ing and ceremonial sacrifices, and offerings of bands of cloth or shawls
tied to particular trees. The events also include preparation of a a meal
at the site, with pieces of food, and the steam rising up from the cooking,
also offered to the spirit. The sacred places were regularly attended, serv-
ing as a venue for clan gatherings with both religious and social function
(hardly differentiated). Thus, for example, it was a long-standing trad-
ition for the lake people (tukh-pukhol jakh) and their relatives to attend
the island on special occasions of ‘elk-head feast’, celebrating the suc-
cessful season of hunting and fishing by cooking and consuming the elk’s
head, saved for this occasion (see also Kulemzin and Lukina 1976, 167).
On most sacred sites, often for contemporary Vasiugan, there are
no anthropomorphic figures per se, and as a rule, no more continually-
maintained structures. Though undoubtedly previously existing, and
often still identifiable, the constructions, as well as the wooden figures,
went out of active use at some point, and currently, the location itself,
normally a tree or a group of trees, or a homorganic grove is treated as
the sacred site. This can be justly viewed as a sign of gradual departure
from a more archaic fetish-type worship of anthropomorphic shapes in-
habited/animated by spirits to a more abstract construal of a particular,
especially higher-hierarchy spirit (Karjalainen 1927; Kulemzin 1984).
Similar spirits and their sites are commonly known to exist in mid-
Vasiugan at the confluence of Vasiugan and its main southern tributary
Niurol’ka near the village of Mildgino.
Other types of sacred sites with increasingly more abstract connota-
tions are the places with sacred significance, such as outstanding or ab-
normal ravines, massive groves or individual trees. The location of some
such sites was common knowledge in the area, others—at a more local
scale. The latter are, for example, the village/clan cemeteries, the loca-
tion of which is normally kept secret from strangers and which is usually
set at the vicinity of the village not far from the shore, but preferably
separated by a stream (see Figure 8.1). At a certain distance from the
Tukh-Emter Lake along the Tukh-Sighat River (tukh-sikhat), there is a

massive Siberian pine grove dominating the landscape which is known
as a sacred site (jor takhi) to most of the upper Vasiugan Khant families.
Although nuts can be gathered in the sacred grove, it is inadvisable to
stay there overnight, or to behave casually and disrespectfully to trees or
objects in the area. It is also obligatory to make an offering in the form of a
wooden hammer placed under a tree. This can be a life-size or a miniature
version of the hammers that are widely used for driving in the vertical
posts of the fishing weirs, and also for stunning larger fish after they are
pulled into the canoe. Each person attending the event, including all adults
and children, should leave such a hammer, and this gesture expresses a
desire for rich and safe fishing in the future, as well as general respect for
the master-spirits of the local river, the lake and the grove itself. Though
considered to be a powerful local spirit, the exact shape or description of it
is generally unclear, sometimes associated with either the river spirit jengk
iki and unnamed water-demons or forest-master spirit wont iki.
On a smaller scale, only few members of local families on Tukh-Emter
Lake also consider sacred a particular old tree (actually two intertwined trees
of different species) located on the bank of a small river approximately half-
way between Vasiugan and Tukh-Emter Lake. This location is an old river-
crossing over fallen tree trunks and a half-way place of rest during a tiresome
trip to the lake, knee-deep in a bog overrun by clouds of mosquitoes and on
constant guard for vipers, along with omnipresent caution for bears.
CONCLUSION: REPRODUCING THE CULTURAL PERCEPTIONS

OF THE VASIUGAN LANDSCAPE
This local case study illustrates the ways in which local upper Vasiugan
community construct, inhabit and structure their local cultural landscape
with regard to general ecology, belief, kinship, delimited into a variety of
domains: sacred/spiritual vs. routine economic; restricted vs. unrestricted.
The territory of upper Vasiugan known as Tukh-Emter Lake is known to
all on the river as populated by particular clans and as their economic terri-
tory. The general terrain and landmarks are usually known to local Khants
from personal experience and indirectly to most Vasiugan Khants. This
area is also known to most Eastern Khants as an important sacred/spiritual
place—the domain of the powerful local spirit Old Lady of the Lake Isle (a
kin to powerful deity pukhos angki) which is conceptualised as a distinct
landscape entity, requiring special attitude, restrictions and veneration. Yet
again, to local lake-people, the site is known in much deeper personal de-
tail, integrated into clan/family traditions, oral folk history and everyday
activities. Apart from this larger sacred landmark, the local community also
shares the knowledge and behaviours focused on other, smaller-scale sacred

places.
How do Khants bring symbolic meanings to the vast tracts of taiga
they inhabit, creating and structuring an enduring cultural landscape?
The process of associating meaning with the landscape—forests, lakes
and rivers—appears to be essentially grounded in the conduct of prac-
tical and ritual activities, including seasonal movements around the
landscape, which were timed according to the different seasons and nat-
ural ecological patterns, such as fish and waterfowl migrations. At the
same time, these routinised activities were an important manifestation
of the overall traditional cosmology: the differentiation of the land-
scape into a series of multifaceted interlocking domains, zones, places,
sites, each inhabited by a plethora of beings, smaller animals, elk and
bear (able to decide on their own fates), human individuals and groups,
spirits and deities. Some of the latter are viewed as residing in specific
locations, others omnipresent, but all demanding acknowledgement of
their presence, power and influence through gifts and offerings, prayers
and addresses. The daily routine activities for the people inhabiting this
landscape consisted of an indivisible mixture of practical economic and
ritual events resulting in the daily creation and reproduction of the cos-
mology on and in the materiality of the land. Hunting of bears and elks
combined with special treatment of animal remains and worship, and
hunter identity concealment, is rooted in beliefs of regeneration and
spirituality of animals. The shared knowledge of the landscape and its
spiritual salience was part of a broader set of communal knowledge
which linked families and individuals to historical hunting-fishing ter-
ritories, whose de facto ‘ownership’ was generally respected. Thus, for
Vasiugan Khants, local cosmology was not merely a cognitive overlay
on the routine practical landscape, but rather was routinely reproduced
through practical and spiritual making and marking of space and cosmo-
logical concepts. Cultural mapping and perception of the landscape by
the Vasiugan Khants also had a strong ‘granularity’ characteristic of all
the domains: proper geographical as well as spiritual. Most individuals,
through localised and relatively circumscribed patterns of yearly move-
ment, developed a general understanding of the river’s overall topog-
raphy, but also acquired a much finer-scaled knowledge of their own
local territories, with associated patron spirits and sacred sites.
NOTES
1 The work leading to this publication was supported in part by the William
Marsh Rice University field research grants 2000–2003 and by the 2005 NEH-
NSF Documenting Endangered Languages Fellowship. Any views, findings,
conclusions or recommendations expressed in this publication do not necessarily

reflect those of the National Endowment for the Humanities and the National
Science Foundation.
2 Admittedly, elk sinew was widely used in the household for a variety of pur-
poses as solid thread.
3 Incidentally, some Eastern Khant words for shaman, shamanising and fly-agaric
are etymologically related, manifesting a strong cognitive affinity.
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CHAPTER 9
PERCEPTIONS OF LANDSCAPE AMONG THE

LAKE ESSEI IAKUT: NARRATIVE, MEMORY
AND KNOWLEDGE
Tatiana Argounova-Low1
INTRODUCTION
The concept of landscape and its perception in indigenous cultures has
been discussed by many scholars (Hirsch and O’Hanlon 1995, Ingold
2000, Jordan 2003, Kuechler 1993). This chapter examines how a small
group of Iakut, residing in the area of Lake Essei, Krasnoiarskii Krai,
Siberia (Figures 9.1 and 9.2), construct, inhabit and perceive the land-
scape. This isolated group of Iakut (self-designation is Sakha) have been
strongly influenced by the culture and economy of neighbouring Evenki
communities, yet remain distinct in terms of their language and tradi-
tions (Dolgikh 1960, Gurvich 1952, 1977).
The Sakha concept of aiylha embraces many of the broader notions
of ‘landscape’, yet is often glossed as representing only ‘nature’ and ‘en-
vironment’. These narrower translations are problematic because they
fail to capture the fundamental ontology of the aiylha concept, which is
more akin to a ‘concept of spatial order’ as expressed in the Dreamland
of Australian Aborigines (Myers 1986, 55). The encompassing total-
ity of aiylha includes ‘everything that is not made by a man’ (Tolkovyi
slovar’ 2004, 358). For example, mountains, animals, fish, forests and
the northern lights all constitute aiylha because they were created by
higher powers. But although aiylha implies a fundamental delineation
between humans and the spirit world, human persons can also become
part of aiylha through processes of transformation and incorporation,
as explored below.
199
0 300 km
Figure 9.1 Location of Lake Essei, Krasnoiarskii Krai, Siberia. (Map drawn by Alison
Sandison.)
Figure 9.2 Sasha Alekseev, local hunter, taking a short break from a long journey
along Lake Essei, March 2003. (Photograph by Tatiana Argounova-Low.)
Perceptions of Landscape among the Lake Essei Iakut 201
I will examine the underlying relationships between landscape and

aiylha from three complementary perspectives: narrative, memory and
knowledge. First, I will examine how the narratives told by the native
residents at Lake Essei contain references to significant pathways and
places in the landscape; second, Iakut understandings of landscape are
often connected to the ancestral past, and to the memories that contain
that past; third, I will examine how links to the landscape are expressed
by the significance that Lake Essei Iakut place on the importance of
‘knowing the land’. In the final sections of this chapter, I bring together
these three themes of narrative, memory and knowledge, which run
through engagements with landscape and aiylha, through a more de-
tailed analysis of the ethnography of fishing at Lake Essei.
The interconnections between landscape and aiylha can also be
examined by employing a ‘dwelling perspective’ (Ingold 2000, 189)
which attempts to understand how cultural landscapes emerge as ‘an en-
during record of—and testimony to—the lives and works of past genera-
tions who have dwelt within it, and in so doing, have left there something
of themselves’ (Ingold 2000, 189). In this way, the practices of narrative,
memory and knowledge have material dimensions; the sites, features and
stopping points that are central to human life-ways enter into the phys-
icality of the landscape, serving as ‘life’s enduring monument’ (Ingold
2000, 54). Viewing Iakut cultural landscape from this more historical
vantage point emphasises both ancestral connections and the fluidity and
temporality central to aiylha, as well as the fact that landscapes are al-
ways works in progress and never actually finished (see Hirsch 1995,
1–30; Ingold 2000, 190–93).
The Sakha (Iakut) world-view is similar to the cosmology of many
other circumpolar communities. Lake Essei Iakut represent their world
as consisting of three tiers (Alekseev 1984; Gurvich 1977; Ksenofontov
1992 [1937]), with the upper world inhabited by benevolent spirits and
powerful gods, the middle world occupied by human persons, small
spirits (ichchi) and some lesser gods, while the lower world is home to
evil gods and spirits.
According to Lake Essei Iakut, the world was created by the God
Aiyy toion, who asked a loon (kuohas) to dive into the water and fetch
some silt from the bottom of the endless sea. With this small heap of
sediment, he was able to create the land. However, the landscape (aiyl-
ha) was originally created as place where spirits (ichchi) could live. As
a result, every feature of this landscape has its own spirit and owner.
Human persons came later to inhabit the world. When they die, their
souls travel to the ‘other’ world of the dead which may be located at
different levels of the universe. Irrespective of where the world of the
dead is located, departed human souls can also enter into animals or
other ‘inanimate’ objects, so that they too eventually become incorpor-

ated into aiylha.
LANDSCAPE AS NARRATIVE
Narratives establish connections ‘between the past and future, between
people and place, among people whose opinions diverge’ (Cruikshank
1998, 2). As an ethnographer working among the Essei Iakut, I listened
to numerous life histories, myths and legends that made direct references
to aiylha. Throughout these narratives, the land provided a crucial topo-
graphic setting—a solid material background without which the story
would be incomplete, unrealistic or even untrustworthy. In this way, the
landscape provided ‘situating devices, as conventionalised instruments
for locating narrated events at and in the physical settings where the
events have occurred’ (Basso 1992, 112).
People’s references to sites and places served as an important con-
nector in these stories, helping to transform the past into the present,
and the fictitious into reality and the unknown into the familiar. Similar
to the Pintupi’s concept of ngurra, these landscape references acted as
mnemonics for significant events (Myers 1986). Many place names are
related to particular events, and legends and stories are grounded in the
physical topography.
Through listening to these accounts, it was possible to understand
how references to both aiylha and to the landscape served as essen-
tial components in the way that local people chose to construct their
own identities. Narrative itself serves as a process of self-construction
(Maschio 1998, 84), and by recounting a story, the narrator fashions
a personal and social identity both for him/herself as well as for other
social groups. For example, this story about the Maiat people, and
their fate at Lake Essei, was narrated by Chomo, a respected elder in
Essei:
Many years ago there was a tribe called the Maiats, nobody
knows where they came from. They were warriors who decided
to take over the lands by Lake Essei. They walked all the way
from Olenek to Essei. When they saw the lake, they said: ‘Is this
the lake that is so much praised? Is this the lake that is said to
be very large? This is not a large lake, but a puddle of water.
Anyone can cross this lake on foot.’ Then they saw a mammoth
tusk sticking out from the ice-covered lake. They decided to cut
it by axe. Soon they noticed blood pouring out from the tusk.
That is a bad sign, one woman told them. She told them to stop,
but they did not listen to her. She walked to the shore and the
Maiat people continued to axe the tusk. As soon as the woman
reached the shore, the ice on the lake cracked and all of the
Maiats disappeared under the water. That was the end of them.
That woman remained alive and lived until recently in Taymyr.
She was nicknamed ‘Maiat’. She had a son, known as ‘Maiat
Yld’aa’. When I was a boy, I saw him as an old man. A man like
a man, just like us.
There are several renditions of the same legend (Gurvich 1977,

160–62). Yet all of them refer to the Lake Essei and other prominent
topographic features and explain the names given to these sites of the
landscape: ‘where they passed the tundra is now called the Maiat tundra,
and the river they crossed is called the Maiat River’ (Gurvich 1977, 161).
Many narratives from the Essei area centre on the most important
physical feature in the landscape —Lake Essei (Figure 9.2). Located well
above the Arctic Circle, this lake is considered special because some
parts do not freeze over while most other lakes in the area are covered
with a thick layer of ice for many months of the year.2 The lake is also
important as it provides the main source of subsistence for local resi-
dents, who venerate the lake as ‘Granny’ (Ebe) (see Turnbull 1965, 19).
This respectful attitude is also expressed by tossing small offerings of tea,
tobacco, food, alcohol or coins into the water; Lake Essei Iakut believe
that in return the Lake brings them fish as a gift: ‘our Granny feeds us’
(ebebit ahatar), ‘our Granny saves us’ (ebebit abyryr).
Many narratives also serve to convey important moral and edu-
cational values. These stories make frequent reference to the Essei
landscape, and stress the importance of respectful behaviour towards
topographic features like lakes, rivers and hills, but also towards man-
made places in the landscape—all these settings are inhabited by spirits
able to punish improper conduct. For example, the Maiat people often
serve as mythological antiheroes. They are rough, uncouth and of
lower intelligence, and their lack of respect for the lake and mammoth
tusk leads directly to their disappearance, though memories of their
conduct and fate serves to educate the Iakut residents still dwelling
around the lake. In this way, the Iakut become cast as the genuine
residents of the land, whose stories and folklore outline appropriate
ways of dwelling.
The moralistic functions of these Iakut stories are similar to those
described by Basso for the Western Apache (1992, 99–137), and their
aim is to make human persons realise their humble subordination to
the spirits of aiylha and to behave accordingly (see Jordan 2003, 136).
Further effect is provided by recounting stories that ‘really’ happened
to people. For example, two young men went fishing on the lake while
being inappropriately drunk; they made too much noise and eventually
drowned as a result of their improper behaviour. In another story, a
pregnant woman offended the spirit of the lake by crossing over it, and
then suffered a stillbirth. Several such stories are narrated to children
and newcomers, including foreign anthropologists, who are unaware of
the moral codes of the community.
Pathways through the land form another salient feature of local
narratives. The community is located in an extremely remote setting
(Figure 9.1), and the roads associated with seasonal travel, migrations
and general movements around the landscape generate insights into sea-
sonal economic rhythms. They describe reindeer herders moving from
winter lowlands to the higher summer pastures on the higher ridges of
the Putoran Mountains, visits to hunting grounds in the spring (March)
and early winter (October) and travels to summer fishing grounds. By
travelling along and talking about roads in the landscape, the Lake Essei
Iakut also make the surrounding environment and aiylha their concep-
tual home (see Myers 1986, 54–57).
In particular, many ‘road’ stories revolve around long caravans of
haulage reindeer (argish) which were common in earlier periods but are
no longer used today. These caravans traditionally brought in supplies
from hub settlements (faktoriia), but in the later Soviet years, planes and
cargo lorries replaced them. Nonetheless, argish stories retain an im-
portant focal role in the collective memories of the community because
whole families were employed in them for lengthy periods. For example,
journeys to the most distant faktoriia could last 30 days, and during
the winter, while the roads were navigable, one family could make as
many as three round trips. In this way, some families could spend up to
three months on the road, year after year. These pathways became fam-
ily histories—new members were born at remote camps and other people
died and were buried along the way; the roads and the world of aiylha
literally became their home.
LANDSCAPE AS MEMORY
The passing of many generations means that the Lake Essei Iakut now
dwell in a landscape filled with the remains of previous human activity.
Like topographic features, these ‘humanised’ features of the landscape
also serve as mnemonic devices that activate the collective memory. Such
places include abandoned dwellings, grave markers and old ritual stat-
ues, each possessing an imaginary link to the past. In this way, the Essei
landscape has become imbued with associations and memories that are
read and transmitted to others, and it is these acts of memory that makes
even the most invisible traces of past human activity prominent from
the surroundings, investing them with special significance (Nelson 1983,
238–47).
These themes can be illustrated by focusing on the 300 km ‘reindeer
road’ running between Essei and Olenek, which older Essei residents
remember very clearly. Although these two villages now belong to two
different administrative and political units, some 50 years ago they were
united by strong kinship links: people from both settlements travelled to
each other on reindeer sleds to exchange goods, refresh economic and
strategic contacts and to set up new marital alliances.
In the later Soviet period, the reorganisation of administrative dis-
tricts severed contacts between the two villages. Reindeer in each settle-
ment were quarantined, with further bans on the use of pastures on
alternative sides of the border. Occasional flights did link the two settle-
ments, but these too were eventually discontinued, so that relatives seek-
ing to visit one another must now undertake long and expensive flights
via Krasnoiarsk and Iakutsk.
Despite these profound disruptions, details of the arterial road be-
tween the two settlements remain in the collective memory —people re-
call the route in conversations; they often mention the reindeer pastures
along the way, the lakes and the curves of the rivers, as well as the aban-
doned sites, graves and camp-sites that mark the route. For example,
Vasilii, resident in Olenek, recalls how his mother used to go back to
her native Essei: ‘She went to Essei a few times, late autumn and early
spring—the road is at its best then, reindeer and sledge go easy. In all
other times, it is either too cold or the road is not good’. Talking about
his mother, Vasilii mentions that although she was a small and delicate
woman, she had a strong grip and was a courageous woman: ‘There is
this dangerous steep slope along the route. I was told that my mother
managed to steer reindeer skilfully on that treacherous slope.’
Right in the middle between Olenek and Essei lies the now aban-
doned village of Kirbei. In 1961, as part of the Soviet policy of enlarging
and developing chains of central settlements, people from the small vil-
lage of Kirbei were moved to Essei and Olenek. Al’bina, now in her fifties,
was only a small girl when her parents moved from Kirbei. She recalls:
We lived in Kirbei and only in 1961 we moved to Olenek after

the enlargement. I recall Kirbei from my childhood. It was so
pretty there. There was a hill where we used to play. There were
beautiful flowers that I don’t seem to find here. It was a much
nicer place there or maybe it seems now that we have grown
older. It is a forgotten place now.
Kuechler (1993) also draws parallels between the ageing of human

bodies and the decline of settlements— in Melanesia, the abandonment
and forgetting of a site forms part of a wider funerary process in which
a settlement is eventually transformed into a ‘burial’. Judging from the
Iakut lady’s comments, recollections of the abandoned Kirbei site are
now transforming it into a ‘forgotten place’, characterised by different
kinds of associations and memories. Just as memories are ‘generated
along the paths of movement that each person lays down in the course
of his or her life’ (Ingold 2000, 148), so the Essei landscape is being
encoded with a web of mental maps, social landmarks and shifting
meanings.
LANDSCAPE AS KNOWLEDGE
Many scholars have written about indigenous knowledge (Anderson
2000; Bender 1993; Cruikshank 1998; Ingold 2000; Jordan 2003; Myers
1986). In this study, I will employ Julie Cruikshank’s (1998, 70) defin-
ition, which argues that ‘knowledge is a relational concept, more like a
verb than a noun, more a process than a product, and it cannot be easily
construed as a written, formally encoded, reified product.’
For the Lake Essei Iakut, ‘knowledge’ of the landscape implies many
aspects, from way-finding and navigation, through to knowledge of sea-
sonal variations in the quality and characteristics of snow cover. In these
vast landscapes, pathways and tracks are transient —reindeer prints and
sledge traces are easily erased from snow cover by fresh winds and fur-
ther snow falls; many routes are not used intensively enough to create
permanent marks in the vegetation. As a result, each local Iakut herder
acquires a ‘cognitive’ map that serves as ‘a comprehensive spatial repre-
sentation of his usual surroundings’ which is deployed in constant usage
(Ingold 2000, 219).
A local herder will structure his explanations or intentions about
routes and destinations with multiple references to topographic features,
old sites marked by material remains, or places associated with events,
memories or activities, for example, ‘the place where X. died’ or ‘the
place where my dad used to fish’. In this way, much of the significance
of landscape becomes bound up and reproduced through practical ac-
tivities and social relations (Ingold 2000, 185–87). Understanding how
sites, places and pathways are located in a far-flung web of social rela-
tions adds a further level to local traditions of landscape knowledge.
Landscape knowledge does not exist in a written or codified form,
and only becomes available through a lifetime process of lengthy obser-
vation, supervised training and the experience of many seasons’ travel.
As a result, the greatest knowledge of the land—with its sites, features,

stories and memories—marks out the elders: ‘Chomo [a village elder]
has a very clear memory. He always advises where to go to hunt and
camp. He has a map in his head’.
The knowledge of the landscape possessed by elders also serves
as a point of reference for younger hunters and herders. For example,
every summer, the privately-owned reindeer that have been individu-
ally looked after by their owners during the winter months are gathered
together in a collective herd. Several of the owners then form a team of
herders which move the animals up to their summer pastures along the
ridges of the Putoran Mountains. Prior to departure, the villagers gather
together in a large meeting in order to decide on the migration route, lo-
gistics and budget. Elders play a key role in these meetings, often inject-
ing harsh criticisms: ‘Last year people went to a place where no fishing
was possible. They had a difficult time and did not have enough food.
We have to make sure to choose a place with good fishing.’
This intimate ‘knowing the land’ (Anderson 2000, 117) also has
very practical implications for hunting and fishing activities. Sasha, for
example, revealed his secrets after successful hunting: ‘This place where
we hunted is called Symna d’angyy. There is always lots of wild rein-
deer there because they go mainly along the top of the mountains where
snowmobiles cannot go.’ For Alesha, it was important to know where
to fish in order to have enough food for the winter. ‘In September, there
are many bokhsogor (white fish) in the direction of Aian, because a small
fish lays eggs there and bokhsogor go there to eat it. In June, one has to
fish by the village as all the fish are there. Last September, I fished a lot
and prepared four barrels of fish for the winter.’
In extreme cases, a deep knowledge of the landscape can ensure sim-
ple survival. I was introduced to Dmitrii, who as a 12-year-old boy had
walked back to Essei from the boarding school at Tura (some 400 km):
‘Although it took me a month, I never starved, I always had something
to eat, chose places where to stay the night, and thus safely arrived home
by myself.’ Dmitrii also stressed how ‘knowledge’ had enabled him to
feel at home in taiga; he felt comfortable and was not scared.
CASE STUDY: AN ETHNOGRAPHY OF FISHING AT LAKE ESSEI

In the final sections of this chapter, I would like to present an ethno-
graphic study of fishing at Lake Essei in order to examine how the
themes of narrative, memory and knowledge come together in human
engagements with landscape and aiylha. With most other chapters in this
volume focusing on the links between hunting, herding, cosmology and
landscape, the current focus on the role of fish resources in indigenous

constructions of landscape provides a useful comparative study.
Living around the shores of a large lake, a key feature of Essei Iakut
landscape ‘knowledge’ relates to the use of water resources—the abun-
dant fish provided by the region’s many water bodies remains the main
source of subsistence, as well as a food to fall back on during shortages
or lack of cash (Toren 1995, 171). Data collected by the Soviet Polar
Census clearly demonstrate that fish formed a staple food for the com-
munities around Lake Essei in the later 1920s (GAKK 769–1–406), and
almost certainly well before that as well.
Fish also enjoyed a central symbolic significance in local commu-
nities, and became objects of spiritual and ontological representation, to
the extent that ‘fish semantics’ were a significant and all-embracing fea-
ture of aiylha. However, in the wider ethnographic literature on fishing,
it is generally assumed that there is an important division between water
and dry land, that is, between distinct terrestrial and aquatic spheres
(Pálsson 1989, 1991). For example:
The horizontal surface of water bodies, through which or from

the edges of which a fisherman inserts his catching devices, has
no counterpart in the terrestrial environment (Hewes in Pálsson
1989, 6).
As I will explore now, Lake Essei Iakut do not follow this distinction
and treat the surface of the land as an extension of their knowledge about
the worlds of water and fish. In fact, herein lies a fundamental distinc-
tion between the relational concept of aiylha and the more traditional
definitions of ‘landscape’: while aiylha represents an entire cosmological
vision of the world, complete with the additional dimension of what
is both ‘on the ground’ and ‘underwater’, the term landscape generally
refers to features or perceptions of a surface topography, and does not
include anything located below this terrestrial surface. As a result, in
their engagements with the environment, the Lake Essei Iakut tend to
integrate the mediums of land and water in their perceptions and repre-
sentations of the world.
The significance of fishing is reflected most obviously in local place-
name traditions, which extend out over the landscape. For example,
promontories, inlets, hills and other small water bodies are characterised
according to their inherent fishing potentials: Carp Lake (Sobolokh),
Pike River (Sordonnokh), Lake of Fishing Nets (Ilimnir Kiuel), Fishing
Hook Bay (Sittir Tumuhakh), Lake of Thin Carp (Kotokh Sobolokh).
Importantly, this ‘fishy’ choice of toponyms brings together fishermen’s
general knowledge of site locations within the landscape, as well as
a further domain of knowledge pertaining to the characteristics and

potentials of the under-water worlds of fish. In this way, the centrality
of fishing becomes embedded into the landscape, merging the terres-
trial and aquatic domains into a single body of integrated landscape
knowledge.
As mentioned in the opening sections, there is a general belief among
Lake Essei Iakut that spirits of the lakes and rivers have power over
fishermen and hunters. Fishermen are obliged to follow ethical stand-
ards of behaviour and must also communicate with spirits by making
offerings and behaving according to ethical standards. In this way, ‘luck’
and ‘chance’—both profoundly important local concepts—are requested
from spirits of the land and water.
At the edge of the lake, requesting successful fishing or hunting in-
volved the veneration of small wooden statues, a representation of a spirit
called Balyk Ehekene, which can be translated as ‘Fish Grandfather’. In
part, the ritual consisted of cleansing the gear from pollution and thus
ensuring successful fishing. Balyk Ehekene was given offerings, usually
the blood or fat of recently-caught fish or game. Sometimes the face of
the idol would be smeared with blood. Many of these sacred wooden
statues, which served as fishing and hunting shrines, can still be found by
lakes (Figure 9.3). They are generally located close to good fishing spots
and in association with abandoned fishing camps.
The wooden idol in Figure 9.3 is located on Lake Symna; fishing and
hunting gear would be purified by passing it through the open legs of
Figure 9.3 Balyk Ehekene. (Photograph by Tatiana Argounova-Low.)

this idol. According to some sources, this was done three times in corres-
pondence with the movement of the sun. The protruding lower lip of the
idol forms a cup for holding such offerings as blood and fat, and some
residents remarked that these gifting rituals could be performed both
prior to, and after, fishing activity.
In the vicinity of this wooden idol, there were also remains of an old
type of dwelling called golomo (Figure 9.4). The close association be-
tween the idol and the habitation site appear to underline the tight links
between symbolic perceptions of the lake and the conduct of subsistence
activity at its edge: clearly, the inhabitants of the abandoned golomo
were fishermen on one of the lakes, and they often caught enough here
to make it worthwhile erecting both a base camp and a wooden idol to
further the practical and spiritual requirements of their aquatic ‘harvest-
ing’ activities.
In fishing societies, fish are widely used as a metaphor for human so-
ciety, despite relatively few ‘obvious points of resemblance with human
beings’ (Pálsson 1990, 119). At Lake Essei, fish images are also used to
express social hierarchy. For example, a husband from a poor family, not
of a noble origin, may be reminded from time to time by his in-laws that
he is a perch (khakhynai), a small, unworthy fish. People also employ
fish in describing their inferior backgrounds: ‘We are just fish people’ or
‘Our parents always lived on the lake, they were poor fish people.’
At Essei it is also believed that fish from the lake can form crucial
links in a long chain of rebirth and regeneration. For example, a story
narrated by F., a resident of Essei, illustrates this connectivity:
Figure 9.4 Remains of golomo, traditional dwelling of Lake Essei residents.

(Photograph by Tatiana Argounova-Low.)
Kolia and I were married for a number of years. We always

wanted to have children, but it did not happen. Doctors told me
that I would never be able to have children, and I even started
working in the small factory here in Essei, where women would
not work because of the hard labour. One day, Kolia with his
brothers and I went fishing. We went to the lake where my dad
used to fish; that was a good lake, rich in fish. So the guys put
out their nets several times, but no luck; only on one occasion
they pulled out one tiny carp (sobo).3 I cooked the men maca-
roni for their dinner and told them that I would eat that tiny
carp myself. How would we share one carp among five of us
anyway? Laughingly, I said that I might get pregnant if I ate
this carp. I even managed to scale and take the gall bladder
out; you know, it can be tricky sometimes. Oh, it was nice and
delicious! And a month later I discovered that I was indeed
pregnant. I swallowed a fish and here she is. [Faina points to a
beautiful baby girl called Naryana, also known as Little Carp
(Sobochon)].
Interpreting this story, Faina suggested that the fish had been de-
liberately sent to her, possibly by the spirit of her deceased father, who
wanted to help his daughter to have a child and be happy. Therefore, the
little carp caught by the men, and eaten by Faina eventually transforms
into a new human being, the girl, who is known to have the secondary
characteristic of a ‘Little Carp’.
These insights into the role of fish in human cycles of regeneration
add further details to our understandings of aiylha. For Lake Essei Iakut,
human existence is not static, but can flow and take on different forms,
to the extent that people are not trapped in their current physical body,
or cognitive world, but can transform throughout their physical or spir-
itual existence into many different kinds of beings.
During life, human persons can also associate with other birds or
animals. People in the village of Essei belong to the clans linked to sym-
bolic birds: the Maimaga clan is protected by the swan guardian (kuba);
Botulu by the eagle (khotoi); others have raven, duck or loon as guard-
ians. Members of a particular clan cannot hunt, harm or consume their
clan protector bird, as these are said to be relatives. Birds also protect
household members and several elders in Essei still have family bird idols
in their possession. These images are usually not large in size, and are
made of wood or metal; they protect family members from bad luck and
ensure general health and welfare. Twice a year, usually in the spring
and the autumn, the bird idols are fed in a ritual performed by the oldest
member of the family. If any member of the family develops problems
or becomes ill, the ritual is repeated. For storage, the birds are usually
wrapped in birch bark with dried food, with long strings of horsehair.
The wrapped parcel hangs on a hook inside the house and is covered
with a silk scarf (kharys bylat).
CONCLUSION
In this chapter, I have attempted to contribute to general debates about
indigenous culture landscapes by presenting materials from the Lake
Essei Iakut. As outlined above, the Lake Essei Iakut perceive ‘landscape’
as the world around them, using the native concept of aiylha. Although
this Iakut term is often translated as ‘nature’ or ‘environment’, the no-
tion of aiylha has a much deeper ontological significance, which I have
attempted to explore by focusing on the inter-locking themes of narra-
tive, memory and knowledge, and through a concluding case study tra-
cing the role of aiylha in local fishing practices.
Consisting of multiple connections, flows and relationships, aiylha
denies the existence of boundaries between different mediums, for ex-
ample, between the surfaces of land or water, which become whole in
the concept of aiylha. As a result, aiylha is not a surface representation
of a single environment, but has many additional depths and dimensions
to it, both experienced and imagined.
The inherent characteristics of aiylha also mean that life experience
for the Lake Essei Iakut is not restricted to biological existence. In the
course of life, a human person can be transformed into a different liv-
ing creature; he or she may turn into a bird, an animal or a fish, be that
in a dream, a story, during encounters with spirits, or while hunting or
fishing. This is an eternal journey undertaken by human persons during
the entire time they exist in this world, because life itself is a process
of continual birth (Scott 1989, 195). As a result, life is lived again and
again in a chain of metamorphosis, where humans can be transformed
into different living beings. Myths, oral histories and life activities link
human and non-human beings into one stream of existence, and in this
long chain of transformation, people also become part of aiylha.
These insights enable us to understand why aiylha contains not
only topographic features of landscape such as mountains and lakes,
but also enduring material sites, such as abandoned habitations, old
roads and sacred places built by predecessors, who left their traces on
the landscape. In embracing living beings, spirits and the land in a sin-
gle unfolding web of regeneration, the inherent temporality in aiylha
also extends from the mythical and ancestral past right through to the
present.
NOTES
1 Many thanks to The Leverhulme Trust for a Special Research Fellowship (2003–
2005), which enabled me to conduct the project ‘Indigenous and Diaspora
Identities in Post-Soviet Siberia’. The field work for this project was sponsored
by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada through
the Baikal Archaeology Project (MCRI). The paper also incorporates results
of the project entitled ‘Remembering Lost Connections: Past and Present of
Two Native Villages’—this was funded by the British Academy Small Research
Grants (2005) and the Small Grants Fund at the University of Aberdeen. I am
also grateful to Tonya Alekseeva, Aleksei Beti and many residents of Yessei for
their assistance during the field work.
2 The river Siikei Seen runs through the lake, resulting in some parts being free of
ice or having only a very thin layer of ice.
3 Carp (sobo) is one of the favourite foods among Iakut (Sakha) people. Apart
from tasting good, it is considered to be a particularly authentic food. Catching
carp in Faina’s story has a symbolic significance.
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areal’nogo sravnitel’nogo issledovaniia (Shamanism of the Turkic peoples of
Siberia: regional comparative study). Novosibirsk: Nauka.
Anderson, David G. 2000. Identity and Ecology in Arctic Siberia: The Number One
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Basso, Keith. 1992. Western Apache Language and Culture. Tuscon: University of
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Bender, Barbara, ed. 1993. Landscape: Politics and Perspectives. Providence, Oxford:
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Cruikshank, Julie. 1998. The Social Life of Stories: Narrative and Knowledge in the
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Gurvich, Il’ia S. 1977. Kul’tura severnykh Iakutov-olenevodov (Culture of the
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O’Hanlon, 1–30. Oxford: Clarendon.
Hirsch, Eric and Michael O’Hanlon. 1995. The Anthropology of Landscape:
Perspectives on Place and Space. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Ingold, Tim. 2000. The Perception of Environment: Essays in Livelihood, Dwelling

and Skill. London: Routledge.
the Siberian Khanty. Oxford: AltaMira Press.
Ksenofontov, Gavril V. 1992 [1937]. Urangkhai Sakhalar: Ocherki po drevnei istorii
Iakutov (Urangkhai Sakhalar: Essays on Ancient History of the Iakuts). Iakutsk:
Natsional’noe izdatel’stvo Respubliki Sakha (Iakutiia).
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London: Eyre and Spottiswoode.
CHAPTER 10
THE CREATION AND PERSISTENCE

OF CULTURAL LANDSCAPES AMONG
THE SIBERIAN EVENKIS: TWO CONCEPTIONS
OF ‘SACRED’ SPACE
Alexandra Lavrillier
Settled over a vast territory that stretches from the Enisei River to the
Okhotsk Sea, and from the banks of the Arctic Ocean to the Amur River,
the Evenkis, also known as the Tunguses,1 form one of the most widely-
distributed peoples of Siberia. Classic studies of their traditional hunting
and reindeer-herding culture emphasise a core passion for ceaseless jour-
neying and the discovery of new territories (Vasilevich 1963, 106). Even
after the major disruptions of the Soviet era, many Evenki communities
remain committed to maintaining mobile life-ways out on the land.
This chapter aims to explore how contemporary Evenki commu-
nities relate to the landscapes they inhabit. Using materials from ex-
tended fieldwork among Orochen Evenkis in Southern Iakutiia and the
Amur Region (Lavrillier 1995, 2000, 2003, 2005–2006), I will investi-
gate how tracts of remote forest become organised into cultural land-
scapes imbued with ancestral and spiritual meanings.2
‘MANAGING’ SPACE IN A MOBILE HUNTING AND

REINDEER-HERDING COMMUNITY
The Orochen Evenkis inhabit larch forest, which includes pine, fir, birch
and cedar, often with a rich under-storey vegetation of lichens, mosses
and berry bushes. Parts of the terrain are deeply cut by fast-flowing rivers
215
and streams, while some of the wider valleys include expansive bogs and
kever meadows, which provide ideal summer reindeer pastures.
Evenki communities inhabiting these forests practice a mobile hunt-
ing and fishing economy, keeping small herds of between 5–100 ‘domes-
tic’ reindeer per person for transport purposes. During the nine winter
months, the reindeer are used as draft animals, each sledge pulled by two
reindeer (Figure 10.1). In summer, they ride the animals or walk along-
side them as they carry baggage (Figure 10.2).
The practical importance of the ‘domestic’ reindeer means they are
never just slaughtered for meat, except in cases of extreme starvation,
though they are ritually sacrificed during weddings, burials and collect-
ive seasonal festivals.
Subsistence strategies are brought together in a complex seasonal
round that includes fishing salmonidaes, eel pout and grayling, and
hunting elk, ‘wild’ reindeer, roe deer, red deer, migrating birds, black
grouse, snow partridge and occasional bears. Sables are the sole focus
of commercial hunting, which is conducted between October and early
December, when the luxuriant furs are at their best. The precious pelts
are traded, forming the only source of income during the whole year.
Scheduling these diverse subsistence activities over the landscape at
different times of the year can only be achieved through high levels of
Figure 10.1 Winter encampment. (Photograph by Alexandra Lavrillier.)

Creation and Persistence of Cultural Landscapes among Siberian Evenkis 217
Figure 10.2 Summer encampment. (Photograph by Alexandra Lavrillier.)
mobility, which demand the keeping of transport reindeer, though the

pasturing demands of the ‘domestic’ herd add a further set of require-
ments that need to be integrated with other tasks. During the winter
period, small mobile communities (usually a nuclear family or associ-
ation of brothers or friends) will shift camp every 20 or 30 days, moving
40–80 km to the next site. In summer, they move shorter distances more
frequently, for example 5–20 km every 3 to 10 days. While camping
in one location the Evenkis round up ‘domestic’ reindeer to travel out
swiftly along ‘roads’ (forest tracks) into adjacent areas for hunting or
fishing.
The yearly travels of a nuclear family tend to describe an extended
loop, with a main track-way connecting a series of temporary camp-
sites, the overall line of travel enclosing several main rivers and their
tributaries. The exact nomadisation routes are also guided by a suite
of challenges arising from the practice of a mixed hunting and herding
economy. For example, the economic calendar distinguishes five main
seasons, each with its own constraint on possible camping grounds. In
this scheme, summer and winter encampments represent two ends in
a continuum of strategies, with encampments in other seasons located
somewhere in between.
In all seasons, camp sites need to be located on dry, flat land, close
to sources of fresh water, dry larch (for fuel) and the network of for-
est ‘roads’. However, summer encampments must be located at higher
elevations or along the shaded north sides of valleys where it is cooler

for the herds, but also within no more than four days’ travel to hunting
grounds (kanu:la). At the same time, they cannot be too close to hunting
areas as these are also occupied by bears, which prey on the ‘domestic’
herds.
In contrast, as winter approaches, the cold winds make higher re-
gions uninhabitable. So encampments move down to the valleys for the
winters. Here, there are fewer constraints on the organisation of reindeer
herding: herds can feed on relatively common plants, such as lichens
or the leaves of the bilberry bushes that they can easily find under the
snow. The primary factors influencing settlement and mobility relate to
the demands of the commercial sable-hunting economy. Balancing these
different activities, each with contradictory requirements, demands great
skill, an extraordinarily detailed knowledge of locally-variable topo-
graphic, climatic and ecological factors and sound judgment to ensure
that the different practices and movements take place smoothly and with
the minimum of risk.
The fluidity of land use means that migration routes followed by
individual families often intersect with those of other groups. Space is
not considered to be private property, and hunting territories are often
shared, although this usually follows prior mutual agreements between
members of the same encampment, or in other cases, between members
of different encampments. In general, younger hunters are required to
give the first choice of territories to their elders, although the ultimate
organising principle appears to be ‘first come, first served’ basis.
In contrast to hunting lands, the network of roads is considered
common property, with open access and use for all. Nodes along these
routes, that is, the seasonal encampment places are the property of a nu-
clear family or a group of nuclear families, who will use these sites year
after year. If another nuclear family wants to stay at these sites, they
need permission, and if this is granted, their tent must be set in a place in
which no other tent has previously stood.
Local patterns of family mobility often overlap, to the extent that
one can often find significant numbers of encampments along the banks
of the same river, with each site belonging to a different nuclear family.
At a larger social scale, however, one tributary river is often considered
to be the property of a single kin group. According to this principle,
those who set up camps close to one another along the main river, or its
tributaries, are described as ‘neighbours’ (mata), whom one should visit
often and engage in mutual assistance and exchange.
Such co-operation includes mutual assembly for the collective sum-
mer nomadisation. Although the river basin remains the main arena of
mobility year on year, the specific line of travel may be modified from
year-to-year so that the nomads can temporarily ‘abandon’ tracts of

land, enabling the pastures, game populations and encampments to ‘re-
cover’ from several years of human presence.
‘DUALISTIC’ PERCEPTIONS OF SYMBOLIC SPACE

For the Evenkis, there is no part of this forested world that can be
considered to be secular, since each and every location is inhabited by
spirits. Nevertheless, a broad distinction can be made between the loca-
tions inhabited by spirits belonging to the ‘wild’ world, and those areas
inhabited by spirits of the ‘domestic’ world.
This basic distinction arises because the Evenkis believe that a sus-
tained human presence leads to changes in the kinds of spirits occupying
a place; long-term occupation brings in spirits of the human dead, and in
turn gradually drives away the spirits linked to ‘wild’ animals. As a result
of these presences, every space is sacred, that is ‘inhabited by spirits’, but
the characteristics of these spirits are different according to the use made
of that space, whether for reindeer breeding, habitation or for hunting.
This major distinction in the conceptual organisation of the land-
scape is also reflected in the speech of nomads, who often refer to the
‘wild’ and ‘domestic’ spaces of the taiga. The first term of the dichotomy,
kanu:la, designates the territory lying beyond the edge of the encamp-
ments that must not be crossed by men or their ‘domestic’ reindeer. These
areas are far from the nomadisation ‘roads’ and reindeer pastures usu-
ally frequented in the seasonal round. In a certain sense, these spaces are
considered to be ‘wild’, or more precisely, in the words of the Evenkis,
the land ‘that does not bear the marks of man’. These are the areas where
the most valued game dwell, and this zone is also occupied by the most
important spirit master.
The Evenkis call this spirit Baraliak or Baianai. According to them,
he is at the same time one and multiple, in the sense that there is one who
is linked to every parcel of space (whether it be ‘wild’ or ‘domestic’). So,
at every encampment he is fed by throwing a piece of meat into the fire.
The ‘domestic’ Baraliak are considered to be less powerful than the ‘wild’
ones. So to obtain luck for hunting during the coming season, the elders
go alone, in autumn and in spring, into one of the ‘wild’ spaces of the
taiga (kanu:la), with three skewers of fat meat that they cook on a camp
fire. Here they ‘discuss’ with the spirit, making a fire, and feeding him by
throwing pieces of meat in the flames.
The second term in the dichotomy is beiechi which refers to the ‘ter-
ritory of men’, and stems from word beie meaning ‘man’. These are the
camp sites, the locations where ‘domestic’ reindeer are regularly pastured,
as well as the forest ‘roads’ that link up into an expansive nomadisation

network that runs out over the landscape.
These places and pathways are all strongly marked by the visible
presence of human activity and the keeping of ‘domestic’ animals. For
example, areas in and around the camp are trampled, trees are felled
for shelter and fuel, pathways are kept clear by felling and grass will
not grow along them so long as feet and herds continue to pass. These
areas also include the pastures where bushes and the mosses have been
cropped by reindeer from the ‘domestic’ herd. All these changes are not
attractive to ‘wild’ species, which stay away from ‘humanised’ areas.
These factors are reflected in the Evenki concern for both preserv-
ing the pastures required by their ‘domestic’ reindeer as well as limiting
impacts by the group and herd on the surrounding hunting lands. Every
effort is made to stay only short times at camp sites, and to trample the
ground as little as possible; trees are cut from several areas rather than
felling dense stands, and the group travels as much as possible along ex-
isting taiga track-ways. There is also concern for taking as little as pos-
sible, for preserving the land for future generations.
‘MARKING’ SPACE: MATERIAL REMAINS AT LOCAL

AND LANDSCAPE SCALES
The humanisation of the landscape during the seasonal round is marked

by a suite of material constructions and remains. These are particularly
associated with the creation of settlements and pathways associated with
living persons and with deliberate avoidance of ancestral camps associ-
ated with the dead.
THE CREATION OF ‘DOMESTIC’ (‘HUMANISED’) SPACE

The area in and around seasonal encampments is marked by construc-
tions that remain in place even when the group is absent. At the edge
of the camp, often a little way into the forest and just out of sight, the
Evenkis build small storage caches (termed kolbo, sa:iba, no:ku, accord-
ing to the dialects). These log-built cabins are built on top of two to four
log stilts or sawn-off tree stumps, so that bears and mice cannot raid the
food stores. Local storage of equipment and supplies enables groups to
travel as lightly as possible, but it also demands forward planning of ac-
tivities and migration routes.
The area in which the tents are located is called the aran. Even when
no tent is present, the place is still marked either by logs placed on the
ground, poles vertically driven in the ground, or by two high tripods

depending on when the site is being occupied. For example, in summer,
the tent is stretched over a cross beam which rests on two poles driven
into the ground. In spring, the ground is frozen but melting, and so two
tripods are used to support the cross ridge. Finally, in winter, the tent
is built over a series of long stakes which are driven into the snow. In
all seasons, the tent sides are held down with horizontal logs, except in
summer, when a series of heavy stones is used to keep the cloth on the
ground. As a result of these different construction methods, it is quite
easy to determine the last season in which the camp was used (Figures
10.1 and 10.2).
These rather ephemeral remains belie a deeper symbolic structuring
of the humanised space of the aran. Moreover, whether the site is occu-
pied or not, or whether a tent stands or merely its framework, the fact
that this spot has been the location of a dwelling creates a series of inter-
dictions and precepts that require strict observance. For example, even
when there is no tent, it is strictly forbidden to enter the former space
of the dwelling at any point other than where the entrance was located.
Breach of this convention can profoundly influence the health and wel-
fare of the whole human collective.
Terminology associated with the tent suggests that the structure and
orientation of the aran reflects wider cosmological concepts. The hearth,
located at the centre of the dwelling, surrounded by logs or stones, or
occasionally marked by the presence of a large schist slab, is considered
to be a vector of communication linking the world of living people with
the lower world domain of the dead, and with the ‘souls to be born’ who
are in the upper world. As a result of this powerful symbolism, it is for-
bidden to walk on, step over or walk around the hearth in a full circle.
As with many other circumpolar peoples, the typical Evenki under-
standings of life and death can be summarised in terms of a ‘soul’ com-
prising three parts—a body soul and a shadow soul, both of which
disappear at death, while a third soul (omi) eventually reaches the upper
world, where it remains until recycled into new life. A new child is con-
ceived when an omi from the upper world enters the tent via the smoke
hole and becomes fixed in a new mother’s womb. During early life, the
omi is poorly fixed to the child’s body. When a person dies, the omi
leaves the body and its place in the middle world, and then travels to
the under world, where it lives life in reverse, until it emerges again in
the upper world, completing the cycle (see Anisimov 1951, 1952, 1958;
Lavrillier 2005, 283–333; Shirokogoroff 1935, 1966 [1929]; Vasilevich
1930, 1959, 1969).
The area at the back of the tent is termed malu, and is associated
with the ‘wild’ spaces of the forest. Here the group keeps images of spirits
and conducts important rituals linked to hunting. In the most important

ceremonies, when the collective call out to the powerful spirit masters
of the ‘wild’ forest, the shaman has to enter the tent by going under the
malu side. While this rear area of the tent is sacred, the two sides are
described by a term that means ‘sides of a hill’. The front section has
different, more ‘domestic’ associations: here are stored a whole series of
implements and tools, like the fire stick (opturuk), thought to guard the
family from the harmful spirits of the dead.
In front of the tent, in the direction of the rising sun, Evenkis place
an offering called ulganivun which is a bouquet of coloured cloth and
ribbons, each carefully selected by the women. These are hung, where
possible, on a young or unusually-shaped larch. This gesture serves to
counteract the intentions of nasty spirits of the dead, but also serves as
an offering to the ‘wild’ spirits of nature, so that ‘nobody will be sick,
and for the felicity of the human group and the reindeer herd’. Near
every tent one finds these ulganivun ribbons.
The area around every tent forms a kind of individual activity area
used mainly by the occupants of the single dwelling, and containing simi-
lar sets of rather standard equipment. From spring until autumn, a sec-
ond fire is kept burning just outside the tent entrance; this serves as a
secondary cooking fire, and is used for the preparation of meals for both
people and the dogs. This secondary fire demands exactly the same kinds
of behaviour as the primary hearth at the centre of the tent. Its location
is marked by ash and a circle of large stones above which stands a larch
tripod (so:nan). From this is suspended an iron pot-hanger (olon) which
also affords further protection against the nasty spirits of the dead.
Along the sides of the tent are several other constructions, which are
used to store clothes, food, tools and other materials, although these are
rarely unpacked from the containers in which they are transported so
that the group can always be ready to move on quickly. These construc-
tions vary from season to season. In winter, elevated log-built platforms
(delken), are set up at head height and used to store reserves of meat
and fish. Towards the end of the snowy period, these reserves are either
placed on sledges left on either side of the dwelling, or are placed on logs
left on the ground. As soon as snow melts, they are placed on construc-
tions that extend the length of the tent (idegel). These are comprised of
slim logs placed horizontally on poles that stand little more than a metre
high. Although used for practical purposes, these platforms and stores
also have codes of conduct associated with movement around them: they
also cannot be stepped over or walked around; again, breaches will af-
fect the welfare of the group.
Further out from each tent are usually a series of constructions used
for hanging various items, a construction termed lokovun (meaning a
place for hanging). These can be made from lengths of larch or birch
carved into a wedge shape and driven into a tree trunk, or are built from
slender poles placed horizontally between two high tripods. These dif-
ferent forms of lokovun are used to hang guns, hunting clothes, winter
shoes, lassos, winter and summer reindeer harnesses, furs, wet laundry,
bed linen, and for drying meat in the warm summers. Similar frame-like
constructions (teleptin) are used for stretching skins, and spring, summer
and autumn encampments include rectangular or conical constructions
of larch, around 2 m × 1.5 m × 1.5 m, which serve as hide-smoking
‘rooms’ (nuti:nek). At the centre of each smokehouse, women dig a rect-
angular pit and line it with small logs of green larch. After the fire is lit,
the whole construction is sealed with cloth, weighted onto the ground
with stones, so that the smoke fully penetrates the skins.
Summer and some spring/autumn camps include meat containers
(ulleruk). The summer version is a hole, dug in to the frozen earth with
an axe. The inside of this hole is then covered with larch logs, then larch
branches upon which pieces of meat are placed. The hole is then sealed
with thin logs and covered further by a thick layer of turf and moss. Each
tent has its own store, and these are located at the edge of the camp, so
that the meat is kept fresh and away from flies. A second variant of the
meat store is a rack which allows the free passage of air over the meat.
Beyond the activity areas of individual tents is a more communal
area marked by collectively-owned infrastructure. This includes the ‘do-
mestic’ reindeer enclosure, which is located at the very centre of the en-
campment and is built and maintained collectively by male members of
the independent individual ‘tent-holds’. In summer, the corralling of the
herd is not necessary as they could be attracted by the lighting of smudge
fires which afford them relief from the swarms of flies. The ulganivun
(ribbon-offerings) are also tied to the trees at the centre of the reindeer
enclosure in order to bring luck to the ‘domestic’ reindeer herd.
The space of the encampment is also marked by hunting and carcass-
processing activities. It includes a small elevated platform (1.5 m × 1.5 m
× 2 m; delken, gulik, according to the dialects) upon which the members
of each tent place the remains of animals. These include Cervidae heads,
antlers, hooves, and their skins prior to processing or consumption. The
larger and longer bones, including the vertebrae, are placed on the plat-
form after the consumption of the meat. The contents of the platform are
often very mixed, comprising mainly the remains of Cervidae, but also
skinned sable and the remains of hare (Figure 10.3).
The treatment of the bear is quite different to the more general treat-
ment of other animal remains (Vasilevich 1971). Bears are only hunted
when they become dangerous to either the herd or to people. After the
killing, the bones are stored in an elevated construction, which takes
Figure 10.3 Platform for animal remains. (Photograph by Alexandra Lavrillier.)
different forms and names among the various Evenki groups. Among
the groups of Southeast Siberian I studied, it is called gulik. Some of
those groups place the remains of the bear inside a chest-shaped larch
log construction, around 50 cm × 50 cm × 110 cm, which is mounted
on two pillars 200 cm high (Figure 10.4) The motivation for placing the
bones inside the chest is to symbolically recombine the disarticulated
remains of the bear so that it will be born again. The floor of the chest
in lined with larch branches and then the skull, with the skin of muzzle
Figure 10.4 ‘Sky’ burial platform for bears. (Photograph by Alexandra Lavrillier.)
attached to the lips, the main bones, the paws, vertebrae and liver, kid-
neys, bowels, heart are laid out in anatomical order, with head in the
east, and the chest oriented along an axis corresponding to the daily
passage of the sun through the sky. Hunters build these elevated bear
‘graves’ in the forest at the edge of the encampment, and where possible,
beyond a small brook that divides the grave of the animal from the
humanised and ‘domestic’ space of the encampment.
The remains of smaller animals like sable are skinned and then hung
from stakes around the hunter’s tent. Only when all the stakes are full
are old carcasses placed on the more general collective meat platform,
so that new bodies can be hung. Remains of grouse and snow partridge
(e.g., the head, wings, bowels, tail) are hung in trees around the tent,
along with deer hooves which will be used for making jelly, plus antlers
if they are to be used later. Many other objects are hung from the trees
in and around the camp-site, including damaged or worn-out clothes
that have been discarded by living people: casting them onto the floor
is thought hazardous to the welfare and health of the owners; so they
are hung. Off-cuts of fur and animal skin are also hung out of respect,
also as a gesture of returning them to the domain from which they were
taken, but also to prevent dogs from chewing at them which would be
offensive to the dead animal’s spirit master and so adversely affect hunt-
ing luck.
Broken containers and holed pots are considered to be useful in the
world of the dead and so they too are hung out in order to convey them
to the next world. The clothing of deceased persons is also hung out in
the forest, and any kettles, buckets or other daily equipment that they
owned is deliberately pierced before being hung out in the encampment
where the person died; it is considered that the departed person will be
able to use these damaged possessions again in the inverted world of the
dead.
MARKING THE TRAVEL AND TRACK-WAYS OF THE LIVING

The network of forest ‘roads’ also constitutes the ‘humanised’ or ‘do-
mestic’ spaces of the Evenkis. These routes are maintained by frequent
trampling but are more formally marked with signs. The first of these—
ilken—are comprised of sections cut out of the tree bark, partially-felled
trees, or young saplings bent across the line of travel. This system of ma-
terial symbols convey different kinds of precise information: they point
out the orientation of a new trail laid out in the forest; the fact that a
group has moved on towards another camp; the location of a newly-
founded aran (tent place); that something has been left for another group
or individual to collect; the location of a newly-killed game carcass that

has been left overnight; the presence of dangerous animals (e.g., a bear
or wolf). In the past, the repertoire of signs appears to have been far
more diverse, including not just the carving of trees, but also their mark-
ing with traces of red ochre; moreover, this richer ‘vocabulary’ of over
a hundred signs was able to convey more complex messages (Vasilevich
1963).
Further points along the trails are marked by ulganivun. These plac-
es bear the name of ulganikit (place for ulgani) and consist of repeated
deposits of brightly-coloured cloth ribbons, as well as cigarettes, gun
shells, sweets and carved figurines. Often, their location corresponds to
difficult transitional points along the migration routes, for example, at
mountain passes or river-crossing points, although these deposits are
also left at intermediate sections along the forest ‘roads’. Each of these
shrines has its own set of origin stories that every nomad knows: the
ulganikit situated along roads recount strange phenomena that people
have experienced in the vicinity, for example, shouts or calls coming
from nowhere, the appearance of apparitions, strange beings or the
spirits of the dead, or a series of accidents that have no explanation other
than the intervention of spirits. After sensing the spiritual importance or
hazardous nature of such a place, a first person will leave an initial offer-
ing, which will be repeated by others as they pass. Similar attitudes are
manifest through the offering of gifts at the crossing points. After mak-
ing such offerings, the Evenkis make appeals: ‘for the road to be good,
for nobody to suffer an accident or get sick, for nobody to have his or
her soul stolen away’.
AVOIDING THE ENCAMPMENTS OF THE DEAD

According to materials generated through my fieldwork, it seemed that
there are two kinds of ‘encampments of dead people’. The first type of
‘ancestral’ encampment is where a person has died while others in the
group remained living. The inhabitants of the camp will continue to oc-
cupy the location until the dead person has been buried, after which
they leave the place and do not return for three years. This period allows
the soul of the deceased to depart from the middle world of living per-
sons, though some persons known for exceptional ritual power—like
shamans—may continue to return to the world of the living even after
this period, especially if they seek to achieve particular goals (Lavrillier
2003, 2005, 2005–2006). After the death, a portion of the person’s pos-
sessions are selected for deliberate holing or breakage, while the remain-
ing items, perhaps those located in the stilted store houses, are left in
situ. In addition, the tent (the frame and cover) where the corpse lay
prior to the burial is left standing on the spot, along with all the other
constructions that surround the dwelling.
After departing, the group will select a new line of travel so that it
can avoid returning to this ‘encampment of the dead’. Three years later,
this group can return to live again on this encampment. However, the
material remains left by the dead person still present a significant threat
to health and life, and great care must be taken to not trample them.
Planning subsequent routes of seasonal migration also has to account
for the location of recent deaths as well as the range of other practical
factors noted above, thereby adding a further level of complexity to the
pragmatic year-to-year ‘management’ of cultural landscape knowledge.
A second kind of ‘encampment of the dead’ is where all the original
inhabitants have died. These are mainly very ancient camping locations
where the rotting poles of conical tents still remain standing, and often
include inhumations or elevated graves. These encampments are almost
never visited and the nomads are often afraid of even approaching too
close. The main reason for this appears to be the fact that the original
organisation of the camp is often unclear due to the re-growth of the
forest. As a result, the ancient aran or hearth areas might inadvertently
be trampled over or walked around.
Occasionally, hunting trips lead to unknown or forgotten camps
being encountered. After realising the proximity of such a place, the
nomads take the precaution of hanging ulganivun ribbon-offerings in
order to avoid any retaliation from the dead: ‘These spirits, they say,
may cling to you and make you sick, that’s why it’s better not to go there
or always hang colored ribbons near these encampments’.
Within these wider ancestral landscapes, the most ancient form of
Evenki burials are the elevated ‘sky’ burials. These are comprised of a
very wide larch log which has been split in two lengthways, and then
hollowed out to make a cavity for the corpse. The two sides of the log
are then rejoined and placed horizontally across two pillars, recalling in
general form the grave constructed for the bear, and also aimed at ensur-
ing eventual rebirth.
Few human sky burials remain, although one can encounter col-
lapsed remains. Often, the Evenkis are aware of the location of these
places, but refuse to go there fearing retaliation from the dead, even
though only a few fallen logs and collapsed posts may remain. Knowledge
of grave sites, including the name, clan affinity and geographic origin
of the deceased, often remains in the community’s long-term collective
memory of significant places in the landscape, and also contributes to
the practical planning of mobility patterns. The graves of shamans are
particularly feared, and this sense of danger—and the likelihood of being
punished for approaching too close—means that these grave locations

feature more highly in the collective landscape memory.
MARKING ROUTINE AND RITUAL ACTIVITIES IN THE ‘WILD’

SPACE OF THE FOREST
The general patterns of individual and community mobility mean that
human presence in the ‘wild’ spaces of the deeper forest seldom bear
signs of any enduring human presence. These included dead-fall log
traps designed to procure sable and other fur bearers. Larger versions
also exist for catching elk. These traps are usually located along well-
known trails and established animal migration routes though passive
hunting methods are now being replaced by the use of firearms.
The ‘wild’ areas also include the remains of ritual gestures, in par-
ticular, occasional ulganivun offerings of cloth and ribbon. These offer-
ings are also left along rivers, at sites where the Evenkis collect ochre.
Here, the elders say that thanks have to be given to the spirits of natural
environment for the materials taken.
In the areas of deep forest, the Evenkis also encounter traces of much
older forms of marking the land in the form of rock paintings. These also
receive ulganivun offerings, part of a complex of rituals associated with
the prehistoric remains, which involve predicting hunting luck for the
forthcoming season by elder hunters and predicting the most important
events for their group for the next year by shamans or elders (Lavrillier
2005, 449–53).
The Evenkis assert that the images were made by the ‘spirits of
nature’ or by ‘shamans led by the spirits of nature’. Moreover, they be-
lieve that the content of the images changes from year-to-year: nomads
of all ages go there in the spring, prior to the snow melting, in order
to learn what the coming year has in store for them. The ceremonies
begin with lighting a fire, making tea, and then they climb on the rock
to make offerings of coloured cloth, gun shells, and spirit figurines clad
with fur. After that, they observe the rock paintings and predict the
hunting for the next season or for the life of their group for the follow-
ing year.
As an elder Evenki told me, in the past, shamans led seasonal col-
lective rituals in the ‘wild’ space of the forest. These ceremonies involved
the erection of large conical tents, a series of poles topped with ani-
mal and bird figures, along with wooden images of animals, birds, etc.
During these collective shamanic rituals, the community built a model
of the cosmos with the tent and the surrounding ritual edifices. Even
today, the communities know the approximate locations in which these
shamanic events took place, but tend to avoid visiting those spots for
fear of retaliations from the shamans or spirits who participated in the
rituals. Touching or removing the rotting materials which are remains of
the tents or of carvings is thought especially hazardous.
HISTORICAL LEGACIES OF ‘MARKING’ THE TAIGA LANDSCAPE

One characteristic feature of Evenki cultural landscapes are the di-
verse material constructions that are deliberately left in situ at individ-
ual camping locations, rather than being carried between sites and built
anew. These tripods, racks, platforms, stakes and hearth sites—as well
as old clothes and equipment hung on trees—tend to endure for a num-
ber of years and possibly over several generations, serving as physical
reminders of the cultural and spiritual imprints that humanity has left
on the land. This wider repertoire of cultural practices is not guided by
the desire to deliberately stamp the wider environment with a human
presence. On the contrary, these residues mark the places and pathways
of humanised areas in ways which acknowledge its cautious and shifting
distinction from the ‘wild’ spaces of the deeper forest, as well as the po-
tential for these cultural imprints and activities to drive away the game
that the human collective seeks to procure.
At the same time, the creation and inhabitation of Evenki cultural
landscapes generates profound behavioural legacies for future genera-
tions, which are poorly explored against the rather static concepts of
‘humanised’ places and ‘wild’ landscape spaces. One fundamental con-
cern for current generations is to avoid burial places and ancestral camp-
sites ‘contaminated’ by associations with the spirits of the dead. And yet,
in a natural landscape constituted by complex constellations of inter-
locking ecological, hydrological and environmental features, there are
only so many new places for living hunter-herders to effectively practise
a ‘culture of avoidance’ until encroachment on ancestral encampments
becomes unavoidable.
One possible solution to the cumulative ‘overcrowding’ of the cul-
tural landscape is for knowledge of the older sites to eventually drop out
of the collective memory as generations pass and the material remains
rot back into the forest. This may also suggest that Evenki humanisa-
tion of ‘wild’ space—in both a material and commemorative sense—is
both temporary and cyclical. The cultural imprints and memories may
only endure for a number of generations before the forest ‘acts back’
to ensure reversion to a ‘wild’ state of pristine nature. Interestingly, the
cosmological basis for cyclical shifts from ‘humanised’ back to ‘wild’
states runs through much Evenki folklore. According to these beliefs,
the spirits of the human dead eventually come to form close associa-
tions with the spirit masters of the animal world, suggesting that distinct
‘wild’ and ‘domestic’ spaces are only transient, and that the entire taiga
landscape eventually becomes a single unified past-and-present cultural
space, locked into ceaseless cycles of appropriation, transformation and
rebirth.
In other settings, the enduring significance of ancestral sites within
the contemporary cultural landscape may have eventually made con-
tinued occupation of some tracts of territory impossible. Over time, a
localised desire to resolve the symbolic contradictions inherent in the
routine and ritualised treatment of spiritually-contaminated places may
have fed into a persistent hunger for ‘landscape knowledge’ about new
areas, perhaps eventually generating the remarkable Evenki diaspora
over vast tracts of Northern Eurasia.
NOTES
1 The Evenkis form part of the Manchu-Tungus group of the Altaic language
family. There are 35,000 Evenkis in Russia, plus 35,000 in China (2002 Russian
Census).
2 I conducted fieldwork among Evenki hunters and reindeer herders in south
of Iakutiia and the Amur Region, spending five-and-a-half years with forest
nomads and a further two years in villages. In the past, these Evenkis were
named the Orochen (literally: ‘reindeer people’) of the Stanovoi and Iablonovy
mountains.
REFERENCES
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i totemicheskie istoki ideologii shamanstva. Sbornik Muzeia Antropologii i
Etnografii XIII: 188–215.
Anisimov, Arkadii Fedorovich. 1952. Shamanskii chum u Evenkov i problema
proiskhozhdeniia shamanskogo obriada. Trudy Instituta Etnografii XVIII: 198–
238.
Anisimov, Arkadii Fedorovich. 1958. Religiia Evenkov v istoriko-geneticheskom
izuchenii i problemy proiskhozhdeniia pervobytnykh verovanii. Moscow-
Leningrad: Akademiia Nauk SSSR.
Lavrillier, Alexandra. 1995. Les différentes fêtes saisonnières chez les Évenks éleveurs
de rennes du sud de la Iakoutie. M.A. diss., University of Paris X-Nanterre.
Lavrillier, Alexandra. 2000. La Taïga: le berceau des Évenks. Les représentations de la
nature chez un peuple altaïque de Sibérie. Boréales 78–81: 25–44.
Lavrillier, Alexandra. 2003. De l’oubli à la reconstruction d’un rituel collectif.
L’Ikènipkè des Évenks. Slovo, Sibérie. Paroles et mémoires 28–29: 169–91.
Lavrillier, Alexandra. 2005. Nomadisme et adaptations sédentaires chez les Évenks de

Sibérie postsoviétique: «jouer» pour vivre avec et sans chamanes. Ph.D. diss., Ecole
Pratique des Hautes Etudes (Section des Sciences Religieuses), Paris.
Lavrillier, Alexandra. 2005–2006. S’orienter avec les rivières chez les Évenks du Sud-
Est sibérien. Un système d’orientation spatial, identitaire et rituel. Études mongo-
les, sibériennes, centrasiatiques et tibétaines 36–37: 95–138.
Shirokogoroff, Sergei M. 1966 [1929]. Social Organization of the Northern Tungus.
Osterhout: Anthropological Publications.
Shirokogoroff, Sergei M. 1935. Psychomental Complex of the Tungus. London: Paul
Kegan.
Vasilevich, Grafira Makar’evna. 1930. Nekotorye dannye po okhotnich’im obriadam
i predstavleniiam u tungusov. Etnografiia 3: 57–67.
Vasilevich, Grafira Makar’evna. 1957. Drevnie okhotnich’i i olenevodcheskie obriady
evenkov. Sbornik Muzeia antropologii i etnografii XVII: 151–85.
Vasilevich, Grafira Makar’evna. 1959. Rannie predstavleniia o mire u evenkov. LI
Trudy Instituta etnografii: 157–92.
Vasilevich, Grafira Makar’evna. 1963. Drevnie geograficheskie predstavleniia evenkov
i risunki kart. Izvestiia vsesoiuznogo geograficheskogo obshchestva 4: 306–19.
Vasilevich, Grafira Makar’evna. 1969. Evenki: Istoriko-etnograficheskie ocherki
(XVIII-nachalo XX v.). Leningrad: Nauka.
Vasilevich, Grafira Makar’evna. 1971. O kul’te medvedia u evenkov. Sbornik Muzeia
Antropologii i Etnografii XXVII: 150–69.
Part 3
Landscapes in Long-term
Transformation
CHAPTER 11
THE MANSI SACRED LANDSCAPE

IN LONG-TERM HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE
Elena Glavatskaia1
INTRODUCTION
The Mansis (Voguls) are a Finno-Ugric people dwelling in Northwestern
Siberia. Of the 11,573 in the 2002 census, the great majority of the
Mansis still live in the Khanty-Mansiiskii Avtonomnyi Okrug (in the
basin of the lower Ob’, Sosva, Konda and Northern Sosva rivers with
their tributaries), while others live in the Sverdlovskaia oblast’ (along the
upper Pelym and Lozva rivers) (Figure 11.1). My aim in this chapter is
to contextualise practical, social and symbolic dimensions of Mansi land
use within broader historical transformations. Starting with an intro-
duction to the Mansis, I explore how the Russian conquest of Siberia
brought an extended period of culture contact, bringing traditional
Mansi culture into confrontation with Orthodox missionary activity and
later with Soviet atheism. The main body of the chapter examines the
constituents of ‘traditional’ Mansi sacred landscapes.
SETTLEMENT PATTERNS
Traditionally the Mansis lived in extended family settlements scattered
along the Ob’ River’s tributaries. Due to their dispersed settlement
pattern, infrequent contacts between different communities and rela-
tive isolation, the Mansis developed only very slowly into a larger eth-
nic group. Also, their culture was influenced in a number of ways by
235
Pelym R
.
0 200 km
Figure 11.1 General location map of Mansi communities in Western Siberia (late
19th/early 20th). (Map drawn by Alison Sandison.)
repeated Khants and Siberian Tartar conquests. Finally, Mansi social

and political structures were deeply affected by the Russian conquest
and colonial control.
Mansi extended families lived in pauls (Mansi for ‘village’ or ‘settle-
ment’), also often referred to as iurts (Turkish for settlement). These set-
tlements ranged in size from a single household, registered around 1900
in the Urals, to 30 households located in bigger settlements in the Konda
River basin (Sokolova 1983, 286, 311). The estates of Northern Mansi
pauls encompassed seasonal houses and lands for reindeer pastures, fish-
ing, hunting and gathering. Such traditional settlement patterns declined
gradually in the 20th century, and most rapidly in the 1950s and 1960s,
when Soviet policy enforced the liquidation of small villages, replacing
them with larger settlements.
By the end of the 20th century, we can distinguish three different
types of Mansi settlements based on their size and economy. The largest
ones (up to 150 households) have a relatively developed infrastructure
and an ethnically-mixed population. The second largest settlements have
the basic infrastructure of a shop, ambulance, a ‘house of culture’, and
The Mansi Sacred Landscape in Long-Term Historical Perspective 237
sometimes a primary school. They contain up to 80 households, with the

Mansis making up more than 50 percent of the population. The third
type is closest to the traditional iurt, with less than 13 households and
an ethnically-homogeneous Mansi population (Fedorova 1994, 91–92;
1999).
SUBSISTENCE PATTERNS
The landscapes occupied by Mansi communities extended over several
quite different river basins, and so the economy of local groups exhibited
different characteristics in relation to varying climatic and geographic
conditions. According to Golovnev (1995, 47), the economic system de-
veloped by the Northern Mansis by the 15th century AD was of the ‘inter-
ior taiga hunter-fishers’ type, while the economy of the southern groups
of the Mansis was supplemented by agriculture (Kosarev 1991, 74, 76).
The fur ‘boom’ of the 17th century led to the exploitation of new
hunting areas and hence to the adoption of domestic reindeer herds,
which provided a higher degree of mobility. Since the Russian conquest,
the economy of Northern Mansis has been based on fishing and hunting,
while herding and gathering play important supplementary roles in their
subsistence, with reindeer kept primarily for transport rather than meat.
The Western and Southern Mansis were exposed to the strongest
Russian influence, resulting in gradual adoption of sedentary agriculture
as the main economic activity while readily accepting Christianity. By the
late 19th century, they were fully assimilated peasants. In contrast, some
of the most northerly Mansis lived in remote areas far from main trade
and travel networks, experiencing only minor influences from Russian
culture. Their continued reliance on mobile hunting, fishing, gathering
and reindeer herding ensured the persistence of older cultural patterns
no longer found among other groups.
THE MANSI LANDSCAPE AND STATE POLICY

The Mansis have a long history of encounters with Islam, Christianity
and Soviet ideologies, and the legacies of these experiences remain in
material form in the landscapes they continue to inhabit. In the South,
the early exposure of Mansi groups to Islam resulted in the erection of
mosques. Later, these areas also become a focus of resistance against
Russian Orthodox missions in the early 18th century (see map at http://
www. rhd.uit.no/Glavatskaia). Although this initial missionary activity
was unsystematic, and government policies were oriented towards
voluntary Christianisation rather than forced conversion, some Mansi

individuals accepted Christianity as early as the beginning of the 17th
century. (Glavatskaia 1996, 233–39).
A more formal period of state-directed missions started with the
18th century when most Mansis were baptised (Glavatskaia 2009).
Traditionally, the Mansis venerated numerous deities to whom they
made offerings and sacrifices at sacred places and at home. Destruction
of these shrines and images (referred to as ‘idols’) became the focus of
missionary activity and many were ransacked and burnt. When mission-
aries arrived at Mansi settlements, the community made every attempt
to protect their holy images. In 1715, when missionaries approached
one of the most venerated deities in iurts Nakhrachevskie, the Konda
River Mansis desperately tried to find ways to protect it from destruc-
tion. Their first offer was to pay extra fur tax to be allowed to keep the
deity, which was rejected by the missionaries. The Mansis then suggested
that the deity’s image be baptised and placed in church along with the
Christian icons, but this offer was also turned down. Finally, they hid
the real image in the forest, replacing it with a copy. However, even this
copy was important for the Mansis. So they asked the missionaries not
to burn it in front of their eyes. When a Cossack hacked down the replica
with his sabre, the Mansis were on the brink of raising their weapons in
anger and despair. Novitskii recorded them yelling at the missionaries:
‘Why are you abusing and swearing at our deity?’ Eventually the Mansis
retreated in tears from the sacred place and bid their deity farewell while
crying for its pitiful destiny ‘in the hands of the merciless Russians’
(Novitskii 1941, 94–98).
Different Mansi groups reacted differently to new laws demanding
compulsory baptism. Some resisted, but under the persistent demands
of missionaries, often backed by troops, they had to agree to destroy
their traditional images and sacred places and let themselves be bap-
tised. These apparent surrenders to the new faith did not mean that they
abandoned their older religious traditions entirely. Early descriptions of
Mansi relationships with their gods (Muller 1722–23; Novitskii 1941)
indicate that these destructions were perceived as the fate of gods who
had failed their duty to help the communities that venerated them. For
example, when the Mansis were satisfied that one of their main gods had
helped them in a bountiful catch, they made sure the deity shared in the
prosperity by greasing the image’s mouth with fish oil. However, if fish
catches were poor, they punished the holy image for failing to provide
assistance:
They took his clothes from him and threw him into a filthy
hole, insulting him all the while with reproaches and invectives;
telling him he had been asleep when they implored him for help;
that it seemed his forces began to decay and that he was no
longer able to do the service to them which he had done to their
ancestors; that therefore, if his advanced age had made him lazy
and decrepit it was time for them to discard him, and look for
another god. (Muller 1722–23, 85).
This passage explains why the Mansis sometimes agreed to destroy

their gods’ images in the presence of missionaries.
If 1600 to 1920 AD had seen a confrontation and partial accommo-
dation between Mansi and Orthodox cultures and beliefs, the start of the
Soviet period ushered in an era of profound change, for the Communists
were determined to establish a secular state. The work of state insti-
tutions was supported at local levels by newly-founded organisations
such as the Soiuz Voinstvuiushchikh Bezbozhnikov (League of Militant
Atheists) whose aim was to destroy the last vestiges of religion.
The main steps in this atheistic campaign towards the Mansis were
the destruction of any signs of religiosity and the persecution of religious
leaders. Acts of political sacrilege was used to destroy the Mansi sacred
landscape—atheist campaigners seized the images of deities, shamanistic
equipment and drums. Some were burnt on the spot: others were sent to
museums. They closed churches and chapels, confiscated devotional arti-
cles and icons. The establishment of compulsory boarding schools separ-
ated Mansi children from their families and cultural influences, enabling
the young to inherit folk and religious traditions.
The last quarter of the 20th century brought tremendous change to
the Mansis. The sudden collapse of the Soviet social security system de-
prived them of state subsidies, employment and viable markets for the
resources they hunted, fished and gathered. In the turbulent and challen-
ging world of post-Soviet Siberia, the social role of religion acquired new
significance. Many Mansis living ‘traditional’ lives in remote forests have
retreated to older forms of religious tradition, including public worship
at sacred places and animal sacrifices. Other Mansis have ‘rediscovered’
Christianity or been converted by Baptists or Pentecostals.
THE ‘TRADITIONAL’ MANSI SACRED LANDSCAPE: MAIN DIMENSIONS

At the core of Mansi understanding and perceiving, their landscape is
the notion of ialpyng which means something akin to ‘sacred’. For them,
the landscape forms only one domain within a wider universe owned
and ruled by deities and spirits. As such, any area associated with some
deity’s activity may acquire characteristics of sacredness—ialpyng ma2
(sacred land, area, space), but in so doing demand ritual behaviour from
the community towards this site. Thus, in its very essence, the terrain
can be interpreted as a sacred landscape demanding attention from those
living and travelling within it. This central notion of ialpyng ma entails
different dimensions and a full investigation of the Mansi sacred and
cultural landscape should explore each of these in turn.
MYTHOLOGICAL DIMENSIONS OF THE MANSI LANDSCAPE

The world of Mansi belief is inhabited by a multitude of gods and spirits
of varying importance for persons; some of these deities are good, oth-
ers neutral or evil. Humans must establish and maintain appropriate
relationships with these deities in order to secure support from some and
avoid potential harm that can be inflicted by others.
The upper ethereal sky world is the realm of the Supreme God Numi
Torum —the Creator. According to Mansi mythology, Torum created
the physicality of the world as well as its animals. He also created two
generations of otyrs— (heroic warriors). While he exterminated the
first generation for their disobedience, he spared the second, and trans-
formed them into individual pupygs (spirit-protectors) of various fam-
ilies and social groups and are referred to as forest people: mis khoom
(male) and mis ne (female). Torum is also responsible for the creation
of gigantic terrifying forest creatures-cannibals called menkvs. Finally,
Numi Torum created humans and instructed his younger son, Mir Susne
Khoom (literally the Man observing the World), to watch over the wel-
fare of humankind.
Deity Kaltash ekva is venerated by all Mansis and thought to be the
wife of Numi Torum (in some folklore, referred to as his sister). She was
expelled from heaven after having an affair with Kul’ otyr. Other highly-
venerated deities are Nai ekva, the goddess of fire, and Chohryn oika,
the god of blacksmithing, often described as a dragonfly. Besides the
main deities, each Mansi family venerates one or several pupygs, consid-
ered to be family protectors. The under world is the realm of Kul’ otyr
and numerous other subordinated kul’s —spirits responsible for spread-
ing diseases. Among such creatures, Samsai oika is considered to be the
most appropriate for establishing relationships with. He is the messenger
of Kul’ otyr and could bring disease; however, if properly treated, he is
able to protect the house from evil forces and mortal diseases (Gemuev
and Baulo 2001, 76–78).
The mythological dimension of the Mansi landscape also exists
within their numerous sacred places, each connected to a myth. These
sacred places and the wider cultural landscape serve as fundamental
links between the current lives of individuals and families and the deeper
mythological past of the wider community.
MANSI SACRED GEOGRAPHY

The Mansi ialpyng ma also has a system of spatial coordinates. The
areas inhabited by the deities are considered to be pure and ialpyng ma.
The upper world inhabited by the highest deities is thought to be the
most sacred and is not approachable by people except through sacrifice
or shamanic séance.
There are also ialpyng ma areas in the middle world. These areas are
inhabited by the numerous pupygs, who serve as the spirit protectors of
river basins and the human populations who live there. Other ialpyng
ma areas in the middle world are associated with the main upper world
deities. Some places became ialpyng ma because of important events that
took place there. These meanings are then passed on through epic songs,
myths and place-name traditions. Ruins from Metal Age Ugrian forti-
fied settlements are considered as ialpyng ma, as well as Stone Age sites
marked by lithics. Ialpyng ma is often a place with distinctive landscape
features, for example, islands, rock outcrops, especially those with holes
or caves that are strangely formed. Other places include large trees, par-
ticular lakes and rivers. The latter two bear the name ialpyng vit (sac-
red water). All sacred places require certain forms of ritual behaviour if
visited or passed, including the deposition of small offerings and certain
prescribed forms of behaviour.
In its horizontal projection, ialpyng ma is associated with the South
and related to the upper world, while the North is related to the under
world. People consider themselves inhabitants of the middle world,
whether along the vertical or horizontal projection. The under world is
considered as ‘different’ and a dangerous one, hence also requiring ritual
behaviour and sacrifices.
Every traditional Mansi settlement has its own sacred place, which
is usually located south of the settlement; close but hidden in the for-
est, out of outsiders’ view. According to the historical sources, a ser-
ies of major sacred places was venerated by most Mansi groups. Such
places were located close to river streams like the settlements themselves.
The most well known were located at major river branches. Each river
was believed to have deities ‘living’ along its upper, middle and lower
reaches. Along the same river, the sacred places in the upper part were
usually considered to be of higher significance. Reflecting this belief,
Mansis travelled downstream to gather and prepare wood for sacred
buildings that were to be built upstream. The sacred sites also influenced
the decision about locating settlements in relation to the ialpyng ma. For
example, the upper Lozva Mansis were aware that their settlement was
founded too far up the Lozva, considered to be a sacred river—ialpyng
vit. The community tried to compensate by constructing their houses
some kilometres away from the river bank, causing much inconvenience
as the river was the only summer transport route. When in 2005, the
settlement was destroyed by fire, they attributed this setback to their
‘violation’ of the ialpyng ma and subsequently re-founded their settle-
ment on the lower parts of the Lozva.
SOCIAL DIMENSIONS TO THE RITUAL LANDSCAPE

The Mansi sacred landscape has a strong social significance with im-
portant religious and ethical ideas and practices re-enacted in communal
rituals, bringing together the dispersed community during visits to sac-
red sites. These were held regularly at seasonal changes or in response to
crises. The process of sending out information and arranging travel to
ceremonial sites for prayer and sacrifice reinforced social ties in a land-
scape where many members of the community would rarely see each
other due to the remoteness of the terrain and extensive geographic mo-
bility. The focus of these events became a communal feast as well as
associated acts of sacrifice and prayer.
Another ritual event celebrated by the whole community was the
Bear festival, playing an integrative role within the community. In con-
trast to the more formal procedures at sacred sites, the Bear festival
included extensive creativity, performance and improvisation during
which antisocial behaviour like theft, greediness or boasting were pub-
licly ridiculed. At the same time, participation in the festival and its prep-
aration was highly structured along gender lines (Glavatskaia 2005).
The social role of the Mansi naiat (‘shaman’ in Russian sources)
was also significant. They were healers, prophesiers and mediators with
ialpyng ma inhabitants and responsible for making important decisions,
calling people to public rituals, as well as remembering and performing
the rituals and customs forming the complex cultural, ethnic and reli-
gious heritage of the community.
MATERIAL DIMENSIONS TO THE RITUAL LANDSCAPE

How did Mansi belief and spirituality lead to ‘signing’ of the landscape
with material deposits? Peter Jordan has suggested the term ‘dialogue’
to express the relationship between Khants communities and their holy
places (Jordan 2003, 281). This term can also express a similar rela-
tionship between Mansi communities and their deities. Moreover, these
acts are expressed and recorded through the use of material artefacts,
which ‘materialise’ and visualise the communication with pupyg. These
artefacts manifest the ‘materiality’ of the pupyg’s substance, thereby re-
assuring the participants that their communication with the pupyg will
be appreciated and eventually meet their desires for help and protection.
Among the immanent items involved in the communication are special
constructions thought to be ‘dwellings’ for pupygs, purposely made or
selected images and items necessary for the enactment of communica-
tion, for example, gifts, food and drinks. The role of these items is now
discussed in relation to sacred places and the ritual significance of do-
mestic architecture.
PURLAKHTYN MA (SACRIFICIAL PLACE)

An Ialpyng ma sacred place is a central clearing large enough to ena-
ble the community to assemble and the rituals to be conducted. These
comprise a series of structured stages: purification, prayer, sacrifice, gift
display, cooking and feasting. This central area is referred to as the pur-
lakhtyn ma (sacrifice place) (Kannisto 1958, 276) and is located to the
south (associated with the upper world) of the ialpyng ma. The holiness
of the purlakhtyn ma is marked by images of forest-spirits (the menkvs),
thought to be its permanent guardians. Seven such images could be lined
up on the horizontal pole (Gemuev and Baulo 1999, 168; Gemuev and
Sagalaev 1986, 82–83; Kannisto 1958, 208). Images of menkvs could be
carved on the side of a live tree growing in some sacred places (Gondatti
1988, 16). The Mansis almost always constructed a sum’ iakh, a special
house for the pupyg so that the ialpyng ma became its permanent resi-
dence (Figure 11.2).
Since the pupygs are associated with the upper world their sum’
iakhs (shelters) were usually constructed by cutting the tops off one,
two—or sometimes four or six—trees (according to Gemuev [1990,
141] at the same height of around 1.5–1.7 m). On top of these stems,
a platform or small hut was built, with or without a roof, the details
dictated by myth (Gemuev and Sagalaev 1986, 8, 9). Most of these huts
had an entrance, sealed by a door and ‘locked’ with a hooked nail or
by propping a pole horizontally against the door. Such houses were
believed to be the pupyg’s main residence. When the hut got old, a new
one would be constructed nearby. Despite its ritual function, the way
the sacred pupyg’s sum’ iakh (or ura sum’ iakh) was constructed was
identical to the stilted store houses (also sum’ iakh ) used for storage of
Figure 11.2 Pelym Mansi family pupyg sum’ iakh, June 2002. (Photograph by Elena
Glavatskaia.)
winter clothes and provisions to protect them from animals. However,

as noted above, the pupyg’s house should be constructed from live trees
and in only the upper river part unless the whole river was considered
ialpyng vit.
The house of the pupyg could be entered on a special ladder made
from a trunk with steps cut into the timber. After the ritual, the door
was closed again and ‘locked’ and the ladder put on the ground. In
order to emphasise the special significance of the pupyg’s house, the
building could be decorated with antlers (Nosilov 1904, 88), or wooden
carvings in the shape of an eagle’s head (Lukina et al. 1987, 166), a
capercailzie (Gemuev 1990, 85), a horse, an elk, or some images of
menkvs who were thought to be guarding the pupyg’s house. (Gemuev
and Baulo 1999, 164, 165). In addition to the usual construction of
the ialpyng ma, poles were often hung horizontally between trees for
hanging the sacrificed animals’ skins. There were also tables for rit-
ual meals at the ialpyng ma (Glavatskaia 2003) as well as benches or
special logs to seat the assembled group (Figure 11.3) (Gemuev and
Sagalaev, 1986, 37; Kannisto 1958, 226). Despite their location at a
sacred place, they were made like equivalent artefacts used routinely
in any traditional Mansi settlement. The fireplace formed an import-
ant focal point of the ialpyng ma, since cooking and preparation of tea
was an essential element in the ritual communication with the pupygs
(Figure 11.3).
The inside space of the pupyg sum’ iakh was occupied by a sin-
gle pupyg or in some situations an entire pupyg’s ‘family’. Their images
Figure 11.3 Lozva Mansi ialpyng ma. Festive meal preparations, July 2003.
(Photograph by Elena Glavatskaia.)
differed in shape and size; some could be roughly carved from wood in
anthropomorphic shape with head and face; others could be given more
human-like form by placing a metal plate as a face and dressing the figure
(Gemuev 1990; Gemuev and Baulo 1999; Gemuev and Sagalaev 1986;
Lukina et al. 1987; Muller 1722–23; Novitskii 1941). There are also
records of archaeological findings serving as pupyg images. Rather than
found by accident, these were thought to deliberately ‘reveal’ themselves
to a new owner. These included silver utensils (imported metal had im-
mense value in Mansi culture), bunches of arrows or unusually-shaped
stones. Often these objects are wrapped in cloth to achieve anthro-
pomorphic shape. Some pupyg sum’ iakh may not contain any image
(Gemuev and Baulo 1999, 106) even if they are thought to be permanent
residences and used to store offerings.
Inside its house, the pupyg usually ‘sits’ at the holiest place, by the
wall opposite to the entrance. The interior often includes a small table to
serve a meal during ‘communication’ rituals and to bring gifts brought to
the pupyg. The space near the entrance was used to store the utensils for
cooking and serving the meal as well as items for ritual purification with
smoke. These included the burning of chaga (3–4 cm3 pieces) with frag-
ments of dried beaver testicles. The purifying smoke was used by Lozva
Mansi women when they made triple moves with each foot over the
burning chaga before approaching local pupyg sum’ iakh. (Glavatskaia
2003).
Usual animals sacrificed to the pupygs were domestic reindeer,

horses, sheep and chicken. The sacrificial animals were chosen for being
young healthy males in good physical condition. The archaeological and
historical data prove that until the late 17th century, human sacrifices
were also practised by the Mansis. (Baidin et al. 2006, 71; Gemuev and
Sagalaev 1986, 110).
Other gifts for the pupygs reported in the earlier historical records
include weapons and armour, in some areas apparently maintained until
the early 20th century (Gemuev 1990, 134; Gemuev and Baulo 1999,
172–73; Gemuev and Sagalaev 1986, 21–22, 41, 52; Kannisto 1958,
20, 306–07). Due to their intermediary role in the trade networks link-
ing Persia, Volga and Scandinavia, the Mansis accumulated gold and
silver bowls and plates from Persia which they appear to have bought
with valuable forest pelts. These metal items were thought to be pupygs’
favourite gifts, and after these craft traditions disappeared in Persia, nu-
merous precious metal artefacts remained in use in Mansi communities
to the present day, albeit as deities or gifts to them in the ritual contexts
of sacred sites (Baulo 2000).
Fur pelts formed another gift given to pupyg as well as of czarist
officials’ uniforms, high-necked tunics and caps, which were also fre-
quently left as gifts (Gemuev and Baulo 1999, 173). Woollen cloth, tex-
tiles, specially sewn clothing, money, food, drinks and tobacco were also
common offerings to the pupygs.
Other items were used at sacred sites although not formally as part
of the ialpyng ma. In order to invite other high-ranking pupygs and
deities, the community would dress birch trees with clothing so that vis-
iting deities would be physically ‘present’ for sacrifice, meals and other
offerings (Kannisto 1958, 269). For example, in 2003, the Lozva Mansis
hung a red kerchief on a willow bush growing on the river bank be-
hind the table at a sacred site (Figure 11.4), while a rite was performed
to introduce guests to the Lozva river deity asking for its protection
(Glavatskaia 2003). Extra plates for new participants were made on the
spot from birch bark, to be left on the table after the ritual meal, while
the empty bottles were stuck on the branches of the birch trees growing
nearby. The idea was to leave anything that had been brought or made
at the ialpyng ma, but not on the ground close to the spirits of the under
world. Such rituals being repeated over many seasons, residues build up
at the site. Thus, many birches at this shrine had their branches festooned
with bottles serving as material memories of previous communication
with the Lozva deity (Glavatskaia 2003). In summary, there is abundant
evidence that Mansi sacred places are not merely topographic locations
commemorated through folklore and legend, but form long-standing ac-
tivity areas in the cultural landscape. As such, they form important focal
Figure 11.4 Lozva Mansi purlakhtyn ma: a scarf offered to the ialpyng; vit tied on a
willow, July 2003. (Photograph by Elena Glavatskaia.)
points of community aggregation and are physically marked by a series

of constructions and material deposits, ranging from built shelters, fire-
places, tables, feasting and sacrifice remains to gifts and containers.
IALPYNG MA IN THE HOUSE

As argued by Gemuev (1990), the Mansis reproduce the triple principle
of cosmic structure in every construction. The attic, the southern wall
and the whole area behind the house are considered the most sacred
parts, corresponding to the ialpyng ma. The special status of these edges
and spaces is manifested through bunches of arsyns (cloth pieces with
coins tied in each corner), another common offering to pupygs. In order
for these domains to retain their ‘purity’, they demand special treatment,
including taboos on women approaching them.
The attic, or the purposely-made torum norma and pupyg norma
(gods’ shelf) located on the southern wall of the house, serve as dwelling
places for the family’s pupygs, and also the main gods, including Mir
Susne Khoom and Kaltash ekva. These main deities are guardians of
wealth and happiness and mediators between humans and their pupygs.
Their divine assistance is especially needed when the local pupygs fail to
help. A family pupyg thought to have been afflicated with weakness old-
age, or even ‘death’ gets a new ‘body’.
In most Mansi houses, the main god’s presence is marked by the

keeping of a special ialpyng ulama, a usual gift or image of Mir Susne
Khoom. Other pupygs were kept secretly in nondescript boxes, sacks,
big chests and trunks, along with accumulated gifts (Figure 11.5). Most
Northern Mansi pupygs have a physical (anthropo- or zoomorphic)
image. However, family pupygs among the upper Pelym River Mansi
had no material form. Highly revered by the Mansis, they were revealed
as arsyns: a bunch of precious fur pelts in one trunk and a bunch of tex-
tile with coins inserted in corner knots in another. The locked trunks,
pieces of purifying chaga in a silver bowl and a small glass were placed
on the pupyg norma and covered by curtains (Glavatskaia 2002). Pelym
Mansis additionally have the sangvyltap—a wooden five string musical
instrument shaped like a boat stored on the pupyg norma. Its belong-
ing to the ialpyng area is defined by its role during the Bear festivals
(Glavatskaia 2002). Gemuev (1990, 68) reported how the sangvyltap
is kept in ialpyng sum’ iakh for playing songs to call for the pupygs.
He also mentioned the koip, a drum with offerings to it, as one of the
pupyg norma’s possible paraphernalia (Gemuev 1990, 101–04), but
kept in ialpyng sum’ iakh at the sacred place (Gemuev and Sagalaev
1986, 23–24).
The sleeping platform near the southern ‘pure’ wall is thought to be
the appropriate part for men to sit. The bear’s head and skin are placed
Figure 11.5 Pelym Mansi family pupyg (an arsyn) kept in a suit on the pupyg
normally opened for meal-offering rites and communication, June 2002, (Photograph
by Elena Glavatskaia.)
during the Bear festival when it is treated as a most honoured guest. Here
Imda—a stuffed bear (the skin and head on a special frame in a certain
pose) was placed near the southern wall or on pupyg norma. Female
bears were revered with women’s gifts: veils, earrings, rings, necklaces
and bracelets—male bears would be offered only arsyns. (Gemuev 1990,
119, 120.)
Deceased relatives were presented through the keeping of an itta-
rma, a purposely-made image thought to ‘house’ the dead person’s soul
after departing the physical body; usually an anthropomorphically-
shaped piece of wood cut from a log in the southern (pure) wall. Often,
a coin was inserted in its middle part or to mark its head. Ittarma are
treated with all the respect the Mansis show their pupygs: they get new
clothes, a female ittarma gets decorations, a male gets tobacco; and all
are served food and alcohol. Again, women of child-bearing age were
not allowed to be present or to touch such sacred spaces and things.
Thus, the middle zone in the house is rather profane while the areas near
the door and threshold require ritual behaviour. The Mansi fire deities
Nai sian’ and Nai ekva are also venerated by serving them meals and
alcohol near the fireplace. (Gemuev and Baulo 2001, 98). Many Mansi
houses still have an image of Samsai oika made of anthropomorphically-
shaped textile bunches located between the fireplace and the northern
wall. He should protect the entrance and the family against evil spirits
and diseases (Gemuev and Baulo 2001, 76–78).
DISCUSSION: MANSI SACRED GEOGRAPHY IN HISTORICAL TRANSITION

While many elements of Mansi spirituality—at sacred places and within
the home—have persisted in some areas to the present day, it is clear
that there have been drastic changes in the lives of most Mansis caused
by many historical factors, particularly the different degrees of mutual
accommodation between traditional belief and new forms of Orthodox
worship.
First, Russian missionaries in Siberia acted according to Orthodox
Church traditions of earlier times. They usually destroyed sacred sites,
but after ‘cleaning’ the place of the deities’ images, they would reuse the
traditional ritual space with new meaning. Therefore, many Orthodox
churches and chapels were erected in places where the Mansis once
gathered to worship their deities and sacrifice. This could attract some
Mansis to new churches, for they were already aware of the sacredness
of the site and accustomed to convene there at certain times. However,
more resistant communities would transfer images of their gods to
other hidden locations for practising their traditional rituals in secret,
while also worshipping in the officially accepted ‘sacred places’ of the

new churches.
Second, in the private domain of the domestic sphere, the concept
of sacred space was retained in traditional Mansi fashion. Christianity
inspired the Mansis to adopt icon veneration, although the icons were
usually placed within the traditionally-sacred spaces, for example, on the
pupyg norma, alongside the home pupygs. Thus, the icons were vener-
ated like other pupygs. After successful hunting, the Mansis would thank
the icons by greasing their lips; in case of failure, they would punish
them like their treatment of ‘lazy’ pupygs. During seasonal migrations,
the icons were carried in sacred boxes together with traditional Mansi
paraphernalia.
Third, we find endurance of older beliefs, even among Mansis
who accepted Christianity to the extent that church worship and icon
veneration became their main manifestations of religiosity. The ritual
behaviour of these Mansis often retained many aspects like those of
their kinsfolk living in the forests and worshipping non-Christian dei-
ties. Priests have recorded how such ‘converted’ groups would come to
church, buy a candle, put it in front of an icon, then move it to another,
and so on so that no icon would be neglected. This was because the
Christian saints’ images were perceived like the main Mansi deities. For
example, the Mansi female deity—Kaltash ekva was associated with
the Virgin Mother. The son of the Mansi supreme deity Numi Torum,
the god-protector Mir Susne Khoom, was related to Jesus. Sometimes
he was also identified with the image of St. George because he is also
depicted on a white horse; both were supposed to protect land and
people.
Finally, as a result of the persecutions and forced conversions, the
traditional ialpyng ma, originally part of the Mansi settlements, was
moved away to a more distant location for secrecy. Tradition still mani-
fested itself through larger carved images and more prominent build-
ings and was forced ‘underground’ or more correctly, into the forests at
quieter, closed and less public spaces in private houses where knowledge
about events and traditions could be revealed only to a select few.
During the Communist period, official atheism led to further per-
secutions of traditional religious heritage, placing further burdens on
Mansis struggling to protect the integrity of their sacred landscape.
Certain ialpyng ma were destroyed or abandoned due to industrial devel-
opments on Mansi lands, through policies of resettlement. Other ialpyng
ma were forced to change their geographical location, and moved to
safer places or combined with other sites that were not threatened with
discovery or destruction. Thus, deities who traditionally remained apart
with spiritual control over their own territories were suddenly forced
to share sacred places with other gods. Therefore, Mansi belief had to
develop a degree of flexibility and resilience so that the collective tradi-
tions making up the sacred landscape found spaces in which they could
survive from one generation to the next.
Finally, we detect transformations in the material culture of the
traditional religious sphere, also under similar pressure and influence.
For example, sacred structures underwent significant changes and the
seven angled ialpyng sum’ iakh designed for Torum oika (Gemuev
and Baulo 1999, 173) may have been an attempt to copy the shape of
Russian Orthodox Chapels. The widespread adoption among Mansis of
‘Russian’ houses with ceilings and attics provided opportunities for stor-
ing sacred paraphernalia. These attics formed a private area protected
from unwanted attention. Home pupygs’ images have changed tremen-
dously; some ‘dematerialised’ into invisibility, manifesting their presence
only through acts of making gifts and other offerings.
The Mansi tradition of sacrifice has seen a long process of histor-
ical evolution, in many ways mirroring main stages of recent ethnic
history. Human sacrifices were abandoned; the list of sacrificed species
was also ‘modernised’ to keep in step with the dramatic transform-
ation in local Mansi economy and wider ecology. Reindeer and horse
sacrifices were abandoned giving way to better available and smaller
species: cows, sheep and cocks. The gender of the sacrificial animal
became less important than before. Valuable fur pelts were gradually
replaced by pieces of textile; silver and golden bowls imported from
Asia and later strips of silver from Moscow were replaced by cheaper
copies made by Siberian craftsmen from local silver and copper ores.
Genuine weapons were replaced by wooden copies. Textile, money, to-
bacco and alcohol have become the most common offerings. The food
traditionally shared with the pupygs underwent the same changes as
the cuisine of the Mansi people to the extent that bought food is now
common at sacred sites.
Despite these changes, the underlying relationship between the
community and its identity, spirituality and belief is still mediated with
gifts and offerings to the deities, often at sacred places in the landscape.
Therefore, after centuries of historical transformation, we still see efforts
by individuals, households and communities to maintain their ‘material
dialogue’ with key deities in the Mansi cosmos. This enduring vitality is
as apparent in the challenging post-Soviet Siberia as it was in the early
18th century when Muller observed the Mansis. For example, the Lozva
Mansis spent two years collecting funds to purchase a horse. This animal
was sacrificed in July 2003 as part of a traditional community iir (blood
sacrifice) during which the community asked the main deities for assist-
ance (Glavatskaia 2003).
CONCLUSION: ENDURING FEATURES OF MANSI SACRED GEOGRAPHY

In this chapter, I have drawn on ethnographic literature, archival data
and my own observations during short-term field research periods
among the Pelym and Lozva Mansis in 2002 and 2003. I have aimed
to view the Mansi sacred landscape from two perspectives: as a cultural
arena in which long-term histories of culture-contact were played out;
and as a more localised reflection of Mansi cosmology. By recombining
these perspectives it is possible to draw the following conclusions:
First, the cultural landscape of the Mansis always played an import-
ant and integrative part in their history and everyday life. Success or fail-
ure of the subsistence economy and social life were associated with the
relationships that individuals or the community had with the deities and
spirits surrounding them, influencing every domain of their life. Many of
the important interactions between the human collective and the spirit
world took place at the pure and sacred ialpyng ma sites as well as in
Mansi homes, and in many other domains of practice. The sacredness of
Mansi holy places can be defined by several characteristics:
1. Physical location and geographic aspects (the upper ‘space’ of

rivers, constructions or trees is purer and more sacred than the
lower; the South is associated with the upper world, the North with
the under world).
2. Physical traces left by previous generations, for example, old settle-
ments or fortifications.
3. Unusual or protruding shapes and formations, caves.
4. Inherited tradition that gives a location sacred associations.
Sacred places are also defined in relation to the wider routine land-
scape by the kinds of activities conducted there. Profane activities like
cutting wood, hunting or gathering are strictly forbidden in or around
holy places. The sacred geography also has a gender dimension, for the
ialpyng ma find female presence offensive.
Second, the notion of ialpyng ma is central to the ways the Mansi
construct, perceive and inhabit sacred structures and domestic archi-
tecture. The organisation of holy places and domestic space reflects—
and reproduces—Mansi understanding of the wider cosmology through
the zoning of activities within the sacred place and the home (Gemuev
1990).
In order to analyze the multi-faceted nature of Mansi sacred geog-
raphy, I have drawn out the landscape’s mythological, geographical, rit-
ual, social and material dimensions. Both the underlying ecology, and
local constructions of gender, add further dimensions to the ways these

communities organise their activities in space and time.
The major conclusion of this study is to stress the social nature of
the sacred landscape’s geography. Rather than being anonymous spirits
or mystical forces that dwell within topographic features, these deities
are conceived as persons in their own right: they have families, go hunt-
ing, eat and drink, smoke tobacco, appreciate new clothes, sweets and
money. This intense ‘personalisation’ of Mansi deities is manifested
through a series of ascribed specifications, including particular compe-
tences and specialties, gender and other characteristics, all influencing
how the community structures its interactions with them: male deities
are more closely approached by male Mansis with the kinds of gifts they
appreciate for themselves (gun powder, weapons, knives, tobacco), while
Mansi women’s contacts with the deities were limited by exclusion and
usually happened some distance from the ialpyng ma. However, they
could approach female sacred places and communicate with the deities
in their own manner by bringing appropriate feminine gifts (sewn items,
earrings, necklaces, ribbons). The very personal concern for maintaining
obligations and links with this densely ‘peopled landscape’ is one of the
primary motivations actively underwriting the long-term cultural per-
sistence among the Mansis.
NOTES
1 This research was supported by The British Arts and Humanities Research
Council (‘Archival and Living Transcripts’1 B/RG/AN9129/APN16283), by The
Russian Humanitarian Scientific Foundation—RGNF (08-01-00426a) and by
The Rosnauka grant (GK 02.740.11.0348).
2 Here, I follow the Pelym Mansi dialect where I obtained some of my field ex-
perience and data during fieldwork in 2002. I did fieldwork in the Lozva Mansi
(Treskol’e) community during late june–early july 2003 and keep in touch with
its members. Unfortunately, the records have not been completely transcribed,
but I refer to my video records (Glavatskaia 2002, 2003).
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CHAPTER 12
SACRED PLACES AND MASTERS

OF HUNTING LUCK IN THE FOREST WORLDS
OF THE UDEGE PEOPLE OF THE RUSSIAN
FAR EAST
Shiro Sasaki
INTRODUCTION
The Udeges (Kiyakara) speak a Tungus-Manchurian language and are
one of the indigenous ethnic minorities of the Russian Far East. The eth-
nonym, Udege, can be translated as ‘forest people’ or, more literally, as
‘people who live in a deep forest’. Traditionally their economy was based
on hunting, fishing, gathering and fur trading. Until the forced collectiv-
isation in the 1930s, they inhabited small encampments dispersed along
the forested banks of the rivers tributary to the Ussuri or Amur and other
rivers flowing into the Sea of Japan (Figure 12.1).
Lands occupied by Udege groups included present day Primorskii
Krai as well as southern sections of Khabarovskii Krai. Despite occupy-
ing this vast area, overall numbers of Udeges remained small. According
to the first census of the Russian empire in 1897, their population, along
with the Orochi, their close linguistic and cultural relatives, totalled only
2,407 (Patkanov 1906). After 70 years of Soviet rule and 10 years of
post-Socialist transformations, 1,657 Udeges were registered in 2002 as
living in a few ethnic villages as well as in some of the region’s larger cit-
ies like Khabarovsk and Vladivostok (from the home page of RAIPON ).
Fishing was one of the main subsistence activities in the traditional
Udege economy. Along with other indigenous peoples of the Lower Amur
basin, for example, the Nanais, Ul’ches and Nivkhs, the Udeges engaged
in autumn salmon fishing. The catch of dog salmon (Oncorhynchus
257
Figure 12.1 The Russian Far East. (Map drawn by Alison Sandison.)
keta) was then dried for storage. However, in contrast to these other
groups—for whom fish formed the mainstay of the diet—forest hunting
played the most important role in Udege subsistence. This provided both
meat for local consumption and furs for participation in regional trade
networks which linked the Udeges into the wider world via Russian and
Chinese merchants who served as intermediaries. In exchange for furs,
tail feathers of eagles and hawks, and drugs made from ginseng and
bears’ gallbladders, the Udeges acquired silk and cotton, earthenware
and ceramics, metal-wares, supplementary foodstuffs like grain, flour,
liquor, tea and tobacco, and, later, firearms, powder and ammunition.
In common with many other Siberian groups, the Udeges believed
that the landscape was animated by a multitude of spirits, souls and
other ‘masters’ who lived out in the forest, occupying trees, parts of
cliffs, various pools and other water bodies. Other deities dwelt in the
sky and controlled the climate, weather, the activities and inclinations of
game animals and other sentient beings, and thereby hunting and fishing
luck, as well as the destiny of individual human persons. Many of these
deities were represented in material form, and included various kinds of
figures, amulets, sculptures, as well as symbols made from wood, grass
and metal. Many of these artefacts were central to rituals which were
practised at sacred places.
Sacred Places and Masters of Hunting Luck in the Forest Worlds 259
My aim in this chapter is to explore how, in the conduct of their

procurement activities, the Udeges used the resources of the landscape
for the practical tasks of hunting, fishing and gathering, but also, how
use of landscape included a powerful spiritual element. Finally, I review
not only how the Udeges witnessed massive changes during the Soviet
period, but also examine how traditions of venerating certain sacred
places could survive and is now even spreading beyond the Udeges to
include Russians and other incomers.
THE BIKIN RIVER UDEGES

Soviet ethnographers recognise eight distinct Udege communities each
occupying a particular river or region: Khungake (of the Khungari
River), Uninka (Aniui River), Khunka (Khor River), Bikinka (Bikin
River), Imanka (Iman River), Samarginka (Samarga River), Namunka
(inhabitants of the coastal strip of the Primor’e region) and the Udeges
of the Kur and Urimi Rivers (Lar’kin 1958, 8–9). In this chapter, I focus
on the general land-use practices and sacred places of the Bikin River
Udeges (Bikinka), who were able to maintain to a greater extent than
many other groups more traditional aspects of social organisation,
cultural practices and group identity through the turbulent years of
Socialism.
The Bikin River flows from the Sikhote-Alin Mountains and joins
the Ussuri River from the east. The basin of the Bikin drainage is covered
with rich mixed forests that consist of coniferous trees, like the Korean
pine and spruce, and broadleaf trees, like the Mongolian oak and
Manchurian walnut. These woodlands are home to elk, red deer, roe
deer, wild boars, wild goats, rabbits, squirrels and rats, as well as tigers,
leopards, brown and black bears, lynxes, foxes, sables, martens, ermines
and badgers. There are many local species of trout, carp, pike and cru-
cian carp in the Bikin River. Moreover, until the 1950s, huge volumes
of salmon and trout also migrated yearly from the Seas of Okhotsk and
Japan through the Amur and Ussuri Rivers and travelled as far as the
middle reaches of the river. Udeges’ subsistence was based on these rich
natural resources. They balanced summer and autumn fishing activities
(Figure 12.2), which largely supplied reserve food for the winter, with
their main occupation of hunting and trapping game, especially fur bear-
ers (Figures 12.3 and 12.4).
There are early general accounts of the Udeges in Chinese docu-
ments dating back to the beginning of the 18th century (e.g., Yan 1985,
251). More detailed descriptions are provided by a summary review of
the various peoples under the rule of the Qing dynasty (the last dynasty
Figure 12.2 Net fishing. (Photograph by Shiro Sasaki.)
Figure 12.3 An Udege hunter going to set a bow-trap. (Photograph by Shiro Sasaki.)
of the Chinese empire), entitled ‘Hoang Qing Zhi Gong Tu’(edited by

Fu Heng in 1761). The Udeges (Kiyakara) were said to dwell along
the banks of rivers in present day Primor’e region and to wear a small
silver or copper ring in their nose. They were said to use birch bark to
cover their huts and to build boats, and so on (Fu 1991 [1761], 250).
Specific references to the Bikin River Udeges also appear at the begin-
ning of the 18th century in relation to the payment of fur tax. Some
Chinese administrative records list 11 Kiyakara (Udege) households as
living in the Bihin (Bikin) village which might be located on the Bikin
Figure 12.4 A traditional trap for sable hunting (Dui). (Photograph by Shiro Sasaki.)
basin. These households were registered as tribute payers and were ob-
liged to supply 11 sable pelts every year from 1699 to 1708 (Matsuura
1997, 11).
However, from the second half of the 18th century to the end of the
th
19 century, there is little information on the ancestors of the Udeges.
More recent general descriptions of the Udeges were provided by Leopold
von Schrenck, a famous Russian ethnographer who carried out a general
scientific expedition on the Amur basins and Sakhalin in 1854–56 and
edited some volumes of ethnography of the indigenous peoples there
(Schrenck 1883, 1899, 1903), although the Bikin River Udeges are not
mentioned by name. Specific descriptions of the Bikin Udeges begin with
the statistical data of S. Patkanov, who arranged the population data of
the Tungus-speaking peoples in Siberia and the Far East from the first
census of the Russian empire held in 1897. He listed 13 settlements that
had been counted in the summer of 1894. V. K. Arsen’ev, another early
ethnographer, travelled by foot along the middle reaches of the Bikin
and listed 14 settlements in 1907 (Arsen’ev 1987 [1951]; Patkanov1906)
(Figure 12.5).
The Bikin Udeges, along with many other indigenous peoples of the
Russian Far East, lived in small widely-dispersed villages and hamlets.
On the Bikin River, these settlements consisted only of a few households
and during the yearly cycle, each household migrated out to fishing
Ɣ: Old villages confirmed by S. Patkanov in 1894

Ŷ: Old villages visited by V. K. Arsen’ev in 1907
Ÿ: Old villages confirmed by the research in 1995 and 1996
ż: Main spawning spots of salmon
2-24: Hunting territories allotted to the hunters of the Joint Stock Hunting Company ‘Bikin’
A: Krasnyi iar
B: Siwantai Mio
C: Okhotnichii (Ulunga)
Figure 12.5 Hunting territories and old settlement pattern on the Bikin River basins
(translated from Onuki and Sato [2005, 139]). (Map compiled by Shiro Sasaki.)
spots and hunting territories. Usually, each hunting territory, visited in

the winter, extended along a tributary of the Bikin River, whilst fish-
ing spots, occupied in the summer and autumn, were situated along the
main river. As a result, the Udeges often built their base camps at the
point where the tributary that flowed through their hunting territory
joined the main river, enabling them easy access to both fishing sites
and hunting lands. Here they built log houses with excavated floors or
houses with a Chinese heating system. In the winter hunting season,
which generally continued from the middle of October to the end of
March, small groups of men went up into the territories, whilst the fam-
ilies remained in their winter village. In summer, the whole household
moved to camps located near the fishing sites, which comprised of frame
tents covered with birch bark. These were located close to fish spawning
grounds. The winter villages consisted of 3–5 houses, whilst in summer
the 3–5 tents were occupied by 3–10 families (Startsev 1996, 17–18).
Until the 1950s, autumn fishing of migratory salmon was a crucial activ-
ity for the Bikin Udeges. Towards the end of the season, the households
moved back to their winter base camps with stores of dried fish.
The social structure of the Udeges is said to be based on the clan
organisation. Clans named hala are patrilineal, and their membership
is succeeded through a paternal line. One can find several clans on the
Bikin basin like Kyalundiga, Sulandiga, Geonka, Suanka, Peonka and
so on. In the case of the Bikin Udeges, the winter settlements consisted
of families from the same clan that used a tributary as their hunting
territory.
Hunting activities of the Udege people can be classified into two
types: hunting for large mammals which provided meat, hides and other
raw materials; and that for fur-bearing animals which provided trade
and tax commodities. The staple meat on the Bikin was red deer, roe
deer and wild boars, which were encountered more often than elk and
bear. Until the widespread adoption of firearms, the main hunting imple-
ments were spears, bows and arrows and traps. Even after the arrival of
firearms, the fundamental techniques of large mammal hunting hardly
changed, and involved waiting, tracking and chasing. Although hunting
was easiest and best in winter, due to snow cover enabling easy tracking,
many meat bearers were hunted in other seasons.
Sable trapping was a particularly important activity and pro-
vided the most valued pelt due to great demand in China and Russia.
As noted, the Chinese dynasties like the Ming (1368–1644) and Qing
(1616–1912) required the ancestors of the Udeges to pay the sable fur
as tribute, but also provided them with huge amount of silk and cotton
cloth in return. These were made into garments and worn on special
occasions like marriages and during important rituals when they served
as a symbol of wealth and social status. Udeges developed their own
trapping technology which delivered furs of the highest quality (e.g.,
Figure 12.4 and see Sasaki 2000, 2002; Startsev 1996, 2000). Also, to
acquire the best furs, hunting had to take place in the period between
the late autumn and early spring, when the animals developed their lux-
urious winter coats.
THE ‘TRADITIONAL’ WORLD-VIEW OF THE UDEGE PEOPLE

Despite the important subsistence and trade roles served by meat and
fur-orientated hunting, the Udeges, like most Siberian groups, did not
regard animals as mere resources, but as presents or rewards bestowed
conditionally upon them by the forest master for appropriate conduct.
These beliefs about hunting ‘luck’ form one set of a wider complex
of world-view concepts, which have been studied in detail by Russian

and Soviet ethnographers (e.g. Albert 1956; Arsen’ev 1987 [1951];
Bereznitskii 2003; Brailovskii 1901; Lar’kin 1958; Podmaskin 1989,
1991; Startsev 2000). These studies have highlighted the role of ani-
mistic and shamanistic belief as fundamental to the Udege world-view
(Lar’kin 1958, 21; Podmaskin 1989, 72; 1991, 4; Startsev 2000, 71).
The Udeges regard all things, including animals, plants and even ‘inani-
mate’ materials and phenomena as being ‘animated’ or ‘enlivened’ by
the presence of one or more souls or life essences. As a result, the social
world of the Udeges consists not only of the human collective, but also
extends to forest animals and plants, fish and sea mammals, some ‘in-
habited’ geographical elements like mountains, cliffs and rocks, celestial
bodies like the sun, the moon and other stars and constellations, natural
phenomena like wind, thunder and storm, and invisible sprits that cause
epidemics, diseases, disasters and misfortunes.
Within this world, a prominent theme is the notion of ‘masterhood’
whereby different domains of the world or classes of animals have a
controlling figure, termed ejen in the Udege language. These include the
master of the sky or heaven, the master of the forest (who controls all
the existence in the forest), the master of the water world, and the master
of hunting luck and the master of the underground world. These spirit
masters are equal or even superior to human beings. The Udeges believe
that these masters can understand human conversation and that they al-
ways watch, hear and sense human activities wherever they take place.
Therefore, when people engage in any form of practical activity, they
must first engage with the spirits by performing rituals in order to avoid
misfortune, bad luck or poor outcomes.
The Udege spirit world is rich and complex. Here, I outline some of
the most important animals and masters that concern hunting activities
of the Udeges. While the bear is singled out for particular veneration
across Northern Eurasia, in Udege belief this special position is occupied
by the tiger. The forests of the Sikhote-Alin Mountains form the north-
ern extension of the tiger’s habitat. The Udeges have many legends and
stories about the tiger. The animal could be killed if it becomes a direct
threat although hunters widely regard such an act as sinful. Although
there is a specific name for the tiger, kuti or kuti mafa (Bereznitskii
2003, 207), names like odo or odo mafa, which means grandfather,
or amba, which means a dangerous being, are often used in its place.
Judging from folklore and other narratives, the tiger was regarded as
being not only supreme amongst the forest animals, but also a highly
intelligent and clever creature (e.g. Kazama 2004a, 394–99; 2004b,
94–95, 278–79). Although the Udeges believe that other masters con-
trol hunting luck, the tiger also has a role in dispatching game to the
hunter, and by way of thanks the hunters often left choice pieces of meat
for the tiger.
The tiger occupies a special position in the Udege spirit world whilst
the position of the bear is somewhat lower. This is a characteristic of
the Udege culture that is radically different from other ethnic minori-
ties in Siberia and the Far East, who do not have tigers. The Udeges are
able to hunt bears for meat and for the gallbladder without any taboo.
However, the bear is also regarded as a venerable animal and respectful
names are used, including, mafa or songo mafa, which means an old
person. Like other indigenous peoples in the forest in Siberia and Far
East, the Udeges traditionally carried out a special ritual, often called the
‘Bear Festival’, when hunters hunted a bear. Unlike the Nivkhs, Ul’ches,
and Ainus, the Udeges did not rear a bear cub for the ritual and treat the
animal like a sacred visitor. Instead, they brought back a bear only after
the hunt, although receiving it as a special guest remained an important
theme.
The bear was regarded as a special guest from the forest world. The
meat, skin and gallbladder were presents given by the bear to the people,
and the act of bear hunting was seen as means of contacting another
world. In this way, the bear was regarded as a mediator between the
domain of the human village and that of the forest world, just as the
shaman is a human emissary to the other world of spirits (Ingold 1986).
Although the tiger was regarded as the supreme animal of the forest,
its presence was feared and hunting events were very infrequent, even
avoided if at all possible. In contrast, bear festivals were a more common
and more social ‘guesting’ event, when the world of the forest came into
the world of the human collective.
As mentioned above, main targets of the Udege hunters are elk, red
deer and wild boars. They hunt them in order to acquire meat and skins
for daily use. Although these events were less elaborate than the bear
hunts, they still included a strong spiritual element. All success in hunt-
ing or fishing was not merely the acquisition of natural resources, but
presents bestowed by the masters (ejen) of animals, fish, forests, and
water, who had a primary role in dispatching different quantities and
even qualities of game who would then reveal themselves to the hunters
and fishermen. As a result, there were frequent ceremonies and gestures
during which the hunter or social collective asked these masters to be-
stow game or fish thereby provisioning the human world and ensuring
its future prosperity.
The highest and most venerable master of the Udeges is called Bua,
who is a master of the universe and lives in the sky (Levin and Potapov
1956, 837). According to S. V. Bereznitskii, this deity was also called
Boa Enduri (Bereznitskii 2003, 192). Enduris are deities of high rank
and good will. Worship of this deity was very elaborate and also drew
on elements of Chinese and Manchurian religion. At lower levels, there
were other masters. These included the master of fish (Syugzaa azani),
who controlled fishing luck in rivers (Bereznitskii 2003, 193; Levin and
Potapov 1956, 837; Paulson 1961, 78). Syugzaa azani is one of the
assistants of the master of sea and rivers, Ganikhi. When the people
did an appropriate ritual to offer the gifts to Syugzaa azani, he asked
Ganikhi to give the people many fish. Then, Ganikhi would throw a
shoal of fish from his bag, and killer whales would drive them to rivers
(Startsev 2000, 73–74).
The Udeges also believed in the master of fire. This being was called
Puza, Puza mama, or Puza odo which means grandmother and grand-
father of fire. During meals, the fire was always presented with some
pieces of bread, fish, and meat and a glass of vodka before starting to eat.
Human souls are also not free from the will and control of the
masters.
The Udege people believe that human beings have two types of soul.
One is called chalini hanya. It stays around the owner’s body and pro-
tects him from attacks of evil spirits. The other is named hanya, which
is believed to be a shadow of the owner. Though it lives in the owner’s
body, it is weak and easily exposes itself to attacks of evil spirits that are
supposed to be causes of various diseases. After the owner’s death, the
hanya leaves for the world of the dead, while the chalini hanya stays in
this world and turns into a good or evil spirit, depending on the owner’s
activities during his lifetime (Podmaskin 1989, 72; Startsev 2000, 72).
Shamans are negotiators between human beings and spirit-masters.
In general, various diseases are supposed to be caused by attacks of evil
spirits or secession of the soul from the owner’s body to other worlds.
Shamans are believed to be able to find out lost souls and negotiate or
fight with evil spirits. Beating a drum, shaking brass bells attached to a
waist belt, and singing prayer songs, they fall into a deep trance, during
which they go to other worlds to seek the lost soul of the patient or to ne-
gotiate with spirits and masters. In general, each shaman has an assistant
spirit named Tyenku, who can assist and rescue the shaman from crises.
The Udeges think that a person, who once suffered from a danger-
ous disease and who saw Tyenku in his/her dream, can become a shaman
after long, hard training. There are three hierarchal categories in their
shamans: beginner, middle and great. Shamans of the beginner category
only have a drum and a belt with brass bells. Every time they cure their
patients, they can get necessary equipment like special shoes, clothes,
head gears and so on from their clients. The higher category they go up
to, the more equipment they can be offered. When they achieve satisfac-
tory results, they can rise to a shaman of the middle category, who can
treat a range of diseases and spiritual emergencies. The great shamans are
believed to have substantial supernatural powers (Startsev 2000, 89–94).
In summary, the Udege world-view shares many of the themes cen-
tral to the spirituality of indigenous groups across Siberian and the
circumpolar region. These include a world animated by divine forces,
notions of masterhood and the perception of the bear as an emissary of
the forest world. Routine and ritual activities in different parts of the
landscape played a crucial role in the expression and reproduction of
these beliefs.
SACRED SITE RITUALS AND WIDER SACRED GEOGRAPHY

Many elements of Udege belief were encoded into the sacred geography,
which included a network of sacred places, which were visited at the
opening of different hunting seasons.
As noted above, prior to collectivisation, the Udeges lived in small
riverside hamlets which were like small patches floating on the sea of
forest. Each of these settlements can be envisaged as a residential space,
transformed by construction and other activities, but also possessing an
exit pathway to the forest. It was at this symbolic threshold that sac-
red trees were often located; these were recognised by hunters as being
a place of contact with the master. The trees chosen for these roles
were often Korean pine because it usually grew up to be very tall and
outstanding.
The rituals dedicated by hunters in front of these trees were usu-
ally addressed to Laobatu, master of hunting luck (Bereznitskii 2003,
191–92). These rituals proceeded as follows. First, a hunter (or a leader
of a hunter group) carved a triangle on the trunk of the tree, which rep-
resented a symbol of the master.1 Such a tree was called piu or piuhe in
the Udege language (Figure 12.6). Secondly, the hunter set a small table
at the foot of the tree, on which he arranged dishes of food and a glass
of vodka. Thirdly, the hunter kneeled down in front of the tree, bowed
to the master three times, asked him to eat and drink, and begged the
master to give him (or his hunters) games and success (Bereznitskii 2003,
191–92, 462). In order to purify the tree and the place, they often burned
leaves and branches of wild rosemary to smoke them.
Riverside shrines were also an important element in the sacred geog-
raphy along the Bikin River. In the cosmology of the Udeges, like the
case of other indigenous ethnic minorities on the Lower Amur basins, a
cliff, rock or hill outstanding in the riverside landscape is often recog-
nised as a sacred object that represents a significant deity. It is used as a
landmark for travellers, a gate to another world and a place of a ritual
Figure 12.6 Remains of the ritual to the master of hunting luck. (Photograph by
Shiro Sasaki.)
to the deity. It can be compared with the Mongolian Oboo which is

constructed on the top of a pass or a hill as a landmark as well as ritual
place. While nomads designate and construct landmarks on the top of a
pass or hill, hunter-fishermen living on the resources of the river and ad-
jacent forests find them on cliffs and rocks that can be seen from a boat
floating on a river.
In these locations, dangerous stretches of rapids occur. The stream
is very fast and the current is complicated so much that travellers have to
control their boats carefully. Indigenous people often determine the cliffs
and rocks as sacred existence that represents their deities and spirits.
When they pass by such places, they ask the deities and spirits for safe
navigation and success, providing pieces of bread, cigarettes and glasses
of vodka.
On the Bikin River, the cliff Siwantai Mio is one such sacred place
(Figures 12.7 and 12.8). It stands upright on the Bikin river bank and
always looks upon hunters passing by. While no other sacred cliff is
now seen along the Bikin River, there are many such sacred cliffs and
rocks along the main stream of the Amur River, where local people still
respect and worship their deities. For example, huge rocks at Aji, a cape
at Jai (near the Sofiisk village), cliffs at Tyr, Auri, and Sikachi alyan are
well known to the Nanais and Ul’ches who still remember some trad-
itional legends and stories about these sites.
Figure 12.7 Siwantai Mio and the shrine. (Photograph by Shiro Sasaki.)
Figure 12.8 A hunter dedicating the ritual to the shrine. (Photograph by Shiro
Sasaki.)
RECENT TRANSFORMATIONS IN SACRED GEOGRAPHY AND LAND-USE

The Soviet era changes that the Udeges experienced are hauntingly famil-
iar to other regions of the Soviet North. Clan elders and shamans who
had long exercised their authority in the traditional social system were
oppressed and deprived of their power, and traditional beliefs were for-
bidden as mere superstition. Sacred places were disturbed or destroyed
along with monuments; sculpture, idols, amulets and other religious
items were either burnt or removed to museums for safe keeping and as
evidence of a more quaint and primitive form of life that Soviet develop-
ments would soon leave behind.
The critical factor affecting cultural continuity was the reorganisa-
tion of settlements and the imposition of the Russian language boarding
school system. The Bikin River Udeges were collectivised in the 1930s by
the Soviet government which destroyed the older settlement pattern of
dispersed camps. In the 1950s and 1960s, the new policy of consolida-
tion brought larger settlements like Krasnyi iar (Figure 12.9) and waves
of in-migration by different ethnic groups from across the Soviet Union.
By 2001, the population of this village was 637 with indigenous minori-
ties comprising 80 percent of this total, and the Udeges amounting to 65
percent (Sasaki 2002, 84) (Table 12.1).
The territory of the state farm ‘Gospromkhoz Pozharskii’, which
supervised all the productive activities of the dwellers of the Bikin basin in
the 1970s and 1980s, covered much of the Bikin drainage and extended
from this village to the upper reaches of the river and occupied about
1,352,000 ha (Morimoto 1998, 7). During the Soviet regime, the terri-
tory was classified into different areas each characterised by different eco-
nomic purposes, including hunting, farming, forestry and dwelling, each
making different contributions to the local and state economy. The hunt-
ing area was the largest of these areas because hunting for fur-bearing
Figure 12.9 Krasnyi iar. (Photograph by Shiro Sasaki.)

Table 12.1 Population of Krasnyi iar village in 2001
Population %
Udege 418 65.6
Nanai 98 15.4
Orochi 4 0.6
Evenki 2 0.3
Chukchi 1 0.2
Total ‘Northern’ minorities in village 523 82.1
Other ethnic groups 114 17.9
Total village population 637 100
animals was the most important activity of the farm, generating expen-
sive sable furs for export. It was further divided into more than 20 territo-
ries (Figure 12.5), each of which was allotted to professional hunters for
fur-bearing animals. Under the Soviet regime, the government approved
the qualification of the professional hunter. In the case of the Bikin basin,
Udege hunters were so skilful that they accounted for the majority of the
professional hunters of the farm. Fundamentally the classification and
allotment of the territories and the system of the qualification of hunters
are still maintained in the post-Socialist period, though the state farm was
reorganised into a joint stock company.
It is clear that 70 years of Soviet rule played a decisive and indeed
culturally destructive role in recent Udege history. Most Udeges now
speak only Russian language in their daily life, wear Russian-style cloth-
ing, eat Russian-style foods, and engage themselves in agriculture, stock
farming and timber production. Many have also given up their original
belief and rituals and been forced to tolerate the disruption of traditional
morals and rules, and experienced destruction of their idols, amulets and
sacred places. However, despite this chaotic post-Socialist world, there
are elements of continuity, even revival in many ‘traditional’ forms of
Udege culture. These also extend to the continued veneration of sacred
places in the older and enduring sacred geography. Against a wider his-
torical background of forced acculturation, the continued and indeed
spreading significance of older sacred sites for both Udege and Russian
hunters and travellers remains intriguing.
THE CONTINUED VENERATION OF SIWANTAI MIO AND LAOBATU

On the middle reaches of the Bikin River, hunters and travellers con-
tinue to dedicate a ritual on the sacred cliff Siwantai Mio to the master
Laobatu, who is one of the masters in the forest. Laobatu controls ani-
mals in the forest and the luck of hunters. Therefore, hunters —regardless
of ethnicity—who are going to the forest for hunting, ask him to give
them the luck and animals, doing an appropriate ritual, i.e., providing
the deity with a glass of vodka, a piece of bread and some cigarettes in
front of the small shrine of the Mio.
The site of Siwantai Mio is the place of residence of the deity
Laobatu. The site is located on the left bank of the Bikin River, about
50 km or one and half hours on a motor boat from Krasnyi iar, the cen-
tral settlement of the Bikin River Udeges. At the cliff is a small terrace
on which a small hut is built. The terrace is about 5m in height from the
ordinary level of the river. The hut is very small; 30 cm high and 40 cm
wide (Figures 12.7 and 12.8). The hut has an entrance and is devoid of
objects except for a small glass. Around the hut, one can see traces of
rituals, e.g., cigarettes, vodka bottles, pieces of bread, which were given
to the deity worshipped here.
The present hut of the Siwantai Mio was built in 1995 by an Udege
hunter named V. A. Kanchuga to replace the old one (Bereznitskii 2003,
187–88). Although much of the older folklore and legends about the
site are no longer remembered, a more recent story underlines the sig-
nificance of the place. It recounts how one day two Russian hunters,
travelling along the Bikin River with their families to go to their hunting
places, fired their guns at the Mio in fun. They did not pay any attention
to the sacredness of the place and the hut. However, after some hours,
unfortunately their children were drowned in the river. Old Udeges,
commenting on this unfortunate accident, believe that the master of the
Siwantai Mio cliff, Laobatu, got angry at the rudeness of the hunters.
Since then, every hunter, including the Russians, has shown respect for
the cliff and the master, providing them with pieces of bread, cigarettes
and a glass of vodka when they passed by the cliff.
How did the site retain its wider significance? During collectivisa-
tion, the Bikin River was divided into two parts; the area of traditional
activities like hunting, fishing and gathering and that of new activities
like cultivating, stock farming, timber production and other daily ac-
tivities. As indicated in Figure 12.5, the cliff Siwantai Mio (marked B)
is located on the border between the hunting territories 2, 4, 5, and the
area without numbers.
As such, the border marks off the hunting territories (the num-
bered territories) from the forest for timber production (the num-
berless area). In the former, only traditional productive activities are
allowed and one can never cut down a tree for sale. In other words,
the area located in the upper side of the cliff is a pure natural forest
zone in which traditional spirits and masters are still alive and active.
In contrast, the area to the lower side of the cliff can be used for tim-
ber production, agriculture, stock farming and other modernised pro-
ductive activities. Of course it is also possible to hunt and fish there,
but conditions for hunting and fishing are less conductive than those
in the upper area.
In this respect, the sacred cliff Siwantai Mio, is located conceptu-
ally at the same place as the former sacred trees (piu), i.e., it is at the
exit of the human zone (at the same time, at the entrance of the forest
zone), and, therefore, the rituals conducted there have similar timings
and implications. However, its scale is different. While the sacred tree
was designated for the ritual of a personal or family level and shared
by a few hunters who travelled on foot to the hunting lands, the ven-
eration of Siwantai Mio is practised by many hunters, who have their
allotted territories in the hunting zone, but who access these zones
from the base village more rapidly using motor boats to travel along
the main river.
As with the former sacred trees, this sacred place is also located on a
threshold, though not between a small residential patch and a wider sea
of green forest, but between different centrally-defined production areas
—a place of aggressive deforestation and timber production which has
scoured the lands downstream, and the area of interlocking and state-
registered hunting lands which extend upstream as far as the headwaters.
It is this upper world that remains the domain of spirits and masters
where people should be subjected to the traditional rules and morals so
that the spirits and masters can support them with pleasure. The cliff site
marks out the frontier between these two domains, but also the line be-
tween different forms of practical activity.
The site is not just at the frontier between different kinds of practical
activity, but also expresses differing legal status of sites and changing
property relations. Federal and regional laws concerning the ‘Territories
for Traditional Nature Usage’ (for its definition and designation, see
Sasaki 2004) now protect the rights of the indigenous peoples in such ter-
ritories, reserving these lands for special use. The hunting zone extending
over the middle and upper reaches of the Bikin River from the Siwantai
Mio cliff was designated as such a territory in 1992 in order to protect
its rich nature and cultural uniqueness of the Udege people against the
plan to cut down trees in their hunting zone for timber production. Since
this year, outsiders are allowed to go there only if they observe the rules
defined in the laws.
Today all passing hunters, fishermen and travellers, regardless of their
ethnicity, dedicate a ritual to Laobatu while going up to the forest zone
for hunting and fishing. They always anchor their boats here, climb up to
the terrace and perform the ritual. The ritual takes up only a few minutes.
When I observed the hunting activities of the Udege hunters in the forest
of the upper basins of the Bikin River in 1995 and 1996, the oldest hunter
climbed up to the terrace, went down on his knees in front of the hut,
poured vodka into the glass for the deity, kept some cigarettes and a few
pieces of bread in the hut, and asked him about the success of hunting
and fishing in the forest, casting a spell in the Udege language. After that,
all the members of the expedition drank a glass of vodka, ate a piece of
bread, smoked a cigarette for a while and left this place to continue the
travel.
Siwantai Mio is the name of the place, as well as that of the hut.
Though no one knows what the ‘Siwantai’ means today, undoubtedly,
it appears to be a name of Chinese origin, judging from the series of
syllables (‘si-wan-tai’ or ‘si-wang-tai’). The ‘Mio’ is a set of icons or
Chinese letters written on a sheet of paper or cloth that represent deities
or gods. The same word and things are widely seen among the other
Tungus-speaking peoples on the Amur basins like the Nanais, Ul’ches,
Oroches and Negidars. This name originated from a Chinese word,
‘Miao’. Originally, the ‘Miao’ was a shrine dedicated to deities, gods
and ancestors in China.
The name of the deity, Laobatu, the master controlling the hunting
luck and worshipped at the Siwantai Mio, owes it origins to a combin-
ation of two words of Chinese and Mongolian origin. The first part lao
means ‘old’ or ‘respectful’ in Chinese, while the second part batu implies
a hero or brave warrior in Mongolian. These naming traditions bear wit-
ness to the long history of dynamic inter-ethnic contacts in the region,
especially with Chinese merchants and peasants who were increasingly
numerous in the region from the 19th century. The area had been drawn
into fur-tax relations with China since the 17th century and the people
had contact with Manchurian warriors and governors sent out to col-
lect tributes (sable, silver fox, lynx and other kinds of precious fur) from
them at trade posts.
THE NEGOTIATION OF NEW FORMS OF KNOWLEDGE

Stories similar to the ones of Russians mocking and disturbing the sacred
site of Siwantai Mio on the Bikin basin can be heard in other indigenous
regions in the Russian Far East. For example, an edifying story about
the sacred hill Kairason has been told by the Samar people (one of the
sub-groups of the Nanai) on the Gorin River (a tributary of Amur River)
basin since the Soviet era. The pattern and structure of these stories are
the same. The story began with Russian or non-indigenous atheists who
ignored the local belief and dared to disturb the sacred place and morals.
They suffered unfortunate accidents resulting in someone’s death. The

indigenous people explained the cause of the accidents as punishment by
the master of the place and criticised the violation of the morals. Finally,
all members of the wider multi-ethnic village, regardless of their origins,
venerate the place and master, and observe a wider set of rules and mor-
als concerning them.
These stories tell us a process of the social adaptation of newcom-
ers who settled into the indigenous region during the Soviet period. At
the same time, they may also represent a means by which Udeges and
other minorities emphasise their enduring presence in the landscape.
Certainly, traditional hunting and fishing knowledge, traditional cloth-
ing and embroidery techniques, and traditional festivals relating to the
spiritual world are comparatively well preserved in Krasnyi iar, the
main village of the Bikin, and members of the young generation are
proud of continuing hunting expeditions, performing the ethnic dances
and songs and learning the techniques of clothing and embroidery. In
addition, many members of these communities appear pleased that the
worship and veneration of their sacred places and deities has spread to
other members of the villages, even to foreign researchers, regardless of
their ethnicity.
Due to the changing nature of land use and the expansion of defor-
estation at the expense of hunting, the Russian hunters who venerate the
site also increasingly share both a vested interest in the preservation of
the local ecology and an intimate knowledge of local animals and ways
of living in the forests, including respect for animals and the observation
of indigenous morals and taboos. For example, they never shoot at a
tiger, never break or cut bear’s bones, never speak loudly in the forest,
and never talk about hunting at home just after coming back from the
forest. Part of this complex includes the ritual at the Siwantai Mio. As
such, the morals and taboos and respect for the masters have become
part of a broader set of practical hunting knowledge, which the local
people, regardless of their ethnic origin, learn and understand in order
to be good hunters. For this extended, collective belief in the import-
ance of Siwantai Mio and Laobatu increasingly expresses a fundamental
way of using the landscape, of thinking about hunting and the ecology,
and about recognising entry into a different conceptual domain in which
‘masters’ guide hunting luck.
CONCLUSION
In this chapter, I have examined the traditional land-use and subsistence
practices of the Udeges, and gone on to explore the role of sacred places in
local spirituality, especially the rituals associated with the concept of mas-
terhood and hunting luck, and the performance of these acts at thresholds
between different physical and conceptual domains, in particular, at entry
times and places into the forested world of the hunting season.
In recent decades, the ‘traditional’ Udege culture which had grown
out of local adaptations to the Bikin River ecology but also though mu-
tual accommodations to regional trade networks and inclusion into vari-
ous states and empires, has been subjected to profound changes. Though
the focus was on the changing nature of belief and ritual at the Siwantai
Mio, I have examined how veneration of places has persisted, albeit in
a changed form, despite the widespread disappearance of many other
forms of Udege culture.
The present site is now venerated by a much wider social collective,
many of whom are not descendants of Udeges, but are nonetheless ac-
tively engaged with forest hunting in the lands upstream of this sacred
site. Passing the site also involves crossing a conceptual threshold that
marks a more aggressive form of landscape appropriation from a quieter
and more pristine form of nature in which a wider form of sensitivity
and belief endures and also spreads to hunters with no ethnic roots in
the region. At the same time, this vitality in a quieter form of spiritual-
ity and practice is matched by a bolder and more visible form of Udege
cultural revival which is expressed through ‘authentic’ dance displays
and ‘traditional’ forms of embroidery and other crafts in villages like
Krasnyi iar.
The site also remains an impressive topographic feature which sig-
nals the threshold to this other world. Although the Udeges appear to
have lost traditional legends and stories concerning the cliff and the
deity, they have retained an intuitive sense of its importance and are
actively expressing these beliefs through new forms of narrative, which
combine an older form of belief and intuition with a new sense of the
world, a world in which incomers who mock the older sacred geog-
raphy and violate morals go on to suffer punishments meted out by
the deity. Like the case of sacred rocks and landscape of the Koriaks
in Kamchatka indicated by A. D. King (King 2002, 72–75), these new
legends not only contribute to the underlying vitality of Udege belief,
but also advertise the importance of these perceptions of the world to
a much wider social collective that combines many different kinds of
ethnicity.
NOTE
1 The Udeges living along the Iman River, instead of carving, hung a sheet of
paper on a sacred tree, on which the deity was drawn as a Manchurian man
wearing his hair in a plait with a shaved forehead (Bereznitskii 2003, 191–92).
It seems to be an original version of the representation of Laobatu.
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CHAPTER 13
KOMI REINDEER HERDERS: SYNCRETIC AND

PRAGMATIC NOTIONS OF BEING IN THE
TUNDRA
Joachim Otto Habeck1
INTRODUCTION
In line with the general thematic focus of this volume, this chapter aims
to examine how contemporary Komi reindeer-herding communities liv-
ing in the northern part of European Russia understand and engage with
the landscape. Christianity was already well established among Komi
communities when they took up a transhumant way of life in the late 17th
and early 18th centuries, and began moving out onto the unknown and
in many ways alien landscapes of the tundra during seasonal migrations.
Arrival into the circumpolar world of reindeer nomadism brought
the Komis into closer inter-ethnic contacts with other herders, particu-
larly the Nenetses, from whom they adopted a range of ideas and prac-
tices. These historical factors mean that Komi engagements with the
northern landscape have a particularly syncretic and pragmatic char-
acter, which stands in stark contrast to the more overtly spiritual and
ritualistic ways in which other northern indigenous peoples engage with
the land (see other chapters in this volume).
In order to understand the unique character of Komi landscape
perceptions, this chapter opens with a brief sketch of pre-Christian
Komi mythology, before moving on to explain how the Komis first be-
came Orthodox Christians and later how they took up reindeer herding
after moving further into the north. The routines of the nomadic Komi
reindeer-herding way of life are then examined in more detail, with the
aim of investigating how spirituality is reflected in seasonal movements,
279
vernacular architecture and through herders’ own understandings of

their livelihood and the landscapes they inhabit. The insights point to
an intriguing disconnection between some core aspects of Komi spir-
ituality and their essentially pragmatic engagements with the tundra
landscapes they inhabit.
HISTORICAL BACKGROUND AND PRE-CHRISTIAN KOMI COSMOLOGY

The Komis, historically known as Zyrians or Permians, are a Finno-
Ugrian people and were settled along the banks of the Vychegda River
in Northeast Europe, where they practised hunting, fishing and a limited
degree of forest agriculture (Figure 13.1). Living in the proximity of the
emerging Russian State the Komis experienced initial Christianisation in
the late 14th century. The first mission to the Komis was led by Stefan
Permskii and resulted in the establishment of the Permian Eparchy in
Ust’-Vym’ in 1383 AD (e.g. Forsyth 1997, 8).
Figure 13.1 Map showing locations of places and geographic features mentioned in
the text (prepared by Joachim Otto Habeck, Peter Jordan and Alison Sandison; map
Komi Reindeer Herders: Syncretic and Pragmatic Notions 281
The very early date of this missionary activity has made study of
traditional pre-Christian spirituality a challenging undertaking. Diverse
historical and ethnographic sources suggest that earlier Komi cosmology
bore strong resemblances to the animistic belief systems of other neigh-
bouring indigenous peoples, including the Saami to the west, and the
Khants, Mansis and Nenetses to the East and North (Konakov 1994,
1996, 1999, 2004; Konakov et al. 2003). As examined in other chapters
in this volume, this distinct northern cosmology was centred on notions
of a three-tier universe of upper, middle and lower worlds—the Komi
believed that the deity En2 ruled the upper world and Omöl’ the lower
world (Konakov et al. 2003, 58).
Plants, animals and other features of the natural world were
understood by the Komis to possess souls and also to belong to a mas-
ter spirit. The most powerful master spirits were those of the forest
(leshii, vörsa, iag-mort) and of lakes and rivers (vasa, vakul’). Their
appearance was changeable: the senior master spirit of the forest,
for example, could be embodied by the bear, or it could appear in a
human-like shape, punishing hunters who had not obeyed the hunt-
ing ethics, and rewarding those of exemplary behaviour, for example
sharing their prey with others. Since some animals possessed person-
hood, they could understand human languages; hunted animals were
often described as ‘guests’ who were brought into the human domain.
Rules and rituals pertaining to the hunting of bears also followed these
themes and were particularly elaborate. While people generally sought
to establish friendly relationships with the main master spirits, there
were other spirits in the forest and water who were perpetually hostile
and threatening (Konakov et al. 2003, 54–55). The earlier veneration
of trees and groves has now faded, though Konakov reports that sac-
red groves existed near some villages as recently as the early 20th cen-
tury (Konakov et al. 2003, 60).
Encroaching Christianisation and other intensive inter-ethnic con-
tacts with Russian settlers eventually led to the merging of Komi notions
about En with the idea of the Christian God, while understandings of
cosmic lower level merged almost completely with Christian concepts of
hell (Konakov et al. 2003, 58). The few ideas that have been preserved
from pre-Christianisation times depict the lower world as similar to the
middle one, with some aspects of the lower world characterised by ele-
ments of inversion, for example, daylight appearing in the lower world,
is matched by nightfall coming to the middle one. Traditional Komi
understandings of illness, healing and magic also underwent profound
transformation, to the extent that older ideas were fragmented and no
longer formed a coherent set of beliefs or values (Sidorov (1997 [1928]).
Nevertheless, Christianisation had only limited impact in activities
associated with hunting and fishing. Beliefs about master spirits of the
forests, lakes and rivers remained powerful.
THE TRANSITION TO REINDEER PASTORALISM

By the time of the Russian invasion of Siberia in the late 16th century,
the Komis were already closely integrated into the Muscovite state.
Simultaneously, Komi settlements expanded northwards into the Izhma
valley (Figure 13.1), and from there into the middle and lower reaches of
the Pechora River (Zherebtsov 1982). In these new northern landscapes,
the mixed Komi economy of hunting, fishing and agriculture became in-
creasingly unsuitable; crop yields, in particular, declined sharply and har-
vest failures became more frequent (Konakov and Kotov 1991). Faced
with increasingly challenging circumstances, Komi migrant communities
gradually started to take up reindeer husbandry as an additional subsist-
ence strategy that was better suited to northern environments.
The Komi settlers of the Izhma and Pechora first became acquainted
with domesticated reindeer through contacts with their northern neigh-
bours, the Nenetses. Prior to this, the Nenetses had kept comparatively
small herds of transport reindeer, slaughtering them for meat only in
times of extreme shortage. In contrast, the Komis gradually built up their
new herds in order to produce meat and furs on more commercial scales,
slowly transforming subsistence-oriented small-scale reindeer herding
into market-oriented large-scale reindeer husbandry.
The main transition took place between the end of the 17th and the
beginning of the 18th century, and despite some serious losses during
occasional epidemics, reindeer pastoralism among the northern Komis
(known as Izhma Komis, Komi-izhemtsy, Iz’vatas) was a major eco-
nomic success (see Kertselli 1911). During these subsistence transfor-
mations, Komi settlements expanded eastwards into Northwest Siberia,
and also westwards to the Kola Peninsula, where the first Komi reindeer
caravan arrived in the winter of 1887 (Konakov 1993; Konakov and
Kotov 1991) (Figure 13.1).
Increased reindeer-assisted mobility across the entire tundra zone
greatly intensified inter-ethnic contacts, forcing the Komis to develop
new kinds of relationships with neighbouring communities, including
the Nenetses and northern Khants in the Northern Urals, Lower Pechora
and Lower Ob’ regions, and the Saami of Kola Peninsula (Figure 13.1).
Relations ranged from open hostilities during early phases of contact
to a more strategic pattern of co-ordinated co-existence characterised
by frequent intermarriages during later times. The Bol’shezemel’skaia
Tundra—the vast region stretching from the Kara Sea to the Pechora
River—emerged as an extensive contact zone and came to be populated

by mixed Komi-Nenets communities (Figure 13.1).
CONTEMPORARY KOMI REINDEER HERDING PRACTICES

Komi communities continue to hold large herds of reindeer despite the
many changes associated with the Socialist period, including the for-
mation of collective farms in the 1930s. The remaining sections of this
chapter are based primarily on long-term fieldwork (1998–99) among
Komi reindeer-herding brigades (teams) whose families were based in
Ust’-Usa and Novikbozh (see Figure 13.1), two villages in the muni-
cipality of Usinsk (Habeck 2005). My aim is to examine how reindeer
husbandry is currently practised and to explore how herders perceive the
environments in which they work and travel.3
In Ust’-Usa and Novikbozh, sections of the reindeer-keeping families
remain in the village for most of the year; others members migrate with
the reindeer herds from early April to late December. From December
to April, the reindeer require much less care and only a few herders re-
main in the winter camps, which are close to the village. Shortly after
Annunciation Day (Blagoveshchenie, 7 April), the herders begin the an-
nual migration, travelling almost 450 km to the shores of the Kara Sea
(Figure 13.1, 13.2), where there are fresh pastures and the windy open
conditions provide the reindeer some relief from the swarms of summer
insects. The second of August (Illia lun, Il’in den’, St. Elias Day) marks
the turning point of the year as the herders start to move the animals
back towards the winter village which is located in the more sheltered
forest-tundra zone. In November, the herds are penned and animals
counted and selected for slaughter.
The entire migration is conducted with the aid of reindeer sledges
which provide transport over the winter snows and also over the soft
spring and summer vegetation. Komi techniques of sledge-building, har-
nessing the deer, driving the sledge and other aspects of transportation
are very similar to those of the Nenetses, and were probably acquired
directly from them; the conical tent used by Komi herders is also very
similar to Nenets tents, though the Komi variants are larger.
Komi tents are also characterised by a duality in the internal so-
cial and symbolic structuring of the interior space. Each Komi reindeer-
herding family inhabits two ‘households’, one located in the village and
the other centred on the tent during the annual migrations. Each tent tends
to be occupied by two ‘households’, one group occupying the left side
and the other occupying the right side (Istomin 2000). Ideally, both these
households are drawn from members of two closely-related families, but
Figure 13.2 The reindeer herders’ brigade travelling from one campsite to another.
(Photograph by Joachim Otto Habeck, 5 May 1999.)
in practice, they may include more distant relatives. Although the num-
ber of men generally outnumbers the number of women, each household
core usually consists of an experienced herdsman with his wife, the latter
being officially employed as ‘tent-worker’.
Figure 13.3 illustrates the symmetrical interior layout of the tent
(chom): the food and the kitchen equipment are stored in the so-called
‘front end’ (vodz pom), which is located opposite to the entrance (öbös).
As the female tent-workers are responsible for the running of the house-
hold, their place is usually at the ‘front end’ whereas the male herders sit
or lie closer to the entrance when not out working with the herds. Until
the Soviet era, the ‘front end’ had some spiritual significance as the area
in which the Orthodox icon was kept, probably explaining why it was
formerly called En mesta (‘God’s place’) (Istomin 2000, 62).
During the annual migration, each brigade uses almost exactly the
same route (vörga) for the outward and return journey, with camps
made every 15 km or so. The northerly sections of each route are usu-
ally quite visible in the landscape because the sledge runners cut into the
tundra peat-lands, a factor that greatly eases later way-finding when the
brigade passes again. Vegetation and trees are occasionally cut, which
eases access but also marks the route for future use. In contrast, orienta-
tion along the more southerly reaches of the vörga is harder because here
the track leads over thick snow and is obliterated by subsequent snow
Figure 13.3 Interior layout of the tent (chom) of a reindeer-herding brigade of the
state farm ‘Ust’-Usinskii’, as of spring 1999. (Prepared by Joachim Otto Habeck.)
falls. There are no attempts to permanently sign-post the route and new
members of the brigade may need several years to memorise the vörga.
Ultimately the brigade leader (iasavei) is responsible for navigation
and the selection of stopping sites. In summer and autumn, elevated
locations near lakes form ideal camps thanks to easy access to water and
a good vantage point over the herd. There appear to be few proscriptions
against using older camp-sites though using the same camp twice in the
same frost-free period is not advisable as the germs from prior habitation
have not been reduced by frost yet. Each camp-site occupation leaves
few if any material traces, though stores of firewood are occasionally
prepared in the forest-tundra zone during the outward migration so that
there are supplies of fuel on the return leg; the conical stacks also aid
navigation.
Described in these terms, it is clear that each migration generates few
if any enduring marks on the landscape: tools and equipment are carried
with the brigade, sledge tracks eventually disappear from the peat-lands
and snow and the unused firewood will eventually rot back into the soil
again. The wooden fences and buildings of a few corrals in the tundra
form very isolated examples of fixed architecture. The occasional graves
of people who died in the tundra and could not be transported back to
the village cemetery form further points of reference in the landscape.
KOMI PERCEPTIONS OF THE ENVIRONMENT

All these descriptions amount to what might be termed an etic account
of Komi migrations through the tundra landscape—a perspective on the
world as if viewed from above, with each brigade scoring out a new
migratory line of transhumance on the printed paper of a map with
each passing year. In this section, I would like to develop an alternative
approach to understanding Komi mobility by examining how herders
actually experience these routines of landscape movement. This phe-
nomenological approach (Ingold 2000; Tilley 1994) seeks to explore
the reindeer herders’ perceptions from an ‘insider’ or emic perspective,
illustrating how embodied experiences of landscape vary according to
the season of travel and the technology employed (Habeck 2006; Jordan
2003, 184–85).
The strong sub-arctic seasonality guides the movements of the rein-
deer herds and is a central factor influencing human experiences of trav-
elling: while the herders are in the snowy forest-tundra, it is the frozen
swamps, lakes and rivers that provide the best lines of travel; as they
move closer to the Kara Sea in the summer, they move through treeless,
hummocky terrain. Familiar rivers are crossed at certain times of the
year so that places exist not only through their location in space, but also
through experience of movement as a ‘temporally ordered sequence of
vistas’ (Ingold 2000, 240; see Tilley 1994, 31). Reflecting the embodied
way in which landscape is experienced through travel, novice herdsmen
memorise the vörga in a sequential manner. At the same time, herders
require mental maps in order to conduct the triangulations that enable
them to locate and round up the reindeer (Istomin and Dwyer 2009).
Komi landscapes are also gendered owing to the well-established
division of labour that characterises life on the tundra. This sees the
male herders travelling great distances by sledge almost everyday as they
work closely with the animals. In contrast, working as ‘tent mates’, the
less-numerous women in the brigade spend more time in the tent or in
its immediate surroundings (Figure 13.4); women tend only to travel sig-
nificant distances when the entire camp moves. When travelling with the
caravan, the sledge on which they ride follows behind that of the iasavei.
In Komi experiences of landscape, there is a close intersection be-
tween place and time such that certain focal points in the landscape be-
come associated with social encounters and collective memories. The
corral is a central focus of activity twice during the annual round: first
Figure 13.4 At the entrance of the chom, a young woman (‘tent mate’) is pluck-
ing a willow grouse that a young herder had trapped the day before. (Photograph by
Joachim Otto Habeck, 9 May 1999).
in November, and then again in the spring—as a result, the short stays
at the corral ‘break up’ the year, involving some respite from journeying.
The stays also generate opportunities for social encounters so that the
corral, its events, associations and memories come to feature promin-
ently in the collective experiences of reindeer-herding life.
OTHER DIMENSIONS TO THE KOMI CULTURAL LANDSCAPE

Place-naming traditions in the Komi Republic tend to be associated with
former inhabitants of the land, their activities and memorable events (see
Habeck 2006). For example, in the Bol’shezemel’skaia Tundra, many
smaller hamlets were established at the start of the 20th century and
named after their founders. As a result, it is easy to reconstruct the kin-
ship links between these settlements and the current membership of con-
temporary reindeer-herding brigades nowadays. Other places marked
on topographical maps of the tundra carry the names of individuals or
memorable events, such as accidents.
In a similar way, remains resulting from the activities and presence of
humans in the forest and the tundra also serve as landmarks and a focus
of social memory. For example, older members of the brigade I travelled
with in 2005 remembered where I had left a pair of unfinished sledge
runners six years earlier. In general, however, these kinds of material

remains are very limited, and tend to rot quite quickly, meaning that the
historical depth of memories associated with places and activities tends
to be very shallow unless they become formalised as place-names. As a
result, the social meanings associated with the features of what might be
called ‘lived topographies’ are constantly being re-spun and differ from
generation to generation (see also Willerslev, this volume).
These tendencies are also amplified by the fact that the Komis have
no contemporary tradition of venerating sacred places. At the same time,
the Komis are aware of occasional Nenets sacred places (see Kharyuchi
2004; Lar 2003; Terebikhin 1998) located along their migration routes,
but tend to keep away from them; Nenets gravesites, with coffins located
above the ground, are considered particularly eerie and dangerous and
are avoided.4 Nenets sacred sites often feature wooden idols, which are
called bolvan (bolban) in Russian and Komi (Fasmer 1964, 186–87).
Lar (2003) notes the persistence of many places with these kinds of idols
in the Iamal-Nenets Autonomous Okrug, despite concerted attempts by
19th century missionaries to destroy them (Khomich 1979, 16–17; Lar
2003, 9). I am not aware of the existence of any bolvan on the terri-
tory of the Komi Republic, though the term bolvan is included in occa-
sional Komi place-names, hinting at the locations of earlier sacred sites
(Zherebtsov 1994, 182–83, 230).
On balance, it appears that the Komi reindeer herders’ engage-
ments with landscape are largely pragmatic: the tundra does not rep-
resent a web of spiritual meanings or obligations as is clearly the case
for almost all other indigenous peoples in Siberia (e.g. Golovnev 1995;
Halemba 2006; Jordan 2003; Vitebsky 2005; other chapters in this
volume). In fact, Izhma Komi folklore emphasises the implicit lack of
Christian spirituality in the tundra. The latter is portrayed as an alien
domain in contrast to the villages, markets and churches that consti-
tute ‘home’. Particular contrast is drawn between the primary religious
significance of Orthodox churches and the ‘black’ spaces of the open
tundra.5 However, in Ust’-Usa, Novikbozh and some other Komi areas,
there was greater contact with the Nenetses and the contrast between
village and tundra was expressed much less starkly than in the case of
Izhma.
EXPRESSIONS OF KOMI SPIRITUALITY AND BELIEF

As noted, the Komi experience of the tundra is not devoid of signifi-
cance, despite the absence of more obvious expressions of a landscape-
related spirituality. Komi reindeer herders express their pride through a
work ethic that values skills, experience and the ability to use technology
and judgement to live and work under conditions that others would find
unbearable. Physical endurance is valued as highly as experience in Komi
reindeer herders’ interpretations of tundra life—the landscape is a harsh
environment, but also a generous one for those who are able to live and
prosper in it. Again, however, people’s perception of the environment
is a pragmatic one, with little evidence that a sense of belonging to this
landscape is grounded in a mythical or spiritual foundation.
At the same time, my fieldwork observations illustrated that an in-
herent sense of spirituality does run through Komi practices, and indi-
cated that these beliefs often find expression in quite unexpected settings.
Many of these customs and beliefs appear to have their roots in the
pre-Christian systems of Komi animistic religiosity, which pre-date their
recent transition to mobile reindeer herding.
Grafted onto new patterns of mobility in an essentially alien and un-
known landscape, these older rules and practices tend to be connected to
particular events, that is, to certain moments in time rather than to spe-
cific points in space. In addition, many of these beliefs are commonly as-
sociated with material culture, but are not expressed by the deliberate or
ritualised depositions of certain objects in particularly significant places,
as is characteristic of indigenous ‘gifting’ rituals practised in other areas
of Siberia (see other chapters in this volume). This can be illustrated by a
brief example from fieldwork. While migrating with Komi herders over
the winter of 1998–99, we encountered no places along the vörga which
required avoidance or particular veneration, with one exception: on the
pathway between the village and the reindeer herders’ camp, the brigade
made a stop at what they described as the ‘half way’ point (dzhyn tui) of
the trip. The occasion was marked with the sharing of a bottle of vodka,
and other discarded bottles in the vicinity indicated that this kind of
stop had been a repeated feature of earlier journeys, though there were
no suggestions that the activity or the material remains had any deeper
spiritual meaning.
Graves form one of the very few ways in which the Komis create
enduring places with spiritual significance. The body is placed under-
ground, with the site marked by a wooden cross. Informants explained
how ‘one need not leave anything, but one should not take away any-
thing, either’, though people occasionally left food, drinks or tobacco on
the grave as part of a special ritual to remember and ‘visit’ the deceased
person. These events are known as pominki or pominanie in Russian,
and are commonly practised among Komi and local Russian commu-
nities (Teriukov 2004a, 319–21). The habit is widely perceived as being
an element of Orthodox belief though the Church itself does not actually
sanction this kind of ritual.
There are few indications that the Komis retain a coherent sense
of their older three-world cosmology, though there are occasional hints
that some concepts have persisted. For example, the right boot must al-
ways be put on before the left one (Sidorov 1997 [1928], 92), for only
when a person has died—and is on the way to the ‘other world’ —will he
or she reverse this sequence. Such contemporary habits appear to express
older notions about a world of the dead in which everything is inverted,
although more precise details of this world, including its exact location,
are blurred (Konakov et al. 2003, 59; Teriukov 2004b, 281).
The absence of an explicit Komi cosmology is also reflected in the ac-
tivities and meanings associated with the herders’ tent described above.
During fieldwork, I saw no evidence of any spiritual principle in the way
in which the tent should be erected, apart from the terminology associ-
ated with ‘God’s place’ (En mesta), which is located furthest from the
entrance, and the more general binary organisation of the tent’s internal
space, which reflects kinship and professional status rather than cos-
mology. The central stove has no spiritual significance nor is it the focus
of rituals associated with ‘feeding the fire’ noted elsewhere in Siberia
(Vitebsky 2005, 85–87, regarding Even reindeer herders) though there
are earlier accounts of such practices among the Komis (e.g. Konakov
et al. 2003, 60; Konakov 2004, 276). In contrast to other northern pas-
toralists, the Komis do not appear to observe particular rules concern-
ing the orientation of the tent’s entrance (öbös) towards any particular
cosmological or cardinal direction. The location and orientation of tents
at each stopping point are linked to the layout of the camp, which in turn
reflects herders’ pragmatic responses to local weather and topographic
factors.
General attitudes to the environment do retain an underlying sense
of responsibility: Komi herders describe how people should pay respect
to the natural environment by making only measured and consider-
ate use of its resources, yet this approach seems to be based more on a
pragmatic, ecological rationale than on any explicitly spiritual founda-
tion. Against this more general expression of respect for the land and its
resources, the bear remains one of the few species still actively venerated
by the Komis. Many reindeer herders carry a bear’s canine tooth (osh
pin’) attached to their belt (tasma), which is believed to protect them-
selves against pain in the spine. These bear teeth are acquired through
inheritance, trade with Nenets herders or through direct success in hunt-
ing a bear.6 Konakov (2004, 274) also reports that Komi hunters used
to consider bear teeth as protection against magical spoilage (porcha).
In examining the accounts of the rites and practices associated with
bear hunts that Sidorov had collected in the 1920s, Konakov concludes
that a distinct bear cult must have existed among Komi taiga hunters in
earlier times, and that this cult must have had very close similarities to
other forms of bear ceremonialism practised across Siberia (Konakov
2004, 274–75). The traditional rules surrounding the Komi bear hunt
(including assembling the group, preparing for the hunt, the actual kill-
ing of the animal, as well as subsequent preparation and consumption)
expressed the awe and reverence of the hunters towards the bear who
was regarded either as the earthly embodiment of the primary upper
world god En, or as a human ancestor who had returned in animal
form. Contemporary Komi reindeer herders with whom I worked con-
tinued to describe the bear with great reverence, though these ideas were
expressed in terms of respect for the bear’s great physical strength and
superior intelligence.
CONCLUSION: SYNCRETIC AND PRAGMATIC NOTIONS OF BEING

IN THE TUNDRA
The Komis are relatively recent arrivals in the tundra, having adopted
reindeer herding many generations after their spirituality and belief had
been deeply influenced by Orthodox missionary activity. This unique
historical trajectory witnessed the Komis moving out from the forest and
into the unfamiliar landscapes of the tundra at the same time as their
older folk beliefs had already become heavily fragmented.
Entering the highly-mobile world of the tundra nomads, the
Christianised Komis were quickly drawn into new modes of inter-ethnic
contacts, which added further colour and complexity to their engage-
ments with the land. Most material objects and places in the tundra that
possess an overtly spiritual significance—for example, sacred places and
graves—tend to have Nenets or Orthodox Christian backgrounds rather
than associations with an earlier Komi (Finno-Ugric) spirituality. In con-
trast, the latter is perpetuated in different ways: it comes to the fore in
the symbolism of the forest world of hunting and fishing. Within village
settings, the bania (steam bath) has the strongest non-Christian spiritual
significance, and formed an important place for traditional Komi healing
activities (Siniavskii 2001, 132–35).
The lively co-existence and recombination of old and new beliefs
contributes to the religious syncretism that lies at the heart of Komi
engagements with the land. This syncretism appears to be a more
general feature of northern spirituality to the extent that it is not al-
ways possible to discern whether contemporary Komi rituals are due
to Russian Orthodox, early Komi or Nenets influences. The picture is
further clouded by the fact that the Komis also appear to have shared
many of the pre-Christian folk beliefs of Slavic peoples. These included
the widespread northern themes of bear ceremonialism, as well as be-

lief in spirit masters inhabiting the lakes and forests (Siniavskii 2001,
117–41). As a result, it is very difficult to separate pre-Christian Komi
ideas from the influence of Russian folk beliefs (Konakov 2004, 257).
More generally, many of the Orthodox saints introduced to north-
ern peoples by missionaries were incorporated into older indigenous
cosmologies. For example, the Nenetses also venerate St. Nicholas as
one of a pantheon of spirit masters (Khomich (1979, 22–28), while
among the Komis, he became the patron of hunters (Konakov et al.
2003, 212–13).
In concluding this chapter, I would argue that the unique histor-
ical sequence of religious and economic transformations that have
created contemporary Komi reindeer-herding communities make it
impossible to examine their engagement with the landscape in terms
of a single coherent ‘system’ of religious ideas. Rather, their spiritu-
ality is made up of a complex constellation of themes, traditions and
practices. These include a residual pre-Chistian Komi (Finno-Ugric)
stratum which has particular associations with non-tundra environ-
ments, a later Orthodox Christian stratum that embraces many ele-
ments of Russian folk belief, and thirdly, a Nenets stratum, which
the Komis encountered after moving out into the vast new worlds
of tundra reindeer pastoralism. Further research into the Komi spir-
ituality should therefore start by acknowledging the fundamentally
syncretic nature of their belief, focusing on the creative ways in which
these diverse strands of spirituality are expressed and transformed via
herders’ engagements with the landscape and other related forms of
cultural practice.
NOTES
1 Acknowledgements: I conducted fieldwork in 1998–99 among Komi reindeer
herders as part of the interdisciplinary research project TUNDRA (Tundra
Degradation in the Russian North), supported by the EC Environment and
Climate Research Programme (contract nr. ENV4–CT97–0522, climate and
natural hazards). This fieldwork also provided the material for my Ph.D. disser-
tation (Habeck 2005). I am grateful for the comments of Kirill Istomin, Valerii
Sharapov, Virginie Vaté and two anonymous reviewers.
2 I give Russian words in italics and Komi words in italics with underline. The
Komi reindeer herders and their family members that I got to know during my
fieldwork speak predominantly the northern (Izhma) dialect of the Komi lan-
guage, which has integrated words from the Russian language to a greater ex-
tent than other Komi dialects. Words of clearly Russian origin and with Russian
spelling are not underlined, even if they are an integral part of the Izhma Komi
dialect.
3 In what follows, when I speak of Komi reindeer herders, I refer to the reindeer
herders of Ust’-Usa and Novikbozh unless explicitly stated otherwise. I use the
term ‘reindeer herders’ for both men and women living in the tent. The state-
ments below refer to both women and men, unless indicated otherwise.
4 Kirill Istomin, Halle, personal communication, 22 March 2006.
5 “S Blagoveshchenskogo my vyekhali pervogo prikhoda / So slavnogo siziab-
skogo my vyekhali bazara / Po olen’ei trope my poekhali, prolozhennoi nent-
sami / V chernuiu my poekhali tundru…” (Sharapov 2001, 149, quoted from
Mikushev, A. K. and P. I. Chistalev 1968, Komi narodnye pesni, vol. 2, p. 23).
Sharapov suggests on the basis of this song that Izhma reindeer herders con-
sidered the village of Siziabsk (near Izhma) as an outpost at the border to the
tundra.
6 Kirill Istomin, Halle, personal communication, 22 March 2006.
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CHAPTER 14
SIBERIAN LANDSCAPES IN KET

TRADITIONAL CULTURE
Edward J. Vajda
INTRODUCTION
The Ket people and their linguistic cousins—the Iughs, Kotts, Assans,
Arins, and Pumpokols—are the earliest ethnically-identifiable inhab-
itants across the upper and middle watershed of the Enisei River
(Figure 14.1). Numbering today no more than 1,200, the Kets are the
sole survivors from among these formerly widespread tribes. Settled in
Russian-style villages since the mid-20th century, they retain only rem-
nants of their traditional culture and are in imminent danger of losing
their language. Sparsely populating one of the world’s most remote are-
as, the Kets are largely unnoticed by the outside world. Central Siberia
is populated today chiefly by Russians, who live alongside several small
Turkic, Tungusic and Samoedic minorities—the neighbours of the Kets
in pre-Russian Siberia. Though not the first and certainly not the largest
native group to occupy the taiga forests along the Enisei or its tribu-
taries, it is the Kets who have imparted to the region much of its under-
lying ethno-geographic flavour. Subtle echoes of their traditional culture
have left an indelible imprint on wide expanses of territory stretching
from the Altai-Saian Mountains downriver along the Enisei as far north
as the Arctic Circle. This vast and rich, yet isolated and often inhospit-
able, territory becomes unexpectedly familiar when viewed through the
multifaceted prism of the original Ket world-view.
297
lugh
0 400 km
Figure 14.1 Map of Siberian peoples. (Map drawn by Alison Sandison.)
THE KETS
The Kets were the last group of hunter-gatherers to outlast the north-
ward spread of pastoral peoples across landlocked Northern Asia, only
abandoning their mobile lifestyle during the forced Soviet collectivisa-
tion campaign of the early 1930s. Before sedentarisation, other West
Siberian peoples—the Khants, Nenetses, Sel’kups, and Evenkis—ranged
through the forests with their herds of reindeer (see Figure 14.1 for the
location of Native Siberians in the 17th century). The Kets, though pro-
lific wanderers as well, led a different type of nomadic existence. They
raised no animals for food and subsisted entirely on hunting, fishing and
the gathering of wild plants. Until some Ket groups adopted reindeer
from their Sel’kup neighbours in the early 20th century, the only domes-
ticate was the dog. As food extractors rather than food producers, their
economic cycle closely mirrored the boreal-forest seasons. The phases
of their age-old economy are memorialised in the traditional Ket names
for months of the year (Alekseenko 1967, 38–39). Most contemporary
river names in the areas once roamed by Eniseian-speaking peoples have
transparent Ket etymologies. Early Eniseian place-names seem to have
Siberian Landscapes in Ket Traditional Culture 299
been adapted by the late-coming Turkic or Samoedic groups and later

passed to the Russians (Dul’zon 1962). But toponyms are only a small
portion of the Ket cultural legacy across today’s Siberian landscape.
KET LANDSCAPE AND COSMOLOGY

Underpinning the diverse facets of traditional Ket conceptualisations
of central Siberian geography is a spatio-temporal pattern involving
horizontal north-to-south space, vertical space, horizontal east-to-west
space, the river contrasted with the forest, and even the procession of
past, present and future time. Since the Kets were oriented along the
north-south axis of the Enisei, the north and down-river represented a
single direction, as did the south and up-river. The up-river south was a
source of positive energy, goodwill and economic benefits, as were the
sun and sky. The down-river north was a realm of cold, malevolence and
death that merged with conceptions of the under world. The east, the
point of the rising sun, was likewise a source of life, and merged concep-
tually with the notions of south and upriver. The west, where the sun’s
rays disappeared, was associated with extinguishment of life and thus
also with the down-river north. The river in contrast to the forest added
a further dimension to this dichotomy. The water’s edge was a source of
summer bounty, while the forest—the setting for the group’s more aus-
tere winter hunting peregrinations—was a place of comparative danger
and lack. Beneficial spirits and deities were associated simultaneously
with the riverbank, the south and the east. Harmful forces were associ-
ated with the west, the north and the forest hinterland.
Coexisting with these horizontal spatial dichotomies was a tripar-
tite contrast between under world, earth and sky. This vertical axis was
traditionally conceptualised as a giant World Tree, the image of which
typically adorned the backboard of women’s snow sleds.
Like many other peoples, the Kets viewed the sky as a sacred realm
and regarded the mysterious under world as an abode of the dead. Both
sky and under world contained seven layers. Between these stood the
tangible world of light inhabited by humans, which the Kets referred
to as ilbang, or ordinary earth, as opposed to the extraordinary realms
of the heavens and the under world, accessible directly only to shamans
and healers. The earth itself was conceived as floating upon a vast sea,
with seven seas surrounding its perimeter on all sides. The under world
was only murkily conceptualised. Among the Kets, a kind of medicine
man called the bangos professed a special connection with the earth
and its nether regions. The mole and the bat, thought to be among the
under world’s few living denizens, were his helpers, as were the myriad
ilbangdeng, or earth spirits, whom the bangos alone could perceive and
harness. Conversely, Ket shamans (senang) possessed a special con-
nection with the sky and with certain birds and animals. According to
Alekseenko (1978), there were five categories of shamans, distinguished
by a special ability to take on the attributes of a particular creature: bear
(qoj), reindeer doe (qaduqs), dagh (a large, mythical eagle-like bird),
kandelok (an anthropomorphic being with bear paws instead of hands
and feet) or dragonfly (dynt). A qaduqs-shaman, for example, wore re-
galia containing images of the reindeer doe (see Figure 14.2) and could
journey upwards to certain levels of the sky with her help to commune
with spirits there.
The seventh and highest level of the sky, inaccessible even to sha-
mans, was the abode of Es, the all-powerful male creator deity, who
tended to keep aloof from humans on earth. It was assumed that the sky
contained rivers and lakes and mountains mirroring those of the earth.
The stars and planets were regarded as the roots of heavenly trees. In Ket
graphic design, black was the colour associated with the earth whereas
red symbolised the sky (Ivanov and Toporov 1997). Domestic dogs or
reindeer chosen for sacrifice to the earth had dark fur, while those sacri-
ficed to the sky were white.
Figure 14.2 Ket reindeer shaman’s headdress. (Photograph by Edward J. Vajda.)

Time itself was conceptualised as an ever-repeating cycle of birth,

death, and rebirth. The future—unseen though predictable—existed be-
hind the present, eternally repeating the past against the cosmic back-
drop of sky, forest and river. Superimposed on these broader conceptions
of space and time was the personal geography of Ket family and ethnic
space. The Kets believed that the polar star was anchored to the earth by
a sort of cosmic umbilical cord in the precise vicinity where they camped
and roamed. Humans too were believed to have developed their navels
from a similar connection with the earth. A child’s umbilical cord was
kept in a safe spot as an heirloom. Legend has it that the first humans
created by Es were not subject to death and had no special connection
with the earth. When one man became old and tired and lost conscious-
ness, Es sent down his son to instruct the Kets to place the man’s body
on a platform raised above the ground and leave it undisturbed until it
revived. The son confused everything and told the people to bury it in
the ground. As a punishment, Es transformed his son into the first dog,
doomed ever after to serve humans and eat the scraps they left behind.
As for the people, they began to die and return to the earth. Ket sky
burials, on raised wooden platforms, came to be reserved for shamans,
while most people were simply buried in the earth. Dead newborns were
laid to rest inside a cavity in a tree trunk or stump. Burial grounds were
traditionally set in untrodden corners of the forest uplands, away from
the riverine camp-sites associated with summer life.
According to Anuchin (1914) and Alekseenko (1967), the Kets
believed each person possessed from birth seven souls, unlike animals,
who had only one. Findeisen (1953) records that only one of these, the
ulvei, was an actual human soul. The ulvei, translatable as ‘water-wind’,
was an immortal life force that returned soon after its bearer’s death
in the new body of an infant. The endless cycle of reincarnation con-
tinued humanity, linking the under world with the earth in a temporal-
geographic union symbolised by the person’s navel. The navel and
umbilical cord substantiated the connection between mortal humans or
animals and Mother Earth. When a person died, the oldest woman in
the family group stripped the leather cords from the deceased’s clothing,
reserving them for incorporation into clothing made for the next child
born. These strips of reindeer hide symbolised the umbilical connection
between the body and its earthly life force, or ulvei, thought to be im-
mortal. Both were renewed and reinvigorated through the earth in the
cycle of dying and rebirth. The earth was the source of both life and
death for all living beings.
Trees also were regarded as powerful living forces. In the Ket lan-
guage, tree nouns belong to the masculine gender class, usually reserved
for positive, useful or powerful objects as well as for male humans and
animals (Vajda 2004). Trees were anthropomorphised to some degree

and even thought to possess their own language. The crown of branches
was the ‘head’. The thinner bark on the south-facing side was referred
to as the tree’s ‘stomach’, while the opposite, north-facing bark was
called the ‘back’. Trees that tended to grow on higher land were most
revered. These included the larch, sacred tree of the Kets, the graceful
birch, which provided life-sustaining bark useful for many basic utilitar-
ian needs and the majestic and nourishing five-needled Siberian pinyon
pine, Pinus sibirica, ubiquitously referred to as ‘cedar’. The alder, wil-
low and aspen, as trees growing in low swampy areas, were thought to
be closer to the under world and associated with negative forces. Alder
wood was called ‘blood wood’ and an alder branch was used to disperse
evil spirits when entering an abandoned dwelling. The most beloved and
most useful tree was the birch. Its wood and bark, which cannot become
waterlogged, provided covering for the qu’s, a type of conical summer
tent constructed on a frame of poles. A young birch was cut and stood
near the tent as an offering tree upon which were placed scraps of cloth
and other small sacrifices. After the camp was broken, this tree was care-
fully laid aside out of areas where it might be trampled. Birch branches
were a favourite perch for benevolent spirits. Evil spirits preferred to
nestle in spruce and fir (Anuchin 1914, 18). Cedar wood provided all of
the shaman’s wooden attributes as well as most images of the allel, or
Ket family guardian spirit images. These doll-like images were usually
about six inches long and clothed in scraps of cloth or fur, with beads
for decorations. Allels were carved out of living trees so they would be
‘alive’. Cedar wood also provided coffin planks. During certain key ritu-
als, trees were even transformed into spirits and other beings.
An ancient larch growing on high ground near a river was typically
chosen as a place for the holai, or ancestor veneration site. Preparing this
site required fashioning numerous pillars with conical anthropomorphic
heads, called dosn. These were regarded as children of the holai and
were leaned against the living larch trunk. The holai ancestor spirit itself
was carved in the form of an anthropomorphic face into the living wood
of the larch that grew in the centre of the site. As its spirit was thought
to inhabit the mouth of a river, the holai site with its dosn normally oc-
cupied a hill nearby. Offerings of food were brought by successive gen-
erations to this hill and spread before the roots of the larch. Holai sites
tended to be located at a distance from the summer encampments and
were off-limits for hunting. The holai sites of other clans were off-limits
entirely, especially to women, lest they be spirited away as brides for the
dosn. Similarly, before an important undertaking, allel dolls were cere-
monially given food and drink by the women in a family to gain their ad-
vice or protection. These objects, invested with cosmic power, watched
over the family or clan and protected it from the ill will of alien spirits.
Kept in a safe place away from the eyes of strangers, these dolls were
carefully preserved from loss or wear. New clothing and footwear was
fashioned for them periodically, and any damage to them was thought to
incur misfortune for the family they guarded. Allels were handed down
over the generations to each family’s youngest son or newly carved by an
older son beginning a family.
Other upright objects, such as poles, posts, ships’ masts and pil-
lars likewise belonged to the masculine gender. The upward direction
represented the sacred sphere of shamanism. The sky was inhabited by
sundry esdeng—heavenly spirits capable of coming to the aid of sha-
mans when summoned. The name of the legendary first shaman, Doh,
is homonymous with the word meaning ‘flight’. In one Ket version of
the cosmos, the Milky Way is referred to as Doh’s trail, Dohara qo’t.
Shamans—whose training involved seven stages, each of which lasted
three years (Anuchin 1914) —were able to fly up into successively higher
layers of the sky through the assistance of increasingly powerful spirit al-
lies. The Kets also practised a sort of divination in which a spoon would
be thrown into the air and a question asked. If the spoon landed face
down, towards the under world, the answer was negative; if it landed
face up, towards the open sky, the answer was positive. Family mem-
bers used their allel dolls in the same way. The same sort of ritual was
also performed using a bear’s paw during the Bear Ceremony when the
Kets asked the spirit of the slaughtered bear to reveal its former human
identity.
As the Kets had lived so long beside the Enisei, which flows from
the Altai due northward to the Arctic Circle, the direction ‘south’ was
conceptualised as up-river, and ‘north’ as down-river. The north was a
land of darkness, cold and death. There was no clear division between
it and the under world. The mysterious lower reaches of the Enisei and
the frozen seas beyond were inhabited by the evil witch Hosedam, for-
mer wife of Es, cast down from the sky for committing adultery with
the moon. At first she dwelled in the south, where she and her servants,
evil spirits called kyns, preyed upon the Kets, sending them all manner
of misery and devouring their souls. When the great Ket culture hero
Alba drove her northward, he established the course for the Enisei by
breaking through a narrow place in the hills, the scene of today’s Osinov
Rapids on the upper course of the Enisei. The rapids themselves are
thought to be the remains of Alba’s elk and reindeer. The relentless Alba
pursued Hosedam past the mouth of the Enisei onto the frozen Arctic
ice, where he burned her up. Unfortunately, the smoke and ashes ris-
ing from her spilt blood generated endless swarms of biting insects that
returned to plague the taiga during the brief summer heat. Analogous
myths exist among native peoples of the Pacific Northwest of North

America. The regenerated Hosedam herself remained in the north, from
where she continues to send afflictions of all kind up-river to the Kets
in their taiga home. One Ket myth identifies the Milky Way as the path
left by Alba in his pursuit of Hosedam. Another says that Alba dripped
blood on his return journey south to the land of the Kets: from each
drop of blood grew a red lily. The absence of this plant farther south is
explained by the fact that the Kets staunched Alba’s wounds as soon as
he entered their territory.
The south, in marked contrast to the north, was a place of warmth
and plenty. At the beginning of the 20th century, the Kets still retained
ancient memories of being driven northwards by fiercer tribes and hav-
ing to adapt to their present sub-arctic climate (Anuchin 1914, 5). The
benevolent goddess Tomam resides in some unidentified mountainous
land (perhaps the Altai-Saian) located south of where the Kets now live.
Embodying the south as one of the four corners of the world, Tomam
brings forth the wild spring thunder to signal the coming of warm wea-
ther. Every spring she stands atop her mountains and shakes her feathery
cape. The feather down that falls from her sleeves and cape becomes the
migratory geese and ducks that rescue the Kets from starvation in late
spring. She also sends swans, one of the most sacred shamanistic birds,
as well as loons, another bird associated with shamanistic power; both
birds are taboo to kill. Certain insects, such as the dragonfly, another
powerful shamanistic totem, are thought to be associated with Tomam’s
actions. According to Alekseenko (1978), dragonfly shamans were espe-
cially powerful, but could only operate during summer months. There
were also special folktales only people born in the summer were allowed
to tell.
The geographic opposition between east and west was similarly con-
figured in terms of a positive and negative pole. The east was the direction
of the rising sun, the direction of life, whereas the west was associated
with darkness and death. In a Ket encampment, tents were erected with
the most prominent member’s dwelling standing closest to the east. The
tent opening faced west since the western side through which everyone
entered was regarded as the profane side of the tent. The back inner por-
tion, reserved for adult males, was the cleanest, most sacred area. Snow
sleds normally were parked facing east. A sled facing west signalled that
its owner had died. A kettle tipped toward the west symbolised death. A
red sunset was thought to be a harbinger of deteriorating weather and a
manifestation of Deles, hostile spirit of the blood-red sky. Together with
the north and the underground spaces, the west represented yet another
incarnation of death and the under world. The low-lying forests on the
western side of the Enisei were thought to be infested with lytis, evil
spirits of the dead sometimes regarded as servants of Hosedam. It was

also the abode of Bissimdes, the eldest son of Es who had failed to heed
his father’s warnings and froze to death in the swampy lowlands. There
he dwells still, sending storms, warfare and all manner of misfortune
to the Kets from that direction. Bissimdes also sends storms, and the
colour red symbolises both blood and the sunset. The role of Bissimdes
in the west and Hosedam in the north thus overlapped. Hosedam was
also known as tygilam, or ‘Down-river Mother’. Along the Enisei, the
notions ‘down-river’ and ‘north’ were basically synonymous.
The east, like the up-river south, lacked such negative connota-
tions. After the Bear Ceremony, in which a bear was ritually slaughtered
and eaten to propitiate success in hunting, the bear’s bones and certain
organs were secreted in the east-facing cavity of a tree as it was believed
that this direction fostered reincarnation of the bear’s spirit. Bones of
animals killed for food on the hunt were placed on the east side of trees
in the hope of facilitating their abundant reappearance during the next
hunting season. When a Ket woman gave birth, the midwife would take
from the tent in an eastward direction a birch-bark box containing the
afterbirth, tying it to the eastern side of a cedar tree. The positioning
of this box facing the eastern exposure was designed to invoke the life-
giving properties of this direction. The box also contained a miniature
bow fashioned from willow twigs and designed to protect the infant
from evil spirits. Clockwise motion also played a positive role in many
rituals, during which the participants moved in an east-to-west motion.
Along the axis of the Enisei, the eastern shore was hilly while the
western shore was low and swampy. For this reason, the Kets called
the east tyngbang, or stony land, and the west ulbang, or watery land.
Ket culture heroes such as Alba and Olgit (progenitor of a subdivision
of one of the two traditional Ket out-marriage groups), as well as the
three brother warriors Balna, Belegen and Toget, were said to have
turned into mountainous crags on the eastern side of the Enisei. The
rocky promontory on the western bank of the Enisei down-river from
Vorogovo is said to derive from the mythic figure Syoksa, who tried to
prevent Alba from finding the local river-mouth spirit, for which Alba
killed him. His body became a cliff, still tinged with the red ochre that
formed from his spilt blood (Alekseenko 1977, 39). Many more such
myths regarding the origins of local natural features likely existed in the
past but went unrecorded. Their ultimate origin may lie in the struggle
between the Kets and earlier, now unknown, taiga groups whom they
displaced during their migrations from the south.
The Enisei and its major tributaries (see Figure 14.3 for a view of
the Elogui, the Enisei’s largest western tributary and home to many Ket
people today) were conceptualised as giant trees, with the river mouth
Figure 14.3 Elogui River, western tributary of the Enisei. (Photograph by Edward
J. Vajda.)
equated with the tree’s base or roots. The river was thought to be the
mother of all of its tributaries, with the tributary mouth being a spot
particularly endowed with spirit power. While diving under-water dur-
ing her flight north from Alba, Hosedam was thought to have created
many of the islands in the deltas of tributaries emptying into the Enisei.
The Kets gave offerings to placate the spirits of such islands when pass-
ing by (Alekseenko 1977, 39). Also, as already mentioned, holai sites
were normally set up near deltas to harness the power of the spirits of
the river mouth.
These facts linked the east/west, south/north and under world/earth/
sky contrast into a single cosmic landscape. The east, the south and the
sky were the positive poles of their respective axes. The west, the north
and the murky dark spaces underground were places associated with
cold, darkness, ill will, death and the imprisonment of human souls. The
interdependence of these overlapping spatial dichotomies in Ket cosmol-
ogy may account for why the number seven figures repeatedly in diverse
aspects of Ket traditional belief, since seven combines the four compass
directions with the triple vertical axis of under world, earth and sky.
An equally important geographic opposition concerned the oppos-
ition between river and upland forest. The Ket world was thought to float
on an enormous sea and to be surrounded by seven seas. These expanses
of water were associated with the under world or with Hosedam, who
was thought to live at the place where the Enisei emptied into the frozen
sea. But bodies of fresh water on the land, particularly rivers, were fa-
miliar places of plenty and benevolence. In the Ket language, the adverb
igda means ‘down to the river’s edge’ as well as ‘down-river’ and ‘down-
hill’, while at means ‘into the forest’ as well as ‘up-river’ and ‘uphill’.
The riverbank, in particular, was a zone of life-giving support, while
the forest interior was more forbidding, though likewise vital during the
winter months when the water was thickly frozen over. The Kets trad-
itionally passed the warmer months near rivers and the winter months
hunting deep in the forest. The positive image of the river vis-à-vis the
forest was later partly erased by the increasing need for the Kets to meet
the demands of the Russian iasak, or fur tax, by going deep into the taiga
to hunt fur-bearing animals. Originally, the Kets were a riverine folk, or
at least a major component of their ethnicity appears to have been. The
river as a destination was therefore highly positive. Encampments near
the riverbank were set up in a way analogous to those established on an
east-west axis. The most prominent member of the camp pitched his tent
nearest the water, with less senior members occupying places increas-
ingly more inland.
Rivers were envisioned as living beings that could be counted on
to yield bountiful life in the form of edible fish. Throwing garbage into
the water was forbidden. One Ket folktale tells of a woman who care-
lessly tossed rotting fish heads into a river, only to have the offended
river stop yielding up its fish. The rivers themselves, like the earth, were
regarded as feminine entities and offerings of tea, tobacco, food or coins
were made to them. Spring flooding often exposed the tusks of woolly
mammoths. Preserving no recollection of these beasts from real-life pre-
history, the Kets regarded the bones and tusks as having been left by a
huge underground tunnelling creature, the tel, who was thought to have
gouged out the deep bends in the rivers. The tel was regarded as a deni-
zen of the under world.
KET SEASONAL MOBILITY AND SACRED LANDSCAPE GEOGRAPHY

During the year, the Kets nomadised between summer encampments
alongside rivers or lakes to winter hunting trails deep in the taiga. This
ancient pattern was originally motivated by the need to congregate near
fish runs in the warm season and to hunt big game and fur-bearing ani-
mals inland during the winter. It acquired new significance after the
Russians imposed the iasak, or fur tax, which increased the need for
inland hunting. Abandoning the river required the removal of fishing
weirs and boats from the water before it froze. Low-lying areas con-
necting two bodies of water were used as boat hauling trails, or kapket,
with a notch cut into a nearby tree to mark the spot where such a trail
began (Donner 1933, 57). Every family group had its own hunting trail
or kang. Kreinovich (1969a, 35) lists 22 such trails extending into the
forest from the lower reaches of the Mountain Tunguska River alone.
These trails were simply recognised from distinctive features of the nat-
ural scenery, such as hills or small bodies of water. According to Donner
(1933, 58), the Kets never used signs to mark their hunting trails of the
type put up by the Evenkis.
The departure by the family group from their riverside encampment
into the forest every fall required an important ritual called ‘Feeding
the Old Woman of the Road’ (Kreinovich 1969b). This custom reveals
much about how the Kets conceptualised the opposition of river to for-
est. The arrival of cold weather was generally a time of foreboding for
the Kets. Freezing of the waterways deprived people of easy access to
fish. The ‘departure’ of the sun into a more southerly trajectory across
the sky coincided with the migration southwards back to Tomam of
most game birds and shamanistic totem birds. Changes in the seasons
necessitated the group to remove fishing weirs and boats from the river,
break camp and move inland into the forest. As a safeguard against the
difficult journey ahead, the shaman ceremonially ‘caught’ all the souls of
clan members in a net, anchoring them at the riverside. It was thought
they would remain safely fixed in the square openings of the net until
the Kets returned to the riverbank during the next spring. The forest was
believed to be filled with servants or daughters of Hosedam, sent forth
to hinder the fall migration into the forest. To placate these malevolent
beings, the Kets performed a ritual that involved fashioning an anthro-
pomorphic figure called kangro out of a fir tree. The crown was lopped
off and the upper portion of the remaining trunk carved into a pointed
head on which a crude face was gouged. Two parallel branches were left
for the arms, and two more for the legs. The kangro image was erected
in the snow beside the fourth encampment inland from the river’s edge.
The Kets then proceeded to ‘feed’ it with a type of gruel made from the
last remnants from the summer store of food. Though the image was
not treated with particular respect, its ‘feeding’ was intended to placate
the evil spirit into leaving the Kets in peace during their winter peregri-
nations through the forest. Travelling along some of the ‘big roads’, or
longer hunting trails (kang), required establishing over a dozen succes-
sive encampments (ytaq), most lasting for about three days (Kreinovich
1969a). During this migration, the family’s progress was measured in
terms of the amount of time it took the group to move during a single
day. That distance was referred to as itang, or ‘day-drag’, a concept
conveyed in Russian by the word argish. Hunting trails were used by the
same family group over many years.
During the spring, the Kets re-emerged from their winter hunting
trails to congregate once more near the river’s edge, waiting for the ice
to break free and wash away downstream in the spring flood. There
they performed ritual supplications to Tomam for the return of warmth
and migratory birds, though detail about these rituals seems to have
gone unrecorded. The local holai were invoked to speed the break-up
of the river’s ice. The dosn, or holai children, were thought to swim
invisibly under the ice and split it from below with their pointed heads
(Alekseenko 1977, 34). Offerings of cloth, ribbons or coins were placed
upon the wooden images to facilitate their assistance.
The forest was also home to the evil witch Dotetam and her daugh-
ters. Dotetam was sometimes zoomorphised as a great horned owl,
whose evening hooting was especially feared. The woods were also
home to the Qaigus, or spirit of the uplands (from qa’i, ‘mountain,
hill, uplands’). In some Ket legends, the Qaigus is portrayed as a female
forest mother. In others, the Qaigus is simply the bear—master of all
forest animals (Alekseenko 1977, 109). Bears in general were thought
to be reincarnations of deceased humans who ‘visited’ the Kets. When
a hunter found a bear and killed it, the Kets assumed the bear had
‘offered’ to visit the world of humans by voluntarily submitting to their
weapons. No prowess or skill was attributed to the hunters themselves.
Once a bear’s carcass had been procured, the Kets performed an ancient
rite called the Bear Ceremony, during which they consumed his flesh in
a highly ritualised fashion, ‘hosting’ the bear as their ‘guest’ by giving
him assorted gifts and asking him various questions. The carcass was
ritually butchered by the older men, with bones carefully disarticulated
at the joints rather than broken. Strips of fat were removed from the
carcass in a specific order, and all of the flesh was cooked and con-
sumed, including the head. The hunter who first discovered the bear re-
ceived the honour of swallowing its two eyeballs raw. Parts of the skin,
including the nose and lips, were attached to leather thongs and worn
by participants during the feast. The trachea and lungs were set aside
and later placed back inside the bear’s den. After the feast ended, the
bones were taken upland into the forest and placed in the hollow of a
tree facing east. This ceremony was performed to invoke the creature’s
goodwill towards the winter hunt since the bear was a vital link between
the riverine Kets and their crucial upland hunting grounds. After the rit-
ual had been completed, the Kets were careful to observe the etiquette
of returning the bear’s bones and major body parts to a special place
in the forest. The bones of animals killed during the hunt were left in
similar fashion to regenerate on the east side of trees. Fish remains were
likewise respectfully returned to the river to placate the Ulgus or water
spirit.
Water gave life in the present earthly realm as well as in myth and
legend. According to Ket tradition, the past had witnessed many floods
that cleansed the earth. During each deluge, people and animals survived
by clinging to bits of turf floating in the frothy torrent. In the future, an-
other, final flood will resurrect great Ket heroes of the past such as Doh,
Alba and Balna. In this way, the future, unseen but destined to repeat
the past, existed prior to, or behind, the present. The Ket word ongta ‘in
back’ conveys simultaneously the temporal future as well as the spatial
notion of posteriority.
LANDSCAPE, IDENTITY AND KINSHIP

Upon the larger cosmic spatio-temporal design of these vertical and hori-
zontal dichotomies existed a much finer-grained concept of family space.
The Kets lived in small family groups that were intimately familiar with
every aspect of the territory over which they nomadised in search of
food. In midsummer, each family fished in its own area. In winter, nu-
clear family groups dispersed along their own traditional hunting trails.
During the spring and fall, several families related through a male ances-
tor would merge in preparation for the migrations between the river and
the forest. These patriarchal clan gatherings represented but a portion of
a larger unit called the hoghotpyl, a word meaning ‘same bone group’,
since the Kets, like some steppe peoples, traditionally referred to blood
relatives as ‘bones’. The hoghotpyl represents a classic example of the
type of exogamous (out-marriage) group known to anthropologists as
a moiety.
Traditionally, Ket society was divided into two moieties that
exchanged marriage partners: the Bogdeng, or ‘Fire People’; and
Qentandeng, or ‘Large Ski Pole Ring People’. Tracks made by members
of the latter could easily be recognised in winter by the larger imprint left
by the ends of their ski poles in the fallen snow. Both hoghotpyl groups
were patrilocal, with women from the opposing groups inducted as mar-
riage partners. Originally, each of the two moieties possessed its distinct
territory, but already by the 19th century, epidemics and encroachment by
Russians and other groups had led to their geographic mixing. Ultimately,
the moiety system broke down entirely, and by the late 20th century,
inter-ethnic marriage also became prevalent, a trend that has rapidly in-
tensified in recent decades (Krivonogov 2003). The historic Bogdentsy
near the Elogui and the Zemshak on the Mountain Tunguska originated
from the Bogdeng moiety, while the Inbak and Olgit groups down-river
along the Enisei derived from the former Qentandeng (Alekseenko 1970,
167; Dolgikh 1960, 144). Even after clans representing the two formerly
geographically separate out-marriage groups began to live side-by-side

in villages, their social division was reflected in the strict observance of
myriad local customs. A man could not marry a woman from inside his
own moiety. It was also the custom to invite members of the opposite
moiety to prepare the dead for burial, as one’s own dead relative posed
a danger to the whole clan. Shamans felt hindered from calling their
spirit helpers while in the vicinity of newly-dug graves of relatives for
fear of unintentionally arousing the spirits of the deceased. Gravesites
thus added a special dimension to the local landscape and were located
inland and away from hunting or camping areas. In general, the newly
deceased posed a special danger to the members of their own family, clan
or moiety. Even when returning from visiting a sick person, a fire was lit
for the visitor to step over for purification.
On the contrary, the Bear Ceremony was performed together by
members of a single moiety, with the women who had married into the
group playing a minor role. Each moiety also had its own sacred family
holai sites, which posed dangers to members of the opposite moiety, es-
pecially to the women, who could be seized by the holai spirit’s sons, the
dosn, as marriage partners. Each family group had its own allel guard-
ians, passed down through each family’s youngest son, as well as its
own dangols, ancestor-spirit images. It was forbidden to give away the
family baby cradle or even to give non-family members the dry-rot wood
used as absorbent material on the cradle bottom as this was thought to
deprive the group of its fertility. Also, it was forbidden to transfer fire
to anyone outside one’s own moiety, a custom that the modern Kets
extended to include the offering of matches to strangers. Even into the
early 20th century, the moiety system regulated who gathered with whom
during the collective waterfowl hunts of late spring, the summer weir-
fishing season and the fall gathering before saying farewell to the river-
bank. Members of each moiety referred to each other using the special
cosanguinal kinship term be’p, while members of the opposing moiety
were known by the affinal term qoj, which also translates as ‘neighbour’.
The males in each patriarchal clan also served as military units during
inter-ethnic conflicts with non-Kets.
Divided between two symbiotic marriage groups, the Kets were but
one of several distinct aboriginal ethnicities living in Central Siberia
at the time of the coming of the Russians in the early 17th century (cf.
Figure 14.1). The Kets referred to themselves as kyndeng ‘people of the
light’ or simply as de’ng ‘people’. The word ke’t is actually the singular
form denoting ‘human being’ and possibly derives from the word ky’t,
denoting ‘offspring born of a single mother’—in other words, a blood
relative. Other peoples were de’ng ‘people’ in a broader sense but not in
the narrow sense of kyndeng. The Kets thus marked out a mental map
of ethnic space to accommodate themselves with their diverse pastoral

neighbours. The Iugh, a riverine people who spoke a language similar to
Kets, were also regarded as a distinct ethnicity. They were assumed to
be descendents of non-Kets who originally spoke a completely different
language. A famous legend states that the first Ket shaman Doh’s son,
who had taken the shape of a loon, was killed by the heedless Iugh, who
were unable to comprehend the words of warning he shouted down to
them. In general, it appears that the Kets originated in the south, migrat-
ing north into the Enisei watershed in response to the Turkic expansions
during the middle of the first millennium AD. Given that the entire Enisei
was already populated prior to the arrival of the Kets, they doubtless
mixed with other local ethnicities along the way. Both northern taiga
and southern forest-steppe components are traceable in their culture
(Nikolaev 1985). Even the pervasive parallelism in Ket culture between
south and east, north and west, sky and under world, and river and
forest, may in part derive from a confluence of distinct mythological
components that ultimately hail from ethnically-separate origins. The
two traditional hoghotpyl, the Bogdeng and Qentandeng, may in fact
have originated from some ancient ethnic integration, though no direct
evidence of this remains.
Figure 14.1 shows the geographic location of the Kets and other
Eniseian tribes along other Native Siberian groups in early 1600s at the
time when Russians first arrived in Central Siberia. The Sel’kups—the
neighbours of the Kets and Iugh to the southwest—were friendly and
often exchanged marriage partners with adjacent Ket groups, becoming
in the process part of one or the other moiety. This is revealed in the
Ket ethnonym for Sel’kups, la’k, a loanword of Sel’kup ‘friend’. The Ket
neighbours to the north and east were less congenial. The dyreng—who
were probably south-wandering groups of Forest Enetses, though the
term is usually translated as ‘Iurak’, that is, ‘Nenets’—frequently fought
with the Kets. Another traditional enemy was the Evenkis (a name the
Kets pronounced hymgan or hymban), who were infiltrating Ket lands
from east of the Enisei and engaged in hostilities with both Kets and
Sel’kups. Legendary warrior heroes such as Balna and Olgit were associ-
ated with military exploits against both the dyreng (Enetses or Nenetses)
and the Evenkis. Finally, the Russians, or kysn, were regarded as outsid-
ers by all northern aboriginal peoples. Kets and Russians regularly met
only during the late spring gatherings when large multi-family groups of
Kets congregated near the water’s edge. In historic times, this tradition
evolved into a scene for bartering at a general market called a suglan,
an event involving both trade and fur-tax payment, as the collection of
iasak was linked to river drainage. Russian settlers and officials gradually
pushed the Kets away from the best fishing grounds on the Enisei (Quk),
as they established towns and trading posts along the riverbank. The
Kets persisted longest as a separate ethnicity near major tributaries such
as the Elogui (Elok) and Mountain Tunguska (Qo’l) rivers.
CONCLUSION: KET PERCEPTIONS OF LANDSCAPE

Although many Ket traditions of spiritual and physical connectedness
to the taiga along the middle reaches of the Enisei River have doubt-
less vanished unrecorded, enough is known to lend a basic picture of
the ancient Ket conception of Siberian landscape. The benevolent up-
river south was juxtaposed to the inhospitable down-river north. The
life-giving east contrasted with the life-taking west. The congenial and
plentiful riverbank was set against the forbidding expanse of the forest
interior. The world of light, where the Kets resided, existed in contrast to
the sky and under world—two realms inhabited by beings that only sha-
mans could hope to visit, summon or treat with. Connecting all of these
dichotomies into a unified whole was a series of colourful and intricate
rituals tied to Ket seasonal migration patterns. Some ceremonies treated
the bear as a guest returning to the human world. Others placated evil
forest spirits on the eve of the winter hunt or welcomed the returning mi-
gratory birds in spring. Still others were designed to venerate the clan’s
ancestors at key locales overlooking the river.
While many Ket people continue to hunt and fish in the same lands
their ancestors formerly inhabited, few live in accordance with these
traditional conceptions of space, time and landscape. Though the Kets
represent but a small minority within the increasingly multi-ethnic popu-
lation of Krasnoiarsk District, their river names along with scattered
fragments of their traditional world-view still persist. These remnants
will long remain across a vast area of Central Siberia as partial and in-
creasingly faint echoes of the age-old Ket hunter-gatherer beliefs and
customs from which they sprang.
REFERENCES
Alekseenko, Evgeniia A. 1967. Kety: Etnograficheskie Ocherki. Moscow: Nauka.
Alekseenko, Evgeniia A. 1970. Sotsial’naia organizatsiia ketov. In Obshchestvennyi
stroi u narodov Severnoi Sibiri (XVII—nachalo XX vekov). Ed. Il‘ia S. Gurvich
and Boris O. Dolgikh, 154–73. Moscow: Nauka.
Alekseenko, Evgeniia A. 1977. Kul’ty u ketov. In Pamiatniki kul’tury narodov Sibiri
i Severa (Sbornik Muzeia Antropologii i Etnografii, 33). Ed. Innokentii S. Vdovin,
29–65. Leningrad: Nauka.
Alekseenko, Evgeniia A. 1978. Categories of the Ket shamans. In Shamanism in

Siberia. Ed. Vilmos Diószegi and Mihály Hoppál, 255–64. Budapest: Akademiai
Kiadó.
Anuchin, Vladimir I. 1914. Ocherk shamanstva u Eniseiskikh Ostiakov. St. Petersburg:
Imperial Academy of Sciences.
Dolgikh, B. 1960. Rodovoi i plemennoi sostav narodov Sibiri v XVII veke. Moscow:
Nauka.
Donner, Kai. 1933. Ethnological Notes about the Yenisey-Ostyak. Helsinki: Finno-
Ugric Society.
Dul’zon, Andrei P. 1962. Byloe rasselenie ketov po dannym toponimiki. Voprosy
Geografii 58: 50–84.
Findeisen, Hans. 1953. Sibirische Schamanentum und Magie. Augsburg: Institut für
Menschen und Magie.
Ivanov, Viacheslav V. and Vladimir N. Toporov. 1997. Ketskaia mifologiia. In Mify
Narodov Mira: Entsiklopediia. Ed. Sergei A. Tokarev, 642–45. Moscow: Olipm.
Kreinovich, Erukhim A. 1969a. Medvezhii prazdnik u ketov. In Ketskii sbornik:
mifologiia, etnografiia, teksty. Ed. Viacheslav V. Ivanov, 6–112. Moscow: Nauka.
Kreinovich, Erukhim A. 1969b. Obriad kormleniia ‘dorozhnoi starukhi’. In Ketskii
sbornik: mifologiia, etnografiia, teksty. Ed. Viacheslav V. Ivanov, 236–42. Moscow:
Nauka.
Krivonogov, Viktor P. 2003. Kety: Desiat’ let spustia (1991–2001 g.). Krasnoiarsk:
Krasnoiarsk Pedagogical University.
Nikolaev, Roman V. 1985. Fol’klor i voprosy etnicheskoi istorii ketov, Krasnoiarsk:
Krasnoiarsk State University.
Vajda, Edward J. 2004. Ket. (Languages of the world/materials, Vol. 204), Munich:
Lincom Europa.
CHAPTER 15
SACRED SITES, SETTLEMENTS AND

PLACE-NAMES: ANCIENT SAAMI
LANDSCAPES IN NORTHERN COASTAL
SWEDEN
Noel D. Broadbent and
Britta Wennstedt Edvinger1
BACKGROUND AND CONTEXT

Northern Fennoscandia (Norway, Finland and Sweden) is geograph-
ically situated at the northwestern corner of the Eurasian continent.
The region has been a long-term meeting ground of cultural, linguistic
and biological influences from the Volga River Basin, Western Siberia,
Eastern and Western Europe.
The Saami (alt. Sámi) number approximately 80,000 people in
Norway, Sweden, Finland and the Kola Peninsula in Russia. About
17,000 Saami live in Sweden, of whom 2,000 are involved in reindeer
herding. Saami mDNA suggests their ancestral population had separated
long ago from other European populations (Beckman 1996; Tambets et
al. 2004). The Saami speak nine Finno-Ugric dialects, five of which are
spoken in Sweden (Collinder 1953).
Not least because of Nordic geography, a world-systems perspective
is highly relevant for understanding the Saami past, particularly dur-
ing the Late Iron Age and Medieval periods, AD 500–1500 (Broadbent
2004). Major changes can be observed during this 1,000-year period:
reindeer husbandry became increasingly important in the subsistence
economy, perhaps due to environmental changes and the exhaustion of
other resources. Increasing state hegemony as well as European mercan-
tilism were strong forces of social and economic change (Sawyer and
Sawyer 1993). Under these influences, nomadic reindeer herding came
315
to dominate many regions by the late 1500s (Åronsson 1991; Carpelan

1993; Forsberg 1992; Hansen and Olsen 2004; Ingold 1980; Lundmark
2002; Mulk 1994; Odner 1993; Storli 1983; WallerstrÖm 2000).
As a result of government policies, Saami land-use rights in Sweden
have been restricted to reindeer ownership and herding has de facto be-
come a key symbol of Saami identity. Lapland as an administrative re-
gion has served as a means for preserving a nomadic herding lifestyle
and separating the Saami from Swedish settlers. This has been described
as ‘A Lapp shall remain a Lapp’ policy (Lundmark 2002). As a con-
sequence of these policies, Saami territories in Sweden are depicted as
limited to the northernmost and interior regions of the country.
Saami territory in Norway and the Kola Peninsula in Russia extends
along thousands of kilometres of northern coasts. According to the
Icelandic and Norwegian Sagas from 1100–1200s, the Saami also lived
as far south as Hadeland, some 20 km northwest of Oslo (Zachrisson
1997, 26). The ancestors of the Saami were known to have formerly oc-
cupied nearly the whole of Finland, and were even known as far south as
the Western Dvina (Daugava) River in Latvia (Eidtlitz Kuoljok 1991, 32;
Itkonen 1947). The Saami refer to their territory as Sápmi.
SÁPMI REVISITED
Seen against the background of prehistory, most maps and images of
the Saami project a narrow view of landscape use. It is argued that the
characterisation of Sápmi by Swedish historians, linguists and ethnogra-
phers has been biased as regards both ecology and economy, and largely
founded on the political regionalisation of the 16th–20th centuries. In re-
sponse to this problem, a new research project was formulated to exam-
ine the prehistoric evidence for Saami landscape use outside of Lapland.
The primary area of investigation in the ‘The Search for a Past’ project
(www.mnh.si.edu\arctic\) has been the Bothnian coast in the provinces
of Norrbotten, Västerbotten and Hälsingland in Sweden. This study
provides a north-south transect along 700 km of the Bothnian coast to
within 300 km of Stockholm (Figure 15.1).
SAAMI LANDSCAPES
Recent ethnographic fieldwork in the circumpolar north (Jordan 2003;
Krupnik et al. 2004) illuminates the importance of landscapes for under-
standing indigenous relationships to the land. The land is conceived of
as a living entity and northern peoples have special relationships to the
Sacred Sites, Settlements and Place-Names: Ancient Saami Landscapes 317
Figure 15.1 Sápmi today (dark cross-hatching). Based on archaeological and place-
name evidence, Sápmi once encompassed much greater areas of Norway, Sweden and
Finland. By AD 1300, most of this territory had been lost to agrarian expansion (light
cross-hatching). (Map drawn by Britta Wennstedt Edvinger.)
land through their narratives, myths, cosmologies, genealogies and the

places themselves, so-called ‘invisible landscapes’. Places can embody
these meanings and knowledge with or without cultural remains and
are often related to natural features, mountains, rivers, islands, strange
formations, rocks and trees.
The aboriginal, ethnographic or cultural landscape concept embodies
traditional knowledge of spirits, places, land-uses and ecology (Buggey
2004). When oral history, folklore or ethnographic data are available,
the meanings and memories of these human-landscape relationships can
be pursued directly (so-called ethnographic landscapes). Archaeology
can be used to deepen these analyses, but when local informants or
other sources are lacking, archaeology offers the only recourse for study.
Depending on the character of the physical evidence, human-ecological,
cultural and spiritual relationships can be inferred from archaeological
sites, place-names and environmental information.
Prehistoric Saami landscapes and land uses in Sweden have been
discussed, for example, by Manker (1944, 1957), Kjellström (1974,
1983), Bergman (1991), Mulk (1994), Mulk and Bayliss-Smith (1999),
Wallerström (2000) and Wennstedt Edvinger and Winka (2001).
Environmental archaeology, use of pollen analysis and soil chemistry,

have proven useful in connection with reindeer husbandry and local
settlement vegetation changes (Åronsson 1991).
In arguing the case for Saami landscapes outside of Lapland, vari-
ous types of sacred sites have proven especially valuable. They represent
the physical manifestations of Saami identity that embody the spiritual
relationships that these people had with their lands. These features tran-
scend economy and technology, which can be ambivalent in the arch-
aeological record. In an area of intense interaction, such as Northern
Sweden, the boundaries between economies and technologies were sel-
dom sharp. In fact, overlap and interaction were more likely to have
been the rule (Zachrisson 1997, 189–220). Boundary formation, follow-
ing Barth (1969), is more characteristic of conflict situations than every-
day dependencies. Survival in northern societies was often dependent
on cooperation and peaceful exchanges and Northern Sweden was no
exception (Campbell 1982 [1948]).
There was also intermarriage between Saami and non-Saami. This is
witnessed by skeletal material from a Late Iron Age cemetery at Vivallen
(Zachrisson 1997, 81–116). Grave rituals have also overlapped, as seen
at the site of Krankmårtenhögen (Ambrosiani et al. 1984; Price 2002),
and the Saami appear to have also adopted cremation (Zachrisson 1997,
195–96).
Unfortunately, the burden of proof regarding settlement has been on
the Saami, not on the Scandinavians.
SACRED SITES
Sacred places and features are fundamental elements of Saami landscape
analysis. This underscores the theoretical problem of applying Western
science and archaeological methods to the study of indigenous prehis-
tory. For one thing, Saami prehistory relates differently to the environ-
ment than Scandinavian prehistory. Saami archaeology is less based on
land tenure, environmental impacts and non-perishable constructions,
and more related to spiritual forces and characteristics of the landscape
itself (Ingold 1986, 2000).
Information on Saami sacred sites can be sought from many different
sources: physical traces in the landscape, place-names, traditional know-
ledge and written sources. Each source has its limitations. Landscape
impacts were small and building materials mostly perishable. Most con-
structions were made of wood, brush, sod and birch bark. Place-names,
which once identified locales, have in many areas been replaced by names
from the linguistic majority. In other instances, Saami place-names have
been lost along with the disappearance of Saami language and changed
land uses.
The written sources are relatively recent and were recorded by non-
Saami. The oldest sources describing sacred sites are found in the docu-
ments of Swedish-Finnish or Danish-Norwegian priests or other church
functionaries in the 1600s and 1700s. One Saami strategy was to not
reveal customs and practices, either because this would shame the sacred
sites and weaken the power of their traditions, or simply to avoid pun-
ishment, prison or even execution (Lundius 1905 [ca 1675], 32; Olsen
1910, 7 ff.).
Saami sacred sites were often landforms such as mountains, lakes,
islands, points and peninsulas, caves, crevices, cliffs, ridges, ledges, water
divides, rapids, waterfalls, springs and streams (Manker 1957; Qvigstad
1926). These were places where power was concentrated. Special rules
applied regarding the interaction of humans and these powers. It was at
these kinds of sites that one could seek contact with the spiritual forces.
These powers consisted of the spirits of ancestors, different categories of
helping and protective spirits and the beings which in anthropology are
usually referred to as animal masters, the spiritual protectors that main-
tain different classes of animals (Brightman 1993, 91 ff.; Ingold 1986,
245).
According to Saami traditional beliefs, the everyday world was pop-
ulated by humans. It consisted of the places and paths used in daily life.
The ‘other world’ was the under world. To die was to wander in the
under world (Högström 1980 [1747], 210). The under world was thus
the home of dead relatives (Bäckman 1975). They lived an existence of
the same types as the living but they walked with their feet against those
of the living (Lundius 1905 [ca 1675], 6). But there were also a number
of other spiritual beings, protectors and helping spirits, and several cat-
egories of masters.
All of these spiritual entities received sacrifices at places where condi-
tions for contact were favourable. Sacrifices to dead relatives could occur
near graves and at other locales, especially on special platforms near
settlements, or in the landscapes where there were transitions between
worlds. These transitions were marked by sacred landforms. Sacrifices
to animal masters often occurred at places that were associated with
game. Sacrifices were made to Tjaetsieålmaj ‘the water man’ for fishing
luck on the shores of lakes or in the water. For hunting, sacrifices were
made at the kill site to Liejpålmaj ‘the alder man’. Inside the hut, sacri-
fices were made to the female deities—Maadteraahka and her daughters
Saaraahka, Joeksaahka and Oksaahka—overseeing all that is female, in-
cluding menstruation and childbirth. Sacrifices were made daily. Each
entity had its own special place in the hut. Under the hut floor resided
Jaemiedaahka ‘the deathwoman’ who controlled the distribution of the

vital powers between the living and the dead.
Traces of Saami ritual practice have often disappeared in the land-
scape. But sometimes constructions have survived. These can be graves,
stone circles or enclosures, mound-like constructions and different types
of sacrificial platforms or cairns. Sacrificial idols were often made of
wood, but in some instances were made of stone on or near the sacrificial
site. These sites can sometimes be identified through vegetation changes
or soil chemistry. Rich deposits of bone and antler together with blood,
fat and flesh give rise to both lush vegetation and characteristic plant
types (Manker 1957, 123; Wennstedt Edvinger and Winka 2001, 108).
Sacred sites were used for both ‘bloody sacrifices’ and metal offer-
ings. These sites could coincide. Of the bloody offerings, bone and antler
could survive, but seldom any other visible indications.
Archaeological investigations of sacrificial sites, which were known
from oral traditions, have sometimes rendered astounding numbers of
finds (Hallström 1932; Serning 1956; Zachrisson 1984). A single site
can contain hundreds of objects from a wide geographic region. Most
common are finds from Finland, Russia and the Baltic, but many coins
witness contacts with Norway. Even German and British coins are com-
mon. The objects consist of brooches, pendants, clasps and buckles of
pewter, bronze and silver, silver coins and iron arrowheads. Coins and
ornaments are usually perforated. These objects reflect a vast region of
northern interaction equal to the better-known Viking World. There can
also be considerable amounts of bone and horn from many species: rein-
deer, cattle, horses, sheep/goats, pigs, fish, birds (including swans and
roosters), bears, dogs, wolves and cats (Manker 1957; Serning 1956).
The most common day-to-day sacrifices were, according to more recent
written sources, bits of food, reindeer milk, tobacco and vodka (Mebius
2003).
While Saami sacred sites can consist of a number of different fea-
tures or none at all, two types are of particular interest in this study.
One form is the circular sacrificial site, and the other manifestation is
the bear grave.
Circular Sacrificial Sites are found over large areas of Northern
Scandinavia and might also have an eastern distribution. These fea-
tures consist of enclosures, dry-stone walls or simple single or multiple
concentric stone rings. They are quite distinct from Nordic labyrinths
which have convoluted walkways. The Saami features average between
2 to 8 m in diameter, but both larger and smaller forms have been
found. At their centres, there were sacred objects of wood or stone
where sacrifices of blood, fat, bone, antler, animal or fish entrails were
left (Vorren 1985, 1987; Vorren and Eriksen 1993; Wennstedt 1989;
Figure 15.2 Imaginative drawing of a bear burial with grave goods. (Drawn by
Ossian Elgström,1930.)
Wennstedt Edvinger and Broadbent In press). An idol, if made of wood,

was set up in a small cairn. These small cairns were both foundations
for idols and covered the sacrifices to protect them from wild animals
or dogs.
Bear Burials are by-products of the Saami bear ceremony
(Figure 15.2). Bear ceremonies are celebrated throughout the circumpo-
lar area (Hallowell 1926). The Saami bury the bear bones following the
bear feast (Edsman 1994; Zachrisson and Iregren 1974). The skeleton
could be deposited in different ways, for example, placed in a rocky niche,
on a special bone platform, under a small cairn or in an earth grave. The
means of burial was wholly dependent on the local environment and the
time of year (Fjellström 1981 [1755]; Schefferus 1953 [1673]). There is
often a hearth or cooking pit near the bear burial. No markers were left
above ground, and buried bear skeletons were almost all found during
routine archaeological excavations or on sites with heavy erosion along
waterways (Broadbent and Storå 2003; Mulk 1994).
ORAL HISTORY AND PLACE-NAMES ON THE BOTHNIAN COAST

Saami ethnology and archaeology have traditionally concentrated on sites
and landscapes in the mountains and interior forest lands, i.e., Lapland
(e.g., Åronsson 1991; Hedman 2003; Kjellström 1974, 1983; Manker
1957; Mulk 1994; Serning 1956; Zachrisson 1997). Some sources, for
example Schefferus (1953 [1673], 50), quoting Olaus Petri Niurenius

(1905 [circa 1640]), state, nevertheless, that the Saami had earlier had
their camps on both shores of the Bay of Bothnia, ‘but these Lapps had
been driven away from there’. Olaus Magnus’ Carta Marina from 1539
shows a woman milking a reindeer in Northern Coastal Västerbotten,
indicating reindeer husbandry by this time. Oral-historical references to
coastal Saami are not well documented, but do exist. The first settlers
of Holmön Island, off the Västerbotten coast, are said to have been the
three ‘Fisher- Lapps’: Hakar (Håkan), Klemet and Kerstop. Their dwell-
ing sites are well known and believed to date to early medieval times.
A recent publication by the Västernorrland County Museum entitled
Västernorrland—Sameland (Bergvall and Persson 2004) makes a special
point of there having been a Saami population in the coastal regions
of Ångermanland and Medelpad. While mostly known from historic
times, oval Saami type hearths, still undated, witness earlier settlement
patterns. This region is about 300 km south of Västerbotten. Similar
accounts are given for the Hornslandet area in coastal Hälsingland some
550 km south of Västerbotten and less than 300 km from downtown
Stockholm. Huts identical to those in Västerbotten are found there,
and the place-names (Lappmon and Lappmoberget) identify the site as
Saami (Westberg 1964).
Very little Saami place-name research has been done outside of
Lapland. Only three names are considered as being of Lappish/Saami
origin in Northern Coastal Västerbotten. These names are Kåddis and
the two major river names Ume and Skellefte. The names Ume and
Skellefte are of Saami origin (Hellquist 1948, 931, 1276; Korhonen
pers. comm.). Kåddis is located about 10 km upstream from Umeå. It
is in an area with medieval villages and of archaeological interest. The
elevation, 40 m above sea level, and finds of prehistoric coastal sites and
characteristic stone tools (a bifacial projectile, a slate point of Sønderoy
type), demonstrate that the area was settled by the Late Neolithic, ca
1800 BC (Broadbent 1984). The Nordic linguist Holm (1973) sees the
place-name Kåddis as non-Nordic in origin and interprets it as deriving
from kadde, meaning ‘shore or beach’ in Lappish. He suggests this site
on the Ume River had been a Saami fishing place of some antiquity.
Pellijeff (1982), by contrast, prefers to associate the name with the medi-
eval settlement; he refers instead to the Finnish word kodis, a farmyard
enclosure.
The archaeological evidence for indigenous continuity, combined
with the shore level, strongly favours Holm’s interpretation. A central
point in this discussion is that settlement in this area did not by any
means begin in medieval times, an assumption often made by Nordic his-
torians and linguists because of the limitations of their data. The presence
Table 15.1 Overview of place-names beginning with the prefix Lapp in North-
ern Coastal Sweden
Municipality Settlements Natural features Totals %

Bjurholm 0 39 39 10.0
Dorotea 0 6 6 1.5
Lycksele 1 32 33 8.5
Malå 0 5 5 1.3
Nordmaling 0 0 0 0.0
Robersfors 1 19 20 5.0
Skellefteå 6 125 131 34.0
Sorsele 0 7 7 1.8
Storuman 1 10 11 2.8
Umeå 0 32 32 8.0
Vilhelmina 1 14 15 3.8
Vindeln 1 77 78 20.0
Vännäs 0 13 13 3.3
Åsele 0 0 0 0.0
Totals 11 379 390 100%
of even a few Lappish place-names on this coast, especially those relating

to important waterways and older shorelines must be accepted as power-
ful evidence of former Saami land-use.
THE PLACE-NAME ‘LAPP’

The ethnonym Lapp has received little attention in Nordic archaeology.
The East Nordic name Lappir is known in Scandinavia from Saxo
Grammaticus from about AD 1200 (Collinder 1953; Itkonen 1947;
Zachrisson 1997, 159) and dominates in Sweden where Swedish speak-
ers became the majority population. The Old West Nordic term Finn
(Finnr), also referring to the Saami, and known from as early as AD 98
(Tacitus), is still used in Norway with specific reference to the Saami and
Finnmark. Although the ethnonym Lapp with certainty applies to the
period after the 12th century and the Scandinavian expansion northward,
it is highly likely that many of these named places, especially those refer-
ring to natural landscape features, were considerably older.
Using the Swedish Kartverket database, it is possible to gain an over-
view of place-names beginning with the prefix Lapp in Northern Coastal
Sweden. The sites break down into two major categories: settlements
and natural features. The two categories have been arranged by munici-
pality in Västerbotten County (Table 15.1).
The overwhelming majority of these names are found in Skellefteå
Municipality, with some 6 settlement names and 125 nature names
(Figure 15.3). This is an astonishing number of place-names, which seem
to have been more or less ignored, or have been considered as being re-
cent or even demeaning. The possibility of a prehistoric Saami presence
in this coastal region has been dismissed (Westerlund 1965).
A closer look at these names is revealing. Of the nature names in
Skellefteå, 28 include the word kåta, which is the Saami name for hut or
dwelling. The most frequent of these is Lappkåtamyren (Lapp hut mire)
with eight examples, followed by Lappkåtakläppen (Lapp hut knoll) with
six examples. These names often cluster, for example Lappkåtaberget
(Lapp hut mountain) is found by Lappkåtamyren (Lapp hut mire), both
of which are found in Lövånger Parish near the site of Mångbyn and
Broänge, a possible trading site with a radiocarbon date to c. AD 800
(Broadbent and Rathje 2001).
Figure 15.3 Densities of place-names with the prefix Lapp in Upper Norrland. Dens-
ities superimposed on map of artefact and metal sacrificial sites.(Prepared by Noel D.
Broadbent.)
The suffixes were further divided into four categories: 1) references

to water (streams, rapids, waterfalls, lakes, bays and beaches); 2) refer-
ences to land (mountains, hills, points or peninsulas, islands, cliffs and
caves); 3) references to meadows, mires or pastures; and 4) other.
Group 1 (water): 28%
Group 2 (land): 33%
Group 3 (mires): 32%
Group 4 (other): 7%
Of the first group, the most prevalent names are for streams and
lakes (17 places). Of the second group, the commonest names are on
mountains (9 places) and hills (20 places). Of the third group, meadows
number 17 places, and mires, 10 places. The last group has four names
referring to brush (sly).
This breakdown has a roughly equal proportion of land, water,
meadows and mires, which reflects a diverse relationship to the land-
scape. The frequency of references to land, especially mountains and
hills, reflects geographic as well as ritual ties. This landscape, as reflected
by place-names with the prefix Lapp, is a close parallel to the results of
place-name analysis in Utsjoki in Finland, where Saami is still spoken
and there is continuity of settlement (Rankama 1993). The roots of these
Saami toponyms indicate the same topographic features as Skellefteå,
but what is mostly lacking in the Swedish re-namings are the determi-
nants, the descriptions which would have been present in the original
place-names. It can be assumed that the original Saami names had been
replaced in coastal Sweden. Name change is practical for the newcomers,
as well as empowering. Most significant in the context, however, is the
evidence that the Lapp place-names, in spite of replacement, are still as-
sociated with the landscape in ways that are consistent with Saami ritual
practice and landscape values.
This also implies that the Saami and Scandinavians had been in lin-
guistic contact. If this region had been unoccupied, or solely occupied
by Swedish speakers, there should be no Saami names or references to
Lapps at all.
One means of testing the antiquity of Lapp place-names along this
coast is through their elevations above sea level. The following approxi-
mate elevations and shoreline ages are obtained for Lövånger parish in
Skellefteå:
Lappkåtatjärnen ≥ 10 m AD 800
Lappkåta ≥ 10 m AD 800
Lappvik ≥ 10 m AD 800
Lappsandberget ≥ 25 m 700 BC
There is good correspondence between these results and the radio-
carbon dates from Saami huts in the same area, the majority of which
date to the Viking Period (AD 800–1100), and none of which are later
that AD 1300 (Broadbent 1989a).
The small mountain, Lappsandberget, renders a date too old to have
been directly associated with a shoreline. This hill on Bjurön Island is
very important, however, as it has a circular sacrificial feature just below
its highest point. A second mountain in the parish, near Blacke, also has
the Lapp denotation: Lappmyrberget (elev. 40 m) (Holm 1949, 143–45).
The first name on the list, Lappkåtatjärnen, is situated on an island:
Storön. The ritual significance of islands and mountains is well attested
in the anthropological literature on the Saami (Manker 1957).
Seen on a broader scale, Lapp place-name distributions in Sweden
strongly coincide with the North Bothnian coastal zone and extend as
far south as the Mälar Valley (Mälardalen) region. They are even found
scattered in Southern Sweden. Although all of these names cannot be
accepted as prehistoric in origin, as a whole and seen in archaeological
contexts, they are surprisingly informative. Their distribution lends con-
siderable credence to the hypothesis that the Bothnian coastal region had
once been part of ancient Sápmi.
SETTLEMENT COMPLEXES
The primary focus of archaeological investigations in this project has
been on hut complexes in coastal Norrbotten, coastal Västerbotten,
particularly in the parish of Lövånger in Skellefteå Municipality, and
most recently in coastal Hälsingland. (Broadbent 1987a, 1987b, 1989a,
1989b, 2000). The sites are generally situated in outer coastal areas, on
peninsulas and on islands, and often on wave-washed marine beaches
(Figure 15.4). Hundreds of huts have been documented since the 1940s
(Hallström 1942, 1949). The hut foundations are generally oval in
shape, 4 × 5 m in size, with low cobble walls and central hearths. Some
40 radiocarbon dates now show them date to range in age from AD
100–1300, but most date to the period AD 800–1100. They often cluster
in groups of 3–5 structures and are very similar in appearance and dis-
position to the so-called Stalo huts known from the Swedish mountain
regions (Kjellström 1974; Mulk 1994). The organisation of the moun-
tain Stalo sites has been related to Saami hunting band organisation,
the sjidda. Each site also had storage facilities and ritual features (Mulk
1994). The Stalo sites were connected with seasonal reindeer hunting
and/or herding and date to the same time period as the coastal huts.
Burned food residues (animal bones) from the coastal hearths show
these people were primarily seal hunters, but there are also bones of
sheep/goats, birds and small game. The main prey was the ringed seal
Figure 15.4 Map of the central area of the Grundskatan site with hut clusters, stor-
age cairns, livestock huts and ritual features. (Prepared by Noel D. Broadbent.)
which could be caught with nets in the fall or hunted on the ice in late
winter.
Four of the investigated sites produced evidence of iron working
including slag, iron flakes and furnace clay. One site (Hornslandet in
Hälsingland) dates to AD 100–300, and is one of the earliest known
iron working sites in Northern Sweden. At Bjuröklubb in Västerbotten,
evidence of smithing dates to as early as AD 400. This material demon-
strates that the Saami were not only smithing their own iron tools, but
suggests they may have been connected with the spread of this technol-
ogy into Sweden. The northern and eastern origins of iron technology in
Sweden has been argued by Hjärthner-Holdar (1993).
For various reasons, the main one being that this coast has not been
considered as being Saami territory, the coastal huts (Sw. tomtningar)
have been interpreted as having been used by seasonal Scandinavian
hunters from Middle Norrland or from Finland (Lindström and Olofsson
1993; Westin 1962). The Västerbotten coastal region was, after all,
considered by the Swedish Church and State to be unoccupied (bona
vacantia). Only agrarian settlement was considered as valid settlement
by state authorities, a common attitude towards hunters and gatherers.
This same argument was explicitly used to justify Swedish agrarian ex-
pansion in the coastal zone under King Magnus Eriksson who wanted
to solidify his hold on the territory following the treaty of Nöteborg in
1323 (Olofsson 1962). It is fascinating to see recent research propound-
ing the same ideas.
It is significant to note, however, that Upper Norrland lacks any
traces of Nordic longhouses, runestones, ring forts, silver caches, iron
ingots or even the Nordic place-names sta, vin and hem, i.e. typical traits
of Germanic Iron Age settlement (Westerdahl 1989a, 1989b). Rathje,

using folklore evidence, argues that this northern region had also been
egalitarian (i.e., no weapon graves, warrior’s mounds etc.) and lacks evi-
dence of the Asa belief system based on Nordic gods and religion (Rathje
2001).
ARTEFACTS AND HUNTING PITS: TIES THAT BIND

The distribution of metal artefacts in Upper Norrland from the Late Iron
Age corresponds with waterways and glacial eskers, reflecting both trade
routes and settlement areas in the interior and on the coast (Serning
1960). There are some 25 registered metal artefacts from the coastal area
under study.
50 percent of the finds from the Västerbotten coast have direct par-
allels in the artefacts found at Saami sacrifical sites in Upper Norrland’s
interior. 28 percent of the coastal finds emanate from small cremation
graves, which parallel the so-called insjögravar (inland lake graves) from
Southern Lapland. In inland contexts, these graves have long been con-
sidered as Saami (Hvarfner 1957).
Pit-fall systems are also associated with Saami sites in the interior
and mountains (Mulk 1994). Sixteen hunting pit-fall systems are reg-
istered in Skellefteå Municipality, mostly along eskers and rivers. They
were used for trapping of both moose and reindeer. Several pit systems
have place-names referring to the Saami: Kåtaselet (Lapp hut eddies) and
Stor-Lappselet (Greater Lapp eddies).
The pervasive connections between the coast and interior help link
the known Saami presence in Lapland during the Late Iron Age with the
proposed Saami presence in coastal regions. The mountains and coastal
zones are less than 300 km apart and connected by natural waterways
and eskers running NW-SE across the North Swedish landscape. It is
hardly a coincidence that the two main rivers in Västerbotten have Saami
names, Ume and Skellefte.
A BEAR GRAVE ON THE SWEDISH COAST

A major contextual breakthrough in coastal Saami prehistory came
through an unexpected find in one of the huts at the site of Grundskatan.
This was a cache of animal bones discovered under a small cairn built
into the corner of a dwelling hut. Osteological analyses revealed that the
bones were derived from a single adult brown bear (Broadbent and Storå
2003; Storå 2002). All body parts, including the head and teeth, were
represented. The bones had been split for marrow and were chopped
into mostly small fragments, although there were some larger leg bones.
Cut-marks were still visible. The bear had evidently been consumed and
the bones buried directly on the floor in the corner of the house and
covered with a cairn; the house could thereby never be re-occupied.
These bear bones had been buried in accordance with Saami ritual prac-
tice. They were radiocarbon dated and found to date to the same time as
the charcoal in the hearth, 1080±45 BP respectively 1110±110 BP (AD
870–840).
Some 45 bear burials are known in Northern Norway and Sweden.
The oldest sites date to the Early Iron Age, the youngest to the 1700s
(Myrstad 1996). The bear ritual is a central theme in Saami religion
(Edsman 1994). With the Grundskatan find, the cultural context of these
coastal huts can no longer be in doubt.
CIRCULAR SACRIFICIAL FEATURES ON THE BOTHNIAN COAST

Circular sacrificial features are known, like bear graves, from Swedish
Lapland and North Norway. They have now been documented in the
North Swedish coastal region (Wennstedt 1989). One of these features
was also identified on the settlement site of Grundskatan in Västerbotten.
This 6 m long and 3 m wide oval stone setting measures approximately
30 cm in height. It has a small central cairn which might have once sup-
ported an idol. The enclosure has a small opening towards the south.
The feature lies on a cobble beach ridge within 15 m of two hut founda-
tions, one of which contained the bear burial.
A second stone circle was found about 1.5 km away on the aforemen-
tioned small mountain named Lappsandberget (Lapp Sand Mountain).
It was overgrown and described as being of ‘older character’ in the
National Survey. It measures 3 m in diameter and also appears to have
had a central cairn, although a plunderer’s pit in the middle of the ring
has displaced these stones. This location, just below the crown of the
mountain and with a view towards the sea, is characteristic of other
known Saami sacrificial sites.
Soil samples from within the circle rendered tantalising results.
Phosphate values, although low, suggest some organic enrichment as
compared with the surrounding soil. Low potassium shows that this ring
had not been a hearth. High to medium levels of nitrogen are consist-
ent with residues of animal tissue, especially muscle tissue, but nitrogen
is rarely preserved on older sites. These results, taken together, suggest
that organic materials had been sacrificed at the site although no visible
traces remain today.
Three large lichens of Rhizocarpon geographicum were growing

on the stones of the stone circle and their diameters (80–110 mm) pro-
vide a minimum age of about AD 1480–1583 based on lichenometry
(Broadbent 1987b). No carbon was found for radiocarbon analysis.
Another quite imposing stone enclosure is the so-called Jungfrugraven
(the virgin’s grave). This feature is situated by the nearby Jungfruhamn
inlet and just above the 10 m elevation. The now grounded-up inlet was
unusable after 1656 and was probably replaced by the Bjuröklubb fish-
ing harbour and chapel which dates to 1658 (Broadbent 1989b). This
circular feature consists of mostly boulder-sized stones set in an irregular
oval with one straight and one curved side. It measures 18 × 15 m. There
is a central stone cairn, clearly plundered, nearest the northwest opening
and a smaller opening towards the south. Lichens suggest a minimum
age of AD 1480, but the shoreline level, 10 m, dates to AD 800.
The first association one makes is that this was a chapel enclosure,
but the close proximity to radiocarbon-dated sealing huts along the same
shore as well as the circular sacrificial feature on Lappsandberget, makes
a parallel to Saami ritual enclosures in North Norway equally reason-
able. This large site might have been of ritual significance to numerous
Saami communities in the region. Following abandonment, it could have
been appropriated as a Christian site. In this coastal context, such an in-
terpretation is highly likely. A cross now marks the ‘virgin’s grave’, but
dates by lichenometry to c. 1917, which is confirmed by local history.
The plunderers are said to have uncovered hair and bones (Hallström
1942–49), but these were not necessarily human!
CHRISTIANITY, LABYRINTHS AND LAPPS

As emphasis has been placed on the importance of Saami ritual behav-
iour in this chapter, the question of the impact of Christianity arises. The
Church had extended its ownership of salmon fisheries on the Ume and
Skellefte Rivers in Västerbotten as early as 1313. Fishing harbours and
chapels were extended northwards during the 13th and 14th centuries,
and often seized strategic sites such as those occupied by the Saami at
Bjuröklubb. These were key areas for fishing, sealing, trade and naviga-
tion, as pointed out by Olaus Magnus in 1555 (Westerdahl 1989a, 1989b).
In this context, a new ritual feature appeared on the Bothnian coasts:
the stone labyrinth. These have been dated through a combination of
shore levels and lichenometry to the period AD 1300–1800 (Broadbent
1987b; Broadbent and Sjöberg 1990). Over 300 are recorded in Sweden,
most along the Bothnian coasts (Kraft 1982). They otherwise correspond
well with the distribution of Swedish speaking populations around the
Baltic. Although an ancient symbol, the Bothnian labyrinths are inter-

preted as expressing a combination of fishing magic and Christianity.
They probably symbolised the dangerous journey to the sea and home
again, the Christian pilgrimage, and the dangers and superstitions of the
fishing life. They are nearly always found near fishing harbours or on
islands.
The chronology and geography of North Bothnian labyrinths asso-
ciates them with the Scandinavian herring fisheries, and a time after the
proposed Saami abandonment of the coast. They also appear to coincide
with the appearance of Lapp place-names. In a number of instances, the
two worlds seem to have been in confrontation, if not face-to-face, at
least on important sites.
The most remarkable labyrinth in this connection was documented
at Grundskatan, one of the largest Saami sealing settlements and ritual
sites on the Västerbotten coast (Figure 15.5). This labyrinth was pur-
posely built directly on top of a hut. This stratigraphy confirms the fact
that the labyrinth was later than the hut, but this was foremost a state-
ment of power and identity. Evidently the Scandinavian (or converted
Saami?) settler-fishermen had recognised the huts as belonging to a
non-Christian society and had appropriated the place by superimposing
their own magic and the power of Christianity upon it. This is a classic
Figure 15.5 A labyrinth had been purposely built on a sealer’s hut at Grundskatan.
The hearth, which underlies the labyrinth, has been radiocarbon-dated to the Viking
period. The labyrinth dates to the 16th century. (Prepared by Noel D. Broadbent.)
example of superposition, which was a common Nordic Christian prac-

tice. This remarkable manifestion is therefore a perfect symbol marking
the end of ‘dream-time’ (Rydving 1995) for the seal hunting Saaami of
coastal Sweden.
SUMMARY AND CONCLUSIONS

This overview and case study have provided some new perspectives on
settlement in Northern Coastal Sweden. It is argued that Sápmi once ex-
tended along much of the Swedish Bothnian coast, probably as far south
as the Mälar Valley (Mälardalen).
Scandinavian/Germanic settlements during the Iron Age in Northern
Sweden may very well have long existed as enclaves in a Saami settlement
matrix that had its roots in the deep prehistoric past. This pattern goes
back to at least the Neolithic in coastal Västerbotten and is typical of col-
onisation in marginal areas. Enclaves of these types often failed and dis-
appeared in the archaeological records, sometimes for hundreds of years.
The evidence of Saami seal hunting parallels the seasonal reindeer
hunting/pastoralism patterns in the Swedish mountains. Seal oil may
have been an important commodity in Saami trade. Finds of sheep/goat
bones as well as livestock huts and corrals suggest that the Saami com-
bined sealing with pastoralism on the coast. Pollen analysis from coastal
Västerbotten (Engelmark 1976) does indicate local human impacts dur-
ing the Viking Period, mostly grazing.
Saami coastal sealing/trading in Sweden seems to have come to an
end in the first half of the 14th century. A number of forces converged at
this time: aggressive Swedish agrarian expansion, church and state he-
gemony, the collapse of the eastern trade, the Black Death and Hanseatic
mercantilism. Even the effects of the Little Ice Age may have played a
part by making local sealing more difficult.
The coastal Saami may have withdrawn into the interior and recent
radiocarbon dates of Saami hearths in Lapland (Hedman 2003, 141)
show an increase after the 14th century coinciding with the collapse of
both the Stalo hut complexes in the mountains and the coastal sealing
communities. Nomadic reindeer herding would almost certainly have
gained in importance.
This overview summarises some of the results of the ‘The Search
for a Past’ project. New excavations were completed at Hornslandet
in Hälsingland in the summer of 2005. The results are not only more
than doubling the geography of Sápmi, but expanding the import-
ance of the Saami in Nordic and European prehistory. The Saami had
extensive trade networks during the Viking period and interacted with
the Scandinavians, Finns and Russians at many levels, economically, in

religion, and technologically. The authors are well aware that this pro-
ject challenges many ideas about the Saami past and that our research
can have important implications for the Saami people in Sweden.
The Saami have been subject to serious setbacks in their attempts to
assert their rights as well as their desire to be recognised as an indigenous
people in Sweden. Hopefully archaeology will be able to play a much
more constructive role in their struggles than has been the case in the past.
NOTE
1 We thanks the Office of Polar Programs of the National Science Foundation for
financial support and the Arctic Studies Center of the Smithsonian Institution
for facilities support. The illustrations were done by Elaine Reiter, Intern at the
National Museum of Natural History.
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ABOUT THE EDITOR
AND CONTRIBUTORS
EDITOR
Peter Jordan is Reader in Archaeology at the University of Aberdeen. His
research interests include the archaeology, ethnoarchaeology and ethno-
history of northern hunter-gatherers and reindeer herders.
CONTRIBUTORS
David G. Anderson is Associate Professor at the University of Tromsø.
He specialises in the anthropology, history and ethnoarchaeology of
the circumpolar North and is conducting fieldwork in Northwestern
Canada, Northern Norway, the Kola Peninsula (Russia), the Taimyr
Peninsula (Russia) and Zabaikal’e (Russia). He is the author of Identity
and Ecology in Arctic Siberia (Oxford 2000), co-editor of several collec-
tions from Berghahn books. His most recent work is an edited collection
of ethnohistoric essays based on both fieldwork and the primary records
of the Polar Census of 1926–27 (Berghahn 2011).
Tatiana Argounova-Low was born in Iakutsk, Siberia. She received her

Ph.D. from the University of Cambridge, Scott Polar Research Institute
in 2001, with a thesis on Sakha identity. With general interests in arc-
tic anthropology, the primary focus of her research lies predominantly
in contemporary social and ethnic processes of native communities
in Siberia. Her most recent research examines roads among reindeer-
herding communities in Sakha and Evenkiia. She currently resides in
Scotland and teaches social anthropology at the University of Aberdeen.
Noel D. Broadbent received his Ph.D. in archaeology from Uppsala

University in 1979. He has served as Senior Reader in Archaeology
at the universities of Uppsala and Umeå, Director of the Center for
339
Arctic Cultural Research at Umeå University and Director of the Arctic

Social Sciences Program at the U.S. National Science Foundation in
Washington, D.C. He was awarded the Chair of Archaeology at
Umeå University in 1996, and is currently a Senior Researcher at the
Smithsonian Institution. Professor Broadbent has published extensively
on Nordic prehistory, historic archaeology, interdisciplinary research
and research ethics.
Britta Wennstedt Edvinger is co-owner of the Scandinavian Archaeology

Center (Arkeologicentrum), a consulting firm based in Östersund in cen-
tral Sweden. She has previously worked as an archaeologist at county
museums in Northern Sweden, for the Archaeological Survey and the
Swedish National Heritage Board , as an instructor in archaeology at the
Mid-Sweden University, and, since 2000, as an archaeology consultant.
Her primary research interests are the prehistory of the boreal and alpine
hunters, fishers and reindeer herders in Scandinavia. She has published
articles on mountain Saami prehistory, stone age rock art, archaeological
methodology and Saami bear ceremonialism.
Andrei Filtchenko graduated from Tomsk State Pedagogical University

in Russia, received the degree of Kandidat Nauk in Philology from Mari-
El State University in Ioshkar Ola; MA degree and Ph.D. in Linguistics
from William Marsh Rice University in Houston, USA. Filtchenko has
been doing extensive fieldwork in the native communities of Eastern
Khants of Tomsk and Tiumen’ regions of Siberia. His primary research
interest has been the language and culture of Khants, local variation
and change in Western Siberia. He has authored a reference gram-
mar of Eastern Khants and a collection of chapter and paper length
publications.
Elena Glavatskaia is Professor of History at the Urals State University.

She has published on religious encounter in Siberia, history of the
Russian Orthodox Church, Mission and religious changes among the
indigenous peoples of the Urals and Siberia. She conducted fieldwork
among Mansis, Khants, Maris and Russian Old-Believers. Currently she
leads the project ‘Religious Landscape of the Urals and Western Siberia
in the 16th–21st C. Materials for Cultural Atlas’.
Sven Haakanson Jr., Ph.D., is Director of the Alutiiq Museum and

Archaeological Repository. Of Sugpiaq descent, he was born and
raised on Kodiak Island, Alaska. He conducted extensive ethnoarchae-
ological fieldwork in Northwest Siberia and received his Doctorate in
Anthropology from Harvard University.
About the Editor and Contributors 341
Joachim Otto Habeck is coordinator of the Siberian Studies Centre at

the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology in Halle, Germany.
He is author of the 2005 monograph ‘What it Means to be a Hersdman:
The Practice and Image of Reindeer Husbandry Among the Komi of
Northern Russia’. He has published on the nexus of gender, space and
notions of ‘culture’ in the Russian North, and on size and place in the
construction of indigeneity. Currently he conducts research on state-
funded cultural institutions in Russia, and the conditions and limitations
of lifestyle plurality, as exemplified by practices of self-presentation.
Alexandra Lavrillier has a Ph.D. in social anthropology. She is a leading

international specialist in Evenki language and culture and is President
of the French-Evenk Association ‘SEKALAN’.
Alexandra A. Maloney is Professor of Linguistics at Tomsk State

Pedagogical University (TSPU), Russia, and Adjunct Professor at
University of Alaska Anchorage (UAA), USA. She graduated from TSPU
and entered graduate programme focusing on Siberian languages. She
received her Ph.D. from Tartu University, Estonia, in 1988 and D.Sc.
from Mari State University in 1999. She worked for over 20 years at
TSPU and was Dean of Foreign Languages Institute. Since 2003, she has
taught Anthropological Linguistics and Russian at UAA. She has over a
100 publications, among them Essays on Sel’kup Cultic Lexicon, 1997;
‘Mythology of the Sel’kups’, 2004.
Patrick Plattet is currently Assistant Professor in anthropology at the

University of Alaska Fairbanks (UAF). He has a Ph.D. (2005) from
the University of Neuchâtel (Switzerland) and the Ecole Pratique des
Hautes Etudes (Paris, France). The work presented in this book was con-
ducted during a postdoctoral research programme at UAF funded by
the Swiss National Science Foundation (PBNE1–106765 and PA0011–
113073), and is continuing within the NEWREL project (New Religious
Movements in the Russian North: Competing Uses of Religiosity After
Socialism) under the European Science Foundation’s EUROCORES pro-
gramme known as BOREAS.
Shiro Sasaki is Professor at the National Museum of Ethnology.

He received his Ph.D. in cultural anthropology at the University of
Tokyo in 1989. Since 1984, he has carried out fieldwork among the
Saami in Northern Finland, Evenks in Northern China, Nenetses in
Bol’shezemel’skaia tundra, Evens in Northern Iakutia (Republic of
Sakha) and indigenous minorities (Nanais, Ul’chis, Udege and Nivkhs) in
the Russian Far East. His main research themes are history of the people
of the Amur River basin in the 17th–20th centuries and economic, so-
cial and cultural problems of reindeer herders and hunter-gatherers in
Siberia under the Post-Soviet transformation.
Edward J. Vajda is Professor at Western Washington University in

Bellingham, Washington, where he directs the Center for East Asian
Studies. He teaches Russian language, culture and history, as well
as courses on general linguistics and Inner Asian and Siberian peo-
ples. Edward Vajda has conducted original fieldwork on Ket, a lan-
guage spoken by fewer than 100 people in a remote area near Siberia’s
Enisei River. He has recently presented evidence supporting a genetic
link between Eniseian, the language family to which Ket belongs, and
the Na-Dene family of North America. Vajda received his university’s
Excellence of Teaching Award in 1992.
Virginie Vaté is a researcher at the Centre National de la Recherche

Scientifique (CNRS, France). She received her Ph.D. at the University
of Nanterre (Paris, France) in 2003. Since 1994, she has done research
in Chukotka (Northeastern Siberia), where her topics include male and
female roles in everyday life and in rituals, particularly among Chukchi
reindeer herders, and interactions among various religious practices, es-
pecially shamanism/animism and Evangelical Christianity.
Rane Willerslev is Associate Professor at the Institute for Anthropology,

Archaeology and Linguistics at the University of Aarhus, Denmark and
he is also the Director of the Ethnographic Collections at Moesgaard
Museum. He is the author of Hunting and Trapping in Siberia (Arctic
Information, 2000) and Soul Hunters: Hunting, Animism and Personhood
among the Siberian Iukagirs (Berkeley: University of California Press,
2007). Besides working among Iukaghir hunters, he has conducted long-
term fieldwork among the Chukchi population of Northern Kamchatka.
CONTACT DETAILS
FOR AUTHORS
David G. Anderson TGPU

Institut for socialantropologi Komsomolsky Prospekt 75
Universitetet i Tromso Tomsk
9037 Tromso 634041
Norway Russia
e-mail: filtchenko@policy.hu
Tatiana Argounova-Low
Department of Anthropology Elena Glavatskaia
University of Aberdeen Razina St. 41–5
Aberdeen Ekaterinburg, 620142, Russia
AB24 3QY Tel: +79126122962
UK
e-mail: elena.glavatskaya@usu.ru
Noel D. Broadbent
Department of Anthropology/ Sven Haakanson Jr.
Arctic Studies Alutiiq Museum &
National Museum of Natural Archaeological Repository
History 215 Mission Road, Suite 101
Smithsonian Institution Kodiak
Washington, D.C. 20013–7012 Alaska
e-mail: broadben@si.edu USA
99615
Britta Wennstedt Edvinger Tel: 907–486–7004
Scandinavian Archaeology Center e-mail: sven@alutiiqmuseum.org
Box 1
SE 834 21 Brunflo Joachim Otto Habeck
Sweden Max Planck Institute for Social
e-mail: britta@arkeologicentrum.se Anthropology Advokatenweg 36
D-06114 Halle (Saale)
Andrei Filtchenko Germany
Laboratory of Indigenous Tel: +49 (0) 345 29 27 216
Languages of Siberia Fax: +49 (0) 345 29 27 502
Room 246 e-mail: habeck@eth.mpg.de
343
344 Contact Details for Authors
Peter Jordan Fairbanks, AK 99775–7720

Department of Archaeology USA
University of Aberdeen
St Mary’s Building Shiro Sasaki
Elphinstone Road National Museum of Ethnology
Aberdeen, AB24 3UF 10–1 Senri Expo-park Suita
Tel: +44 (0)1224 273374 Osaka, Japan 565–8511
e-mail: peter.jordan@abdn.ac.uk Tel: +81–6–6878–8262,
Fax: +81–6-6876–2160
Alexandra Lavrillier e-mail: ssasaki@idc.minpaku.ac.jp
Scientist, DoBeS project on
Even Dialectal and Cultural Edward J. Vajda
Diversity 516 High Street
Max Planck Institute—EVA, Modern and Classical Languages
Deutscher Platz, 6 Mail Stop 9057
D - 04103 Leipzig (Germany) Bellingham, WA 98225 USA
Tel: +49 341 355 0 833 Tel: 360–650–6571X
e-mail: alavrillier@gmail.com e-mail: edward.vajda@wwu.edu
Alexandra A. Maloney Virginie Vaté

7888 Highlander Drive, Max Planck Institute for Social
Anchorage, AK 99518, USA Anthropology
Tel: 1–907–770–6469 Advokatenweg 36
e-mail: afaam@uaa.alaska.edu; 06114 Halle/Saale
sashaosipova@hotmail.com Germany
Patrick Plattet Rane Willerslev

University of Alaska Fairbanks Moesgaard Museum
Department of Anthropology 8270 Hojbjerg, Denmark
403, Salcha Street Tel: +45 23982229
Eielson Building, Room 312b e-mail: rane@mail.dk;
PO Box 757720 etnorw@hum.au.dk
Index
A Arsen’ev, V. K. 261–262
Assans 297
aboriginal, Australian 58; life-ways in Australian hunter-gatherer commu-
74; literature on landscapes of 20 nities, studies of 20
Achaivaiam 105; ancestors, obliga- ayibii 60–61; 69n1; of deceased
tions to 107; animal sacrifice 106; person 65
funeral pyre 107; herding landscape ayibii-lebie 69n1
of 107–110; indigenous community
of 107; pastoralist communities
B
in 106; reindeer herders, sacrifice
by 106–107; rituals and imita- Bagdarin 81
tive dances 110; sacred landscape baidarki 91
107; sacrificial principles 112–113; Balyk Ehekene 209
tantegiŋin 107 bangos 299–300
agriculture among Komis 280, 282; of bania 59
Mansi 237 Baraliak or Baianai 219
Aiylha 33, 212; landscape and 201; Bear 99–103, 120, 128–129, 136,
Sakha concept of 199 154–155, 183–188, 222–227,
Alekseenko, Evgeniia A. 297, 299–300, 240–241, 247–248, 262–264,
301, 303–305, 308–309 289–291, 302, 304, 308, 319–320,
Allels 302–303 327–328; as bare-footed one 60;
Amguema 139 burial 320, 328; ceremonialism
Amur River 26 290–291, 312, 320; cult 186, 289;
animal killer, miniature model of 62; grave 319, 327–328; hunt and Komi
spirit 18, 33, 124 290; hunting 100, 289; as master of
animism 38; and Nenets 164 forest animals 308; punishing hunters
anthropologists, America and of 280; remains of 289; rituals 304,
Russia 21 328; spirit, reincarnation of 304;
anthropology, themes of 25 Bear festival, of Khanty 130; of Mansi
Anuchin, Vladimir I. 301 242, 249; of Tym Sel’kups 129–130;
Aŋqal’yt, See mammal hunters, beiechi 219
coastal Beiun collective 83
archaeology of natural places 18, 31, Bereznitskii, S. V. 265
39, 316 Bikin River ecology 276
architectural signature 88 Bikin Udeges 261, 263; and Bua as
architecture 18, 26, 90, 169, 242, venerable master 265; and Chinese
251, 279, 284 heating system 262; cultural prac-
Arins 297 tices of 259
345
346 Index
birch 58, 77, 120–121, 123, 126–127, Chomoon Maiats 202

164, 169, 182, 185, 187, 211, 214, Christianisation 98, 237, 279–280;
222, 245, 259, 301 of Komis 279–281, 289, 291–292;
Black Death 331 among Mansi 238
black sable spirit 124 Christianity 279, 288, See also
blood 32, 57, 61, 72, 74, 78–79, Christianisation
108, 111–112, 128, 145–148, Chukchi 52, 135, 139–140; blood
154–155, 172–173, 208–209, drawings 146–147; cycle of move-
301–304, 309–310, 319; draw- ments in 139–141; encampments
ings 145–148; and Iukagir hunters of 140, 145; ethno-territorial
61; offerings 111, 301; and Ololo group of 148–149; funeral sites
hunting festivals 112; of reindeer and 139; herders 107, 156; house
145, 155; ritual logic of 32; sac- society 145–150; iaranga
rifice 128, 319, 250; of sacrificed 135–136; landscape, moving
animals 108 about 137–139; language 157;
bloodless sacrifice among Sel’kups nomadic housing of 135–137,
127, See also blood, sacrifice 142; nomadisation of 157; pat-
boarding school system, Russian- terns of gendered mobility and
language 29 141; reindeer herding 98–99, 135,
Boas, Franz 21 137, 157; reindeer movement
body, materiality of 60 of 141; rutting season 141; sea-
Bogoras, Waldemar G. (Bogoraz, mammal hunters 135; seasonal
Vladimir) 24, 40, 105, 145–146, migrations of 32; summer settle-
153; English-language ethnogra- ment 141; symbolic role of fire
phies of 24; on wild reindeer 151 151; tent-based affiliations 148;
Bol’shezemel’skaia Tundra 281, 286 transhumant movements 140–141;
boreal 28, 35, 49, 297; forest 28; women 155–156 ; wooden anthro-
hunting economy 35 pomorphic fireboards 152, 153
burials 36, 118, 121, 163, 170, 174, Chukotka 135, 136, 138, 149; land-
180, 205, 215, 223, 226, 228, scape of 136–137, 156
300, 310, 320, 328; complexes 36; circumpolar, cosmology 25; cultural
grounds 163, 228, 300; perceptions landscapes 37; hunter-gatherer
of 121; platform for bears 223; populations 35; landscape research,
sites 174 potentials of 20–26; religion,
Buriatiia-based Orochen shamans 73 accounts of 30–31; studies of 23;
world-view of 26
coins 35, 79, 87, 122, 188, 191, 202,
C
246–248, 306, 308, 319, See also
Caribou 104 material culture
carving 89, 100, 102–103, 129, 225, commercial hunting 53, 215; of
228, 243; of wooden images of Evenkis 216; of Iukagir hunters 53;
spirits and ancestors 129 Sables as focus of 215
Ceremonialism 290–291, See also communicative relationships, ‘ritual
under bear logics’ of 37
child and language 65 Communism 21, 29–30, 238,
Chinese dynasties 28, 262 249; collapse of 30; and Mansi
Chipewyan hunters 66 orthodox cultures 238; and
Index 347
official atheism 249; and transfor- forest and 67; by fumigations 141;
mations in Siberia 29–30 hunters and storytelling 61; of
Communist, Revolution 21; for iaranga 142; organization of 144;
secular state of Mansi 239 space of 68, 222, 224; summer 139;
cows 73, 86, 118, 250 and transport 137; tundra’s inhabit-
cultural ecology of Julian Steward 23 ants and 138
cultural landscape, anthropological Enisei River 26
studies of 20; approach, flexibility Eniseian tribes 298, 312
of 31; built remains and architec- environment, human engagements
ture 26; character and meaning of with 20
34; framework of 25, 31; of Evenkis equipment 34, 83, 88, 129, 161,
227, 229–230; research 18; research 180, 219, 221, 224, 228, 238, 265,
in Russia 25–26 283–284
cultural, patterns of Mansi 237; Es as male creator deity 300–301,
signature, kinds of 26 303, 305
culture-historical landscape and built ethnicity politics, analysis of 25
remains 26 ethnoarchaeological, case studies 39;
perspective 18
D ethnography, as depicting ‘traditional’
life-ways 23; of fishing at Lake Essei
death 32, 61, 89, 98–100, 108,
207–212
119–122, 127, 129, 184, 220,
Ethno-historical Atlas of Siberia 23
225–226, 246, 265, 274, 300,
ethno-territorial groups 137
302–305; ritual 35, See also burials
Eurasia, case studies of 34; higher-
Dene Tha 65–66
latitude 26; scholarship of 21
Denmark-Norway 28
European landscape painting 68
domestic reindeer 33–34, 37, 105,
Evenkis 87, 215, 217, 219–220, 222,
108, 111, 215–216, 218–219, 236,
225–231, 298, 308, 312; ancestral
245, See also reindeer
camps of 220; ancient locations
Dual Model Subsistence 135
227; burials 216, 224, 227; Buriat
‘dwelling perspective’31–32, 200,
shamanic rituals 81; camping 217,
201, See also Ingold, Tim, on
219–220, 225, 229; collective ritu-
dwelling perspectives
als 225, 228; and collective sea-
sonal festivals 216; communities
E
215–216; constructions, material of
Eastern Siberia, rivers of 28 220, 229; diaspora 230; domestic
ecology of respect 32, 38 (‘humanised’) space of 225; do-
elk (Alces alces) 49, 55–63, 65–66, mestic reindeer 215–217, 219–220,
71, 164, 180–181, 183–184, 223; encampments 217–219, 223,
186–188, 192, 194, 215, 227, 243, 225–229; folklore 229; forest as
258, 262, 264; and human hunter home to evil and 309; forest
50; in Nelemnoe 55; and hunters ‘roads’, network of 217, 220,
57; images 188, See also moose 225–226; groups of 224; herding
encampments 33, 50, 61, 63–64, 218–219, 222–223, 230; humani-
66–67, 137–140, 142, 144, 150, sation of 229; hunter-herder cul-
215–219, 222, 224–228, 256, 301, tural landscapes 33; life and death
303, 306–307; and the dead 225; of 225; luck (kutu.) in reindeer
348 Index
husbandry 81; moose meat 79; sacrifice of Mansi 250; in bear fes-
mortuary lokovun 78; offerings tival of Mansi 241; of Chukchis
among 80, 81; Orochen hospitality 138; of Chum 169; in gifting and
72; platforms 222–224, 229; pos- sacrifice rituals 37; identity 169;
sessions of 78; reindeer sacrifice 32, of Iukagir 54; and landscape struc-
74–76; ritual, feast in 79; symbols turing 37; of Nenetses 163;
225; transport 217; wild reindeer, structuring 33
remains of 80; wild spaces 219, gifting 18, 31–33, 35–38, 78–79, 88,
221, 228–229 97, 129, 209, 288; Glavatskaia,
Elena on 33; involving sacred places
F and shrines 36; involving sacrifice
of gun shells/coins/cloths/animals/
Fall commemorative rites 108
people 35; rituals 31, 36, 78–79,
Fennoscandia 12, 17, 314
88, 209, 288; rituals in Siberia 32,
Finno-Ugrian people 280; fishing 280,
79–80; and sacrifice rituals 18, 31,
282, 291; folk beliefs 291–292; forest
36–37; using material culture 289
agriculture 280; graves of 289; herd-
Gospromkhoz Pozharskii 270
ers travelling 286; male herders 284
‘Grandmother of life’ 123
fireboards 8, 151–155; as ‘masters of
grave sites, knowledge of Evenkis
reindeer’ 154; role of 153–156
225, 227
fireplace 137–138, 243, 248
gulik 224, See also Evenki, groups of
fires 36–37, 61, 64, 70, 74–77, 82–83,
85, 104, 141–142, 146, 149–155,
167–169, 218, 221–222, 265, H
309–210; in camp 167; as cleansing
Haakanson Jr., Sven, on Iamal 175
ceremony 128; coastal Koriak and
Hanseatic mercantilism 331
102; for deceased 122; of domestic
hearths 33, 36–37, 128, 134–135,
hearth 142; in Ŋênrir’’un festival
141–142, 146, 149–151, 153–156,
150; as ritual process 104; and
220, 320–321, 325, 328, 330–331;
Sel’kup 119; symbolic role of 150;
contact with ‘other’ 150; and gender
and women 155
143, 152, 156; iaranga 150–152;
folklore, of Evenkis 229; Tas Sel’kups
positioning in tent 147; role of
124
hearth in landscape 136, 142; at
funeral 110, 121–122, 127; sites 136,
sacred sites 129; significance of 36;
138, See also burials
smoke from 156; and tent, females
fur tax 29, 180, 237, 259, 273, 306,
in 37
311, See also fur trade and colon-
herders, ‘sedentarised’ 137; in
ization of forest
tundra 149
fur trade and colonisation of forest
herding rituals 112, 153
29; Russian state interest in 29; of
heritage preservation, new knowledge
northern forests 28
and practice in 26
higher-latitude ecology 26
G high-latitude adaptations, dynamics
game animals 61, 97, 99, 112–113, of 40
257; as ‘person’ 62 History of Indigenous Peoples of
gender 37, 54, 138, 163, 169, 241, Siberia 24
250–252, 300, 302; in animal hoghotpyl 310
Index 349
Holm, G. 321, 325, 334 encounter between 68; fishing and

Hosedam 302–306, 307; and associa- herding, targets for 29; of game
ton of water 305; and creation of of Nenets 163; gatherer landscape
islands and tributaries 305; daugh- archaeology 31; groups 50, 55;
ters of 307; servants of 304 and herding, cosmological under-
house society, Claude Lévi-Strauss standings of 36; and inter-species
on 146 transformation 51; as love-making
human, predator, reality of 61; sacri- 50–51; luck 38, 87, 188, 224, 227,
fices, Mansis and 246, 251 256, 258, 260, 262–264, 266–268,
human-animal-spirit relations 17, 18, 270, 272–275; master of 263,
See also animal spirits 266–267; for meat 54, 180; and
human-environment relations 35–38, mobile herders and symbolic land-
317; understandings of 35–38 scape 39; mobile wild reindeer 161;
human-landscape interactions, investi- mobility of 29; narrative mode of
gation of 12 67; practices 63; predatory view-
hunt, exchange of narratives of 64 point of 51; and prey animal iden-
hunter-fisher-gatherer societies 24, 28, tity of 63; as reincarnation of a
236, 267; analysis of 24–28 dead relative 51; and reindeer herd-
hunter-gatherer 20, 23–24, 28, 29–30, ing, males in 37; rituals 38; seasons
31, 35, 38–39, 49–51, 53–63, 266, 275, 304; as sexual seduction
65–67, 86–88, 99–101, 104–105, 50–51; shelters 81; speech and
108–109, 174, 180–181, 183–190, smell as ‘magical tools’ 67; state-
263–264, 266, 270–275, 290–291, registered lands for 219, 272;
297, 312, 326; archaeology of 31, stories 63, 185; trails 307; story-
39; and Ket belief 313; of Nenets telling, engagement in 67; symbi-
175; societies of Alaska, Africa and otic process of 51
Australia 23; studies of Soviet-era
24; study of 23; transformation
I
of 32
hunter-herder, economies 31; world- ialpyng ma 33, 239–244, 246–247,
views 39 250, 252–253
Hunter-Prey Reversibility 61–62 Iamal Nenetses 33, 175; folklore 174;
hunters, group of 57, 63, 266; as reindeer herders 166
human 49, 59–60; local 199; iaranga 32; and female space 151–152
mobility of 29, 161; passing 267, iitriir 8, 145, 154–155; sacrificial 87,
272; professional 270; seal 325; 109, 113, 170, 172–173
senior 62–63; travelling 53; Ilongot, of northern Philippines 64;
younger 206, 217 hunters, group of 64; hunters, nar-
hunting luck, See under hunting ratives of 64; knowledge, social
hunting 28–33, 35–38, 48–60, distribution of 64; landscape and
62–68, 84–88, 98–100, 102–106, hunting practices 64; narrative
110–113, 117–118, 127–130, mode as ‘magical tool’ 64; newborn
179–192, 214–219, 256–258, child as returned deceased relative
260–264, 266–275, 306–210; com- 65; story-tellers among 64
munities 28, 105; economy 35, Ilynty Kota, See ‘Grandmother of life’
53, 161; for elk 57, 60; encamp- images of seals, bears and sheep
ment and story-telling of 62–65; 101–102
350 Index
indigenous cultural landscapes 20–21, J

29, 36, 97, 107, 206, 212, 279, 316
Ingold, Tim 17, 19–20, 22, 37, 105, Japanese state 28
134, 150, 161, 163, 198, 200, Jesup North Pacific Expedition 21
205, 264, 285, 315, 317–318; on
K
dwelling perspectives 31, 135, 201;
on fire 151; on nature 48; on rein- Kamakran 101
deer sacrifice 24 Kamchatka, bears and sheep figu-
Inner Asian continental divide 84 rines of 105; caribou hunters 105;
interpretive archaeology 20 carving and dancing, imitative acts
Inuit 65 of 104; communal commemor-
Itel’men hunters, G. W. Steller on 97 ation 107; cosmological landscape
Iughs 297, 312 of 103, 104; cultural landscape
Iukagir 51–53, 57; and animal prey of 97; explorers on 97–98; feast
68; animal spirits 60–61; animal, of animals (prazdnik zverei) 105;
infra-human perspective of 60; bear fishing, hunting or gathering sites
as ‘bare-footed one’ 61; conceptions 101; funeral ceremonies of 112;
of knowledge of 64–65; culture as funerary rituals of reindeer herd-
human attribute 60; dog sledge, ers 105–112; herding landscape
revival of 54; elk (Alces alces) as ‘in motion’ 103–105, 110–112;
game animal 56, 59, 60; elk (Alces landscape, ritual acknowledge-
alces) spirit and hunter 61; elk ment of 112–113; local pastoral
(Alces alces), habitat of 57–58; as economy, collectivisation of 106;
fur trappers and subsistence hunters lucky tree, manipulation of 102;
54; gender relations 54, 55; humans maritime mammals, departure of
and non-humans, subjectivity of 60; 105; non-funerary sacrifices 109;
hunter, rhetoric of 60–61; hunters northern pastoralists, dances of
and elk (Alces alces) 32, 58; hunters 110; reindeer herders, ideology
and sexual seduction 60; hunters of 110; reindeer sacrifices and
in animal furs of elk (Alces alces) symbolic substitution 110; ritual
and reindeer 59; hunters, sable furs meal (tylqtl) 101; ritual of de-
from 54–55; hunters, skis of 59; victimisation 105; and sacrifices
and hunting 59–60; hunting groups 97, 109; seal images and 102, 105;
56–59; hunting, sexual abstinence sled-reindeer, victimisation of 109
in 59; identity of animals, taking on Kanchuga, V. A. 272
59–61; labour, gendered division of Kaŋyrsa 123
55; and landscape 53, 57–58; lan- Ket shamans 300
guage for 66; learning among 65; Ket, Bear Ceremony 303, 305, 309,
meat-animals, variety of 56; nature 311; burials of 301, 311; cloth of
in language 60; population, growth 302, 309; conceptions of under-
of 53; and Sakha phrases by hunters world and sky 299, 301; conical
63–64; social relations of 57; spe- summer tent 302; cycle of birth and
cial hunting and fishing rights of 53; death of 299, 301, 303–306; cycle
spirit revenge and 62; subsistence- of reincarnation of 301; families
based lifestyle, return to 55; women of 299, 301–303; folktale of 307;
in subsistence activities 55–56 game birds 308; groups 298, 312;
Izhma Komis 282, 288 hunting 305, 308, 310; Kai Donner
Index 351
on 308; landscape and cosmology Koriaks 52, 99; hunters of 98;

34, 299, 307, 310–313; people of hunting, cosmological associ-
297, 305, 313; sacred shamanistic ations of 100; reindeer herders, S.
of 304, 308; seasonal mobility 310; P. Krasheninnikov on 98; reindeer
sky as sacred realm 299; sky buri- sacrifices 98–99; ritual engage-
als 301; society, moieties of 310; ments, ethnographic case studies on
spatio-temporal pattern 299; under- 98–99; seasonal hunt for maritime
world/earth 306; winter hunting mammals 100; spotted and bearded
trails 307, 309 seals, procurement of 100
kever meadows 34, 85, 86 Kotts 297
Khant 179, 298; animal world of Koyukon Indians 50
184–188; archaeological sites of Kulaks, resettlement of 179; seasonal
181; bear and 185–187; commu- economy 181–183
nities 242; ecology, settlement kunakan inuvun 90
and kinship of 180–181; groups
180; landscape and cosmology of
183–184; landscape forms 239; per-
L
ceptions and beliefs 184; religious Lake Essei Iakut 201, See also Lake
aspects of hunting of 184; sacred Essei Sakha
sites of 188–189; seasonal economy Lake Essei Sakha 33, See also Lake
181–182; seasonal mobility 182; Essei Iakut
settlement 180; spirituality and land rights, conflicts over 29
belief 184; tree and 189; V. Lukina land use 26, 31, 35, 180, 190,
and Vladislav Kulem’zin on 184 193, 234, 258, 274, 315–316,
Khanty 128, 137, 234 322; changing nature of 274;
Khanty-Mansiiskii Avtonomnyi and cosmology 31; migration
Okrug 235 routes 217; practices 258; Saami
King, A. D. 276 language and changed 318; and
Kolyma Iukagirs 51–52 sacred landscape geography 180;
Kolyma River 26, 54 symbolic dimensions of Mansi
Kolymskie Mountains 53–54 234; traditions of 35
Komi-Nenets communities 283 land, spiritual links to 30, See also
Komis 279–283, 288–292; cos- land use
mology 281–282, 290; folklore landscape, analytical concept of
288; healing activities 291; herd- 17–18; cognitive organisation of
ers 283, 289–290; hunters 290; 36; concept of 19; experiences of
landscape 279–280, 284–286, 25; gendered structuring of 33,
288–289, 292; material culture see also under land use; genre
289; migrant communities of in perspective painting 49; his-
282; migrations 286; missionaries tory, structural analyses of 19–20;
and 288, 292; and mobility 286; human experience of 19; human
mythology of 279; perceptions of and non-human constituents of 51;
environment and 286–287; rein- indigenous engagements with 20,
deer herders and 33–34, 279, 286, 30; as knowledge 66, 206–207;
288–289, 291–292; settlements of literature on 20; in long-term
282; spirituality and belief 280, transformation 33–34; as medium
288–291, 292 of communication 31; as memory
352 Index
204–206; mythological, Mansi personalisation of 253; ritual land-

252; research on 18–20, 25; struc- scape of 242–243; rituals 242–244,
tured nature of 19; studies 19–20; 246, 249, 252; Russian influence of
and subsistence 53–56; ‘zonation’ 237; and Russian missionaries 249;
of 37 sacred geography 241–242, 249,
language, mistrust of 66 252; sacred landscape 235, 239–240,
Laobatu 267, 271–275; as master of 242, 250–253; settlement patterns
hunting luck 267 of 235; settlements 235–237, 238,
Lapps 323–326, 330–332, See also 241–242, 250, 252; spirituality and
Saami belief 248, 249, 251; state policy and
larch 53 237–239; tradition of sacrifice 251;
Lena River 26 women’s contacts 253
Lesnaia 99 material culture 11, 18, 23, 31, 35,
life-ways, traditional 30 38, 88, 250, 288; and beliefs 288;
Limanchira (Limancha) 124 camps, equipment 220; and ma-
lokovun 89 terial offerings 30, 129–130, 188;
Lozva Mansis 242, 245–247, 251 skis, 58, 59, 130, 183; and sleds
Lozva river deity 246 170, 172, 189; tools 327; transfor-
luck and ritual 79–82, 88; Sergei mations in 250
Shirokogoroff on 81 material residues 33
Lymbelskii ambarchik 126 migration 32–36, 84–85, 105, 160,
162–163, 165–166, 170–171, 174,
179, 182, 189, 194, 203, 225–227,
M
282–285, 307
Maiat tundra 202 moose 55, 71, 78, 124, 327, See also
Maimaga clan 211 elk (Alces alces)
Mansi naiat, social role of 242
Mansis (Voguls) 235–237; alcohol
N
and 249, 251; beliefs of 240, 242,
251; and colonial landscape 33; Narym group, See Sel’kups, Southern/
Christianity and 250; commu- Taiga group
nities, landscapes of, Golovnev on Narym Sel’kup 124, 127, 128; offer-
237; cosmology 252; cosmos 251; ings and sacrifices at 237
culture of 25, 235, 245, 252; and Native groups 29, 296
deities 238–241, 243, 246–247, native groups, impact on 29–30; of
249–253; female deity 250; femi- Siberia 297
nine 249, 253; fishing and 236–237; native land rights, protection of 29
food and alcohol of 249; forests native societies, transformations of 28
and 238, 241, 250; fur ‘boom’ and nature as pristine ecology 25–26
237; and gifts 243, 245–248, 251, Nenets 279, 281–283, 288, 290–292;
253; groups, compulsory baptism of 298, 312; blood consumption
238; homes of 236, 252; landscape and 173; burial ceremony 171;
237, 240–241; material culture 251; burial grounds 164–165, 171, 175;
and missionaries 238; mythological carved deities 165; communities
dimensions of 240–241; and ortho- of 161–162; constructing of rou-
dox cultures 239; persecutions of tine places 166 170; cosmology,
traditional religious heritage of 250; aspects of 164; cultural landscape
Index 353
165–166, 175; culture 165; folklore northern communities 24

171; gravesites 288; herding of 162; northern cosmology and circumpolar
hunting of bears and 281; and invis- zone 30
ible spirits 164; migration route of northern ecology 25, 26–28, 34,
166, 172; mobility of hunters 162; 37–38; human engagements with
nomadic pastoral economy 162; 28, 40
Orthodox belief 289; Orthodox Northern Eurasia 12; absence of
Christian 291–292; pre-Christian research on 20–21; cultural land-
spirituality 281; reindeer breeding scapes in 11, 30; history of 28;
162; reindeer economies 161–162; hunter-gatherer populations of 17,
reindeer herders camp 289; reindeer 28; indigenous people of 17; inte-
husbandry 282–283; reindeer pas- gration of 28; landscape and culture
toralism 161–162; reindeer sacrifice in 31–34; sacred places across 165
172–174; reindeer, domesticated Northern Fennoscandia 315
282; reindeer-herding 279, Northern history 28–30
282–287, 289–290, 292; rituals northern hunting communities
169, 173–174, 289–290; sacred 11–12, 28
sites and cemeteries 165, 171–172; Northern Khants 282
seasonal movement patterns of northern landscape 12, 20–21; human
161; siyangi line 169–170; space engagements with 31; structuring
use in chums 168–169; spirituality of 26–31; symbolic engagements
279, 289, 291–292; stopping sites with 35; symbolic structuring of 35;
167–168; symbolic architecture of understanding of 34–40
170; tent-worker 284, 286–267; northern life-ways 18, 26
traditional migrations of 163–165; Northern mind 30–31
traditional pre-Christian 281; trav- northern reindeer-herding techniques,
elling, male herders 286 repertoire of 34
Ŋênrir’’un, festival 151; ritual 151, Northern Russia 12
152, 155 northern spirituality, ‘materiality’ of 31
Neolithic rock art sites 88 Northwest Siberia, exchange of ma-
network of roads, of Evenkis 218 terials in 29; hunter-fisher-gatherer
ngurra, Pintupi’s concept of 202 economy of 28
Nikolai Aruneev, philosophy of 74 Nutcracker moiety, people of 120
Nirgate as forage 86
Niurolka 180
O
nomadic housing 136, 138, 155
nomadisation 136, 138, 216–219; Ob’ River 26, 29
Evenkis and 217, 219; migration Ololo, hunting festivals 113–114;
32–33, 283–285; routes of Evenkis ritual 98, 99–105
217; seasonal movements 161, 195, oral history 317, 321–323
279; seasonal round 220; in taiga Orochen 81, 88; aerial burials
72; in tundra 137, 139 88–89; ecosystem, post-socialist
nomads 218, 225–227, 250, 267 87; Evenkis 215; family, ethno-
Non Governmental Organisations 81 graphic study of 71; feast days 86;
North, industrialisation of 29 graves and mortuary structures
Northeastern Siberia, Russian con- 88–89; horse pastoralists 86; luck
quest of 52 (kutu) 86; luck, ritual expressions
354 Index
of 72; reindeer herders 86; reindeer 214–219, 280–291; conceptual

herding 86; ritual, forms of 87–91; appropriation of hunting land-
society, and Soviet Union 71; scape of 37; and cultural landscape
spirits, good relationships with 33; encampments of 138; herders
73; Taiga, cultivating of 82–87; 32–33, 77, 85, 97, 104–105, 109,
vernacular architecture 91; 134, 136–137, 140, 148, 155, 160,
wooden images, carving 165, 203, 278, 282–290; herding
of 90 30–31, 34, 37, 51, 81, 117, 134,
Orthodox missionary activities, 136, 154–156, 161–163, 214, 278,
encroachment of 29 281–282, 286, 290–291, 314;
Ostiaks 179, See also Khants herds 33–34, 82, 85, 149,
Ozernoe village (tukh-pukhol) 192 221–222, 236, 282, 285, 297;
husbandry 34, 80, 179, 281–282,
P 314, 317, 321; nomadism of
Nenets 279; pastoralism 28, 35,
palaeo-environmental record, signa-
160–161, 281–282, 291; pas-
tures in 35
toralism and Nenets 282–283;
pastoral communities and cultural
pastures 33, 179, 204, 218, 235;
practices 170, 175
sacrifice 24, 32, 37–38, 97, 109,
Pathways to Reform 25
111, 164, 171–173; transporation
Pechora 282
of 29
Pechora River 26
religion, archaeology of 31; concerted
Pelym Mansis 244, 248, 252
attacks on 29
Permian Eparchy 280
ritual, burials 216; engagements
perspective painting 49
with landscape of Nenets 172; of
pollution, symbolic 208
Evenkis 222, 226, 228–229; forms,
Poperechnaia River valley 79, 85;
revival of 92; of Komi 291; logic,
camps along 88
subsistence strategies of 30–31;
portable dwellings of Nenets 163
of Nenets 164; practices 30;
predation as power struggle over
purifications 37; of reciprocity 82;
identity 50–51
supplications of Kets 303, 305,
primitivist rituals 81
308–309; of Udeges 258, 263–269,
Pumpokols 297
271–273, 275–276; sacrifice 74,
pupyg sum’iakh 244–245
78, 80
pupygs 240–241, 243–251; family
rock art research 31
247–248
rock paintings of Evenkis 228
purlakhtyn ma 243–247
Russia 28; civil war in 71; folk belief
Puza as master of fire 266
of 292; iasak of 307; introduc-
tion of diseases by 52; invasion of
R
Siberia 282; scholars of 22; settlers
Ragtytval, R. I. on fireboards 154 of 281, 312
ravens, performance of 111 Russian Far East, post-Socialist trans-
reindeer 32–35, 37–38, 71–75, formations in 33
77–90, 96–97, 104–109, 111–113, Russian Republic of
117–118, 134, 136–142, 144–156, Sakha (Iakutiia) 51
160–167, 169–174, 203–206, Russification, degrees of 29
Index 355
S Komis and 287; in Northern Eurasia

164; in Sel’kup dwelling 129
Saami, artefacts and hunting pits of sacrifice, animal in 239, 244, 246,
328; bear burials of 321, 329; bear 251; of Mansi 238, 241–243,
ceremony 320; bear grave of 246–247, 249, 251, See also under
328–329; Christianity, labyrinths individual animals
and lapps 330–332; circular sac- sacrificial, altars in Achaivaiam 110;
rificial features of 320, 329–330; gifts among Narym Sel’kups 128;
ethnology and archaeology 321; trees of Sel’kups 127
grave rituals 318; identity of 316, Sakha (Iakut) 201
318; landscapes 39, 317–318, 321; Samoyedic, culture 128; groups 299;
land-use rights of 316; oral history languages of 117; tradition 127
of 321; population of 322; rein- sangvyltap 248
deer herding 315, 332; religion of Sàpmi 316–317
329; ritual behavior of 320, 325, Savsu, see reindeer herders under
329–330; sacred sites of 315–317, Chukchis
318–321, 322–333; sacrifices Scandinavian/Germanic
319–321; sacrificial sites 320, settlements 332
324, 329; sacrificial sites in Upper Seals 99–104, 109, 112, 164; route
Norrland 328; seal hunting parallels of 102
331–332; settlement site 315, seasonal movements 160, 194, 278
317–319, 321–325, 326–329, seasonal round 35, 37, 106, 215,
331–333; territories of 316; 218–219
trade 332 Seeld’u qeet paari 125
Sable 53–54, 71, 74, 99, 117, 124, Sel’kups 117–120, 125, 298, 312;
180, 183–184, 217, 222, 224, 227, burial grounds, perception of
260, 262, 270, 273; fur 54, 262, 270; 122–123; burials in Western Siberia
reindeer hunting 71; trapping 262 119; camps 126; cemetery as spe-
sable-hunting economy 217; of cial place 122; clan and 124; colour
Evenkis 218 symbols of 127–128; deceased,
sacred geography 129, 251, 266, 268, transporting of 123; dogs for hunting
270 119; folklore 123; ‘grandmother of
sacred landscape 106, 234, 238–239, life’ and 123; hunting and fishing
241, 249–251 by 118–119; interactions with spirit
sacred landscape geography, of world 32; landscape 125; mythology
Kamchatka 98, 113; of Nenets 174 125; names of 117–118; other world,
sacred places 32–33, 36, 38–39, ‘openings’ to 122; pantheon 125;
100–101, 124–125, 128–130, place-names 126; reincarnation 122;
166–168, 170–172, 174, 189–190, reindeer herding by 118; reindeer,
194, 227–228, 239–240, 242–243, pasture for 118; sable 118; sacred
249–252, 257–258, 269–270, 317, and profane concepts of 120; sacred
See also sacred landscape; and locations in middle world 125–130;
animal sacrifices 38; and burial sacred sogra 121; sacrificial trees of
complexes 36; and cemeteries 125, upper world 128; settlements 126;
169; domestic architecture 242; shamans 119; sky God 124; smudge
focal nature of 36; iakh at 247; fires 118; Soq 125; spirits of 119,
356 Index
121–122; squirrel hunting season Soviet Union, See USSR

118; story on 273; three-tier universe Soviet-era ethnographies 23
119; traditional thought 119; tradi- sovkhoz 55
tions of venerating 258; territories space, construction of 19; economic
121; under world, communication and ritual dimensions of 31; gen-
with 120–123; upper world, spirits dered nature of 152, 156
of 123–125; of Western Siberia 32; Spiridon’s protoka 58
wooden hut on grave 123; wooden spirits 32–33, 49, 59–61, 73, 79–81,
idols 121 120–122, 124–130, 187–192, 200,
Shaman's Island 126 202–203, 208, 210–211, 218,
shamanism 81, 303 225–229, 301–302, 304–305; of
Shamanka 107, 109 animals 60–61; bear 120; family
shamans 222, 226–229, 266, 300, 187, 189; kala 111–112; local
303, 313; masks and paraphernalia patron 189, 191; lower 120, 189;
125–126; skills 190 nasty 221; predatory 109–110; sac-
sheep/goat 55, 99–104, 109, 112, 245, rifice for 74–79; of shaman 189;
250, 319, 325, 331 world of 38
Shirokogoroff, Sergei on ‘placing’ 92; spiritual culture 11, 23, 35, 38, 88¸
on Vitim River Orochens 71 See also material culture
shrines 183, 208, 225, 237, 266 squirrel 117, 180
Siberia 11; decline of international substitution 99
field research in 22; ethnographic Sweden 28
parallels in archaeological studies of
21, 24; ethnography of 11, 21–22;
T
indigenous groups, contemporary
situation of 24; information about taiga 18, 26, 28, 30, 32, 52–53,
21; and international debate 21; 71–72, 79–83, 91–92, 116–118,
Iukagirs of 49–50; lack of know- 125, 218–219, 228–229, 302–304,
ledge about 21; landscape studies 306, 311–112; environment, ero-
of 26; native hunting peoples of 23; sion of 83–84; groups 303, 305,
and Perestroika era 24; reindeer 307, 312–313; hunter, opportunities
herders of 86; scholarship and 24; for 92; landscape 229–230; nat-
shamanism, Roberte Hamayon on ural landscapes of 26; post-Socialist
81; and Western researchers 21, 24 82–83; reindeer 72
Siwantai Mio 271–274; cliff of 268, Tartar conquests 236
271–273 Tas Sel’kups, myths of 128
skis 57–58, 129, 180, 182 Tas-Turukhan group, See Sel’kups,
sledges, organisation of 138 Northern/Tundra group
sleds 53, 162, 164–166, 169–173, Teetypyl’ wetty 125
182, 204, 298, 303 tetypy 125
smoke 35–37, 62, 66, 110, 128, 150, tiger 258, 263–264, 274
155, 220, 222, 244, 252, 266, 302 tools 66, 84, 188, 221, 284, 321, 326
social, interaction as predation 50; tovarishchestvo ‘Beiun’ 72
practice, ecology of 82; space con- transhumance, summer 151–152
ceptions of Nenets 164 travel and track-ways of Evenkis
Soiuz Voinstvuiushchikh 225–226
Bezbozhnikov 239 tree of luck (*l’ikron ’mrai) 101
Index 357
tribal rituals, place of 125 267; S. Patkanov on 261; and sable

Tukh-Emter 180 trapping 263; and sacred landscape
tundra 18, 26, 28–30, 33–34, 79, geography 33; sacred geography and
116–117, 134, 136–142, 146–155, land-use 261–271; settlements 261,
160–161, 164, 169–170, 202, 267, 270, 272; and shamanistic
278–279, 281–288, 290–291; alien belief 264; spirituality of 264–265,
landscapes 278; landscape 134, 267, 276; and timber production
154, 164, 170, 279, 280, 285, 286; 271–273; and trade networks 258,
life 289; movements in 137; natural 276; traditional beliefs 270; and
landscapes of 26; nomads 291; pas- venerable animal 265; winter settle-
toralists 29; peat-lands 284; ments of 263; world-view on
reindeer pastoralism 292; 264, 267
vegetation 165 ulganikit 226
Tungokochen 83; people in 87 ulganivun 222–223, 226–228, See
Turkic 297, 299, 312 also Evenki, life and death of
Tygilam, See Hosedam Urals 26
tylqtl 105 urasa 62
Tym Sel’kups 123 USSR, closed worlds of 22; collapse
of 24, 92; collectivisation, transfor-
mations by 166; ethnic groups of
U
22; ethnographers 23; ethnographic
Udeges (Kiyakara) 257–267, 269–272, research 22; literature, and English-
275–276; and autumn fishing 257, language research 23; productivist
259, 263; beliefs of 263–264, ideology 87; researchers and ‘exotic’
266–267, 271, 274, 276; in Chinese fieldwork locations 22; revived
documents 260; collective 275; nationalisms in 25; rule of 257, 271
communities 259; culture 265, Ust’ Puloi cultures 162
271, 276; and deforestation 273, Ust’-Karenga 83
275; deities of 258, 265–268, 272,
274–276; economy 257; ethnic
V
groups 270–271; evil spirits 266;
fishing 257, 259, 261, 265, 272–275; Vasiugan, bears and elks (Alces alces)
fishing luck 258, 266; forced accul- 195; concept of landscape 199;
turation 271; forest 258, 264–265, cultural perceptions of 194–195;
267, 272, 274–275; game animals deity of 192–193, 194; knowledge
258; groups 257; hunters 260, 265, of landscape 207; landscape as
271–272, 274; hunting activities narrative 202–204; local spirits
262–263, 276; hunting luck 264, 188–189; oral folklore 180–181;
267, 274–276; and knowledge, ne- ritual land use around lake Tukh-
gotiation of new forms of 274–275; Emtor 191–194; Shamans and
land-use practices 259; and language sacred sites on Vasiugan 190–191;
boarding school system 270; lan- trade-fair 183
guage of 264, 267, 274; Leopold Vasiugan Khant 179–180; ancestors of
von Schrenck on 261; masterhood, 180; cultural landscapes of 33, 179;
notion of 264, 266–268; qualifica- deities of 184; fur tax 181; hunters
tion of hunters 271; and riverside of 189; hunting equipment 181–182;
landscape 267; and riverside shrines landscape features of 181; oral
358 Index
folklore 180–181; permanent settle- 165–169, 171–172, 181–182,

ments 180; sacred sites, veneration 221–222, 248, 285, 309–310; in
of 179; seasonal migration, patterns camps 73, 140; Chukchis 136;
of 180; settlements 180; traditional Evenki 222–223; exchange of
procurement activities 181 146; for gathering berries 118; for
Vasiuganskie Bolota 179 health and tent 33; and iaranga of
vezdekhod 138 Chukchis 139, 144, 149–150; iuka-
Vitim River Orochens, ‘psycho-mental gir 54; of Ket 302, 310–311; of
complex’ of 71 Komi 284, 286; Mansi 247, 249;
Viveiros de Castro and ‘perspectiv- obligation of 37; and performance
ism’ 60 at pyre 109; and ritual meal 100;
Volga Germans 179–180 and rituals 135; Sel’kup 119; and
symbolic center of human life 37;
W in tundra 149; with symbolic res-
posibility 140
Western Siberia, hunter-gatherer life-
wooden figure as ‘murderer’ 62
ways in 11; wetlands and marshes
wooden images of seals 112
of 28
Western, anthropologists 21; intellec-
tual development 49 Y
wild tundra reindeer (Rangifer taran- Yiskii ambarchik 126
dus) 161
wildfire 83–84
Z
Winter encampment of Evenki
216–217 Zabaikal 70, 79–80, 82; buriats 81
women 37, 54–55, 109–110, 135, Zabaikal’e 80, 83
138, 140, 144, 148–151, 154–155, zhertvoprinoshenie 74, 98

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LANDSCAPE AND CULTURE

Series Editor: Ruth Whitehouse

Critical Cultural Heritage Series, Beverley Butler (ed.)

Walnut Creek, California

Copyright © 2011 by Left Coast Press, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

ISBN 978-1-59874-244-2 hardcover

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data:

Landscape and culture in Northern Eurasia / Peter Jordan, editor.

Printed in the United States of America

∞ TMThe paper used in this publication meets the minimum

1. Landscape and Culture in Northern Eurasia: 17

Part 1. Landscape, Communication and Obligation

2. Seeing with Others’ Eyes: Hunting and ‘Idle Talk’ in the 49

3. Shamanistic Revival in a Post-Socialist Landscape: 71

4. Landscapes in Motion: Opening Pathways in Kamchatkan 97

5. Material and Linguistic Perspectives on Sel’kup Sacred Places 117

Part 2. Landscape, Dwelling and Practice

6. Dwelling in the Landscape Among the Reindeer Herding 135

7. ‘Marking’ the Land: Sacrifices, Cemeteries and Sacred 161

9. Perceptions of Landscape among the Lake Essei Iakut: 199

10. The Creation and Persistence of Cultural Landscapes 215

Part 3. Landscapes in Long-term Transformation

11. The Mansi Sacred Landscape in Long-Term Historical 235

13. Komi Reindeer Herders: Syncretic and Pragmatic 279

14. Siberian Landscapes in Ket Traditional Culture 297

15. Sacred Sites, Settlements and Place-Names: Ancient 315

About the Editor and Contributors 339

Figure 1.1 Location map of chapter case studies. 27

This volume aims to demonstrate how cultural landscape research can

flight to Siberia, and the oppressively low ceilings somehow served as a

During the commissioning phase, David Anderson, Tim Ingold,

LANDSCAPE AND CULTURE IN NORTHERN

TRADITIONS OF LANDSCAPE RESEARCH

the study of economics, politics, social relations and cultural perceptions

approaches also situate persons in a historically-shaped environment,

THE POTENTIALS OF CIRCUMPOLAR LANDSCAPE RESEARCH

Siberia’s indigenous peoples—when compared to almost all other world

As a result, most studies focused on the key ‘pre-Soviet’ bracket of

Citing Ingold’s (1986) classic paper on the origins of reindeer sacrifice

taking an empirical look at the whole period of development of

Greater Western involvement in Siberian ethnography only began

had happened after collectivisation, and focused less on the disappearing

THE STRUCTURING OF NORTHERN LANDSCAPES

(15) Saami (Broadbent and Edvinger). (Map drawn by Alison Sandison.)

a broad contrast can be drawn between the slow-moving rivers in the

of escaping state surveillance (Golovnev and Osherenko 1999, 18–19).

strategies, including hunting and fishing, reindeer herding, or combined

LANDSCAPE AND CULTURE IN NORTHERN EURASIA

to investigate how northern landscapes are culturally and materially

Landscape, Communication and Obligation

Landscape, Dwelling and Practice

study identifies the gendered structuring of landscape—on a practical

Landscapes in Long-term Transformation

few of the symbolic or mythical dimensions widely documented in other

DISCUSSION: UNDERSTANDING NORTHERN LANDSCAPES

Chapters in this volume make a range of refreshing contributions to

space and performing ritual purifications; the embrace of acrid wood-

conceptual parallels between hunting as an act of world renewal and

In bringing this introduction to a close, it is worth returning to

perception, but we can expand our understanding of the richness and

Jordan, Peter. 2008. Northern Landscapes, Northern Mind: On the Trail of

SEEING WITH OTHERS’ EYES: HUNTING