The Making and Unmaking of the Korean Middle Class, 1960–2015
Myungji Yang
Cornell University Press
Ithaca and L ondon
Cornell University Press gratefully acknowledges support from the First Book Subvention Program of the Association of Asian Studies, which aided in the publication of this book.
All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or parts thereof, must not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, address Cornell University Press, Sage House, 512 East State Street, Ithaca, New York 14850.
First published 2018 by Cornell University Press
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Yang, Myungji, 1978– author.
Title: From miracle to mirage : the making and unmaking of the Korean middle class, 1960–2015 / Myungji Yang.
Description: Ithaca : Cornell University Press, 2018. | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017028420 (print) | LCCN 2017029565 (ebook) | ISBN 9781501710742 (pdf ) | ISBN 9781501710759 (epub/mobi) | ISBN 9781501710735 (cloth : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: M iddle class— Korea (South) | Social status— Korea (South) | Korea (South)— S ocial conditions.
LC record available at https:// lccn loc gov/ 2017028420
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Jacket photograph: Downtown skyline of Seoul, South Korea. Credit: iStock.com/aomam
To my parents
List of Illustrations ix
Acknowledgments xi
Introduction: The State, Development, and the (Un)Making of the Middle Class 1
1. An Imagined Middle Class: The Birth of the Ideal National Subject, 1961–1979 32
2. The Rise of “Gangnam Style”: Real Estate and Middle- Class Dreams, 1978–1996 62
3. The Betrayed Dream of the Korean Middle Class, 1997–2015: Status Anxiety and the Collapse of Middle- Class Myths 95
Conclusion: The Politics of a Downwardly Mobile Middle Class in an Unequal, Globalizing World 135
1.1.
2.1
3.1.
3.2.
3.3.
x Illustrations
3.4. Subjective class consciousness
3.5. Perceptions about intra- and intergenerational social mobility 130 Map
2.1. Gangnam district in Seoul 65
Acknowledgments
It feels unreal to finally finish a book and to write the acknowledgments. While I spent numerous solitary hours reading through archival materials at libraries and writing in front of the computer screen, this book would have not been completed without much guidance, support, and advice from my mentors, colleagues, and friends. During this process, I have accumulated numerous debts to many people.
This book started at Brown University, an extraordinary intellectual community where I learned comparative thinking, careful research design, and respect for theory and practice. First of all, I am deeply indebted to my mentor Patrick Heller, whose enthusiasm for democracy and social justice, intellectual rigor, and critical thinking greatly influenced my intellectual growth. I could not ask for a more patient, generous, and supportive advisor. He read every chapter of the original draft with care and interest and always encouraged me to draw a big picture. I am also grateful to other mentors who helped to sharpen my ideas and gave unfailing support over time: Jose Itzigsohn, Melani Cammett, Jim Mahoney, John Logan, and Richard
Acknowledgments
Snyder. I have been fortunate to have amazing peers and friends who read my work, discussed it over coffee, and shared insights, as well as provided moral support, including Sinem Adar, Erin Beck, Julia Drew, Chris Gibson, Esther Hernandez-Medina, Adriana Lopez, Shruti Mamjudar, Holly Reed, Gabriela Sanchez- Soto, and Laura Senier. Special thanks to Jen Costanza, Sukriti Issar, and Celso Villegas, who have provided both intellectual and moral support over the years when needed.
A new intellectual home, the University of Hawai‘i, M ā noa, has been a great place to be an Asianist/Koreanist. I am extremely lucky to have great colleagues and friends in this intellectual community. I would like to thank Hoku Aikau, Petrice Flowers, Vernadette Gonzalez, Hagen Koo, Nevi Soguk, Manfred Steger, and Sankaran Krishna, who read parts of my manuscript and provided constructive feedback. I am also grateful to Manfred Henningsen and Ehito Kimura for their encouragement and generosity. A writing group for the first two years at UH was a great source of inspiration, both in the early stages of the manuscript and afterward. I thank Jennifer Darrah, Joyce Mariano, and Colin Moore for their timely comments and comradeship.
I had the luxury of spending a year working on my manuscript at the Korean Studies Institute, University of Southern California, in 2015–16. Thanks to a generous postdoctoral fellowship through the Academy of Korean Studies, I could commit myself to revising my manuscript without the burden of teaching and administrative work. I would like to express my sincere gratitude to David Kang for his intellectual and professional guidance. KSI also hosted a book workshop for me, which gave me the opportunity to clarify my argument and to refine the entire manuscript. I owe a great deal to Stephan Haggard and Laura Nelson, who served as reviewers at the workshop, carefully read the entire manuscript, and gave valuable suggestions. Daisy Kim and Hannah Lim, two other postdoctoral fellows at KSI, were great company, and not only provided constructive feedback on the manuscript but also made a year in LA less lonely. Our writing retreat to Palm Springs was memorable. I also thank Linda Kim, Gloria Koo, and Sarah Shear, who provided institutional support and made the Ahn House more enjoyable.
Numerous individuals helped me to make this book better along the way. For thoughtful comments and critical insights, I thank the late Nancy Abelmann, Nicole Constable, Nicholas Harkness, Junhee Kwon, Yoonkyung
Lee, Eileen Otis, Saeyoung Park, Jaeyoun Won, and Sharon Yoon. Two anonymous reviewers for Cornell University Press gave incredibly detailed and sharp comments. Juyoung Lee, Haewon Moon, and Seungwoo Chin helped me present professional-looking maps and gave important advice on reading quantitative data. Jiyeon Lee and Miyoung Lee were always reliable friends whom I could ask to scan and send primary sources that I needed urgently. Jaehoon Bae also helped compile the references. I am deeply grateful for their time and critical input. I am also indebted to my mentor back in Korea, Dongno Kim, who taught me the importance of time and history in the social sciences and shaped my perspectives on Korean society.
This book would not have been possible without generous institutional support from the UH Center for Korean Studies, the UH College of Social Sciences, the Core University Program for Korean Studies through the Academy of Korean Studies at both UH and USC, Brown University, and the Watson Institute for Public and International Affairs for funding for research trips and editorial assistance. My appreciation also goes to the Institute for Social Development at Yonsei University, which allowed me to affiliate with it and to use its library resources. I also benefited greatly from participating in workshops and conferences, which helped to crystallize key ideas in the book. I would especially like to thank the participants in the 2009 SSRC Korean Studies Dissertation Workshop, the 2014 SSRC Korean Studies Junior Faculty Workshop, and a 2016 workshop on the middle classes at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. An early version of chapter 1 appeared in Sociological Inquiry’s August 2012 issue under the title “The Making of the Urban Middle Class in South Korea (1961–1979): NationBuilding, Discipline, and the Birth of the Ideal National Subjects.” The book benefited from the input of the journal’s anonymous reviewers.
Roger Haydon at Cornell University Press has patiently nurtured this project with great faith in my work. I could not ask for a better editor to work with; his prompt responses and strong support made the process of completing the book much smoother. Gary Ashwill and Colin Ong-Dean, two fabulous professional editors, read multiple drafts of the manuscript and made the best out of my writing.
Thanks to incredible groups of friends in both Korea and the United States, the long writing process was less burdensome. The conversations over coffee, dinners, and drinks were always lively, delightful, and encouraging. Deep gratitude goes to the Aikaus (my three angels, Sanoe, Imai, and Tita),
xiv Acknowledgments
Eunjin Cho, Minhyo Cho, Gru Han, Manfred Henningsen, Yangsook Jeon, Hyosun Kim, Jiyeon Lee, Miyoung Lee, Colin Moore, Sunmi Park, Hyera Shin, and Eunhye Yoo. Thank you for your friendship and your faith in me. Special thanks to Eunhye Yoo for helping me recruit interviewees during my fieldwork. I would also like to extend my gratitude to Korean hiking group members in Hawai‘i, Kyungim Baik, Taeung Baik, KyungHee Cheon, Hojong Do, Seunghye Hong, Jiyoung Kim, Yangsun Kim, Sang-hyop Lee, and Young-A Park.
This book would not have been completed without the openness and generosity of many individuals who shared their personal stories with a stranger. Although I cannot name all of them because they appear in the book under pseudonyms, their contributions are enormous. I deeply appreciate their time and insights.
Lastly, my family helped me get through this arduous pro cess. To my only and younger sister Hyunjung, thank you for your unwavering faith and confidence in me. This book was also inspired by my parents, who experienced struggles similar to those of the downwardly mobile middle class who are the protagonists of this book. As middle-class Koreans, they made sacrifices for their children’s success, endured difficult times with hope and optimism, and taught us how to maintain our integrity. I dedicate this book to my parents as a small tribute to their hopes and dreams.
Notes on Romanization and Translation
All Korean words have been romanized according to the McCune-Reischauer system; exceptions are proper nouns, such as Korean people’s names and geographical names such as Gangnam. For Korean names, I generally put the given name first. The exceptions are famous political figures such as Park Chung Hee and Kim Dae Jung. But I use Syngman Rhee instead of Rhee Syngman because the former is more familiar in English and much of the West. All translations from Korean to English are mine.
From Miracle to Mirage
Introduction
The State, Development, and the (Un)Making of the Middle Class
After working for two decades as a midlevel manager for a big corporation, Mr. Kim was suddenly forced to retire in 2008. In his early fifties and casting about for options, he found himself unexpectedly embarking on a new career: he opened a small fried chicken restaurant in his neighborhood. Investing all his money, including his retirement and savings, and using his home as collateral for loans, he hoped that this small business would help him to retire comfortably. Contrary to his expectations, he now finds he has to scramble just to make ends meet. A sudden proliferation of fried chicken restaurants near his own significantly lowered the sales of his restaurant. Even though he and his wife work sixteen hours a day and take only one day off a month, after paying the rent and other bills they make barely two thousand dollars a month. Extremely concerned and stressed about their decreasing income, he has thought about closing the restaurant a number of times, but he does not have any alternatives. Twenty years ago, when he first got the corporate job that seemed to promise him everything, he never imagined he would face such a challenge at this point
in his life. Instead of looking forward to a secure retirement, he now worries about his increasing debts.
Mr. Kim’s story is not an uncommon one these days in South Korea (hereafter Korea, unless specified). After the economic crisis of the late 1990s, opening a small business such as a restaurant, convenience store, or coffee shop became a popular solution for baby boomers in their fifties or sixties who had been forced to retire from big corporations. Yet due to extreme competition and low sales, more than half of these small businesses fail within three years, and 70 percent go out of business within five (KB Research Institute 2012). Small business owners in Korea are almost forced to stake everything they have in starting a business, a bet that can lead to dangerous outcomes for themselves and others.
Currently, many Korean citizens are experiencing downward mobility, and the gap between haves and have-nots is growing. Since the economic crisis in 1997, the socioeconomic landscape in Korea has been completely overturned; the virtual lifetime employment and ever-increasing wages, based on seniority, that had supported stable middle-class lifestyles for many years are no longer widely available. Instead, many corporate employees are forced to retire in their forties or fifties, while younger generations have a hard time finding decent jobs and are forced to make do with irregular employment, low pay, and no benefits. Because Korea has an almost nonexistent social safety net and a severely constricted job market, young Koreans have limited chances for upward social mobility, while middle-aged citizens like Mr. Kim are thrust into working for themselves after forced early retirement. Membership in the middle class, a symbol of social and economic possibility and confidence in the 1970s and 1980s, is now a challenging status to maintain and is increasingly characterized by heightened anxiety and frustration. Many Koreans perceive their standard of living as having deteriorated, and belief in the chances of upward mobility is declining. Indeed, fewer and fewer identify themselves as members of the middle class (Korean National Statistics Office 2011), and those who believe that they belong to the middle class are anxious about their future financial situation. “Class polarization” ( yanggŭk’wa) and “the collapse of the middle class” (chungsanch’ŭng mollak) have become media buzzwords in Korea. The decline of the middle class as a major social force has emerged as a serious concern among news media, politicians, and academics.
Economic indicators illustrate the growth of the squeezed middle class and rising social inequality. Official statistics show that the size of the Korean
middle class as an income-based group (defined as those earning 50–150 percent of the median income) has declined by almost 10 percent, from 75.4 percent of the population in 1990 to 67.5 percent in 2010 (Korean National Statistics Office 2011).1 As the size of the middle class wanes, the overall picture of inequality becomes worse: the relative income of the middle class has declined, and the income disparity between the upper and middle classes has increased since the late 1990s (J. Lee 2015). At the same time, social inequality indices such as the Gini coefficient, relative income poverty statistics, and measurements of the top 10 percent versus the bottom 10 percent have all shown inequality significantly increasing over time. 2 Yet changes in the economic landscape are not limited to statistics; the deteriorating economic conditions have translated into negative and pessimistic views and belief systems among ordinary citizens. For example, in 2009, 90.2 percent of surveyed Koreans agreed that income disparities in Korea are substantial (T. Lee 2015, 96). Furthermore, the majority of citizens are pessimistic about the prospect of upward mobility. More than 80 percent of people between the ages of twenty and fifty believe that it will be impossible to achieve upward mobility no matter how hard they try. And Koreans are more pessimistic about the future of their children’s generation than citizens of China or Southeast Asian countries: 68 percent of Koreans believe that their children will have more difficulty becoming successful than they did, whereas only 38 percent of Chinese agree with the same statement (“An toel kŏya ama, ib ŏn saengae nŭ n” 2015, 46–47).
Korean society is certainly not alone in witnessing a shrinking of the middle class and increasing social inequality. This phenomenon has become more common and widespread on a global scale. The global economic crisis has worsened ordinary citizens’ standards of living by accelerating unemployment, poverty, and social inequality. The model of middle-class society and social inclusion in North America and Europe during the post–World War II period is in crisis. The US media have told us a story of the disappearing middle class: with the 2008 financial crisis, many middle-class families lost their jobs and homes, and increasing costs for housing, medical care, and college tuition have made the lives of many more challenging. Politicians have wooed their constituencies with a promise of the recovery of the middle class, yet it seems that for many the comfortable middle-class lifestyle is long gone, due in part to a shortage of good job opportunities. Despite the economic recovery after the crisis, US society is experiencing ever-increasing
Introduction
income disparity between the rich and the rest of the population. European countries are facing similar challenges to varying degrees across countries. While the European welfare state model has been believed to be stronger than the US model, income inequality in Europe has been rising, and stagnant wages and curtailed welfare provision threaten the well-being of the middle class. The growing popularity of the radical right and their winning of elections in Europe, including but not limited to France, Hungary, and Austria, while complicated, can be seen as a social backlash against immigrants and supporters of the European Union by those who have experienced economic deterioration and felt deprived of opportunities. Korea’s neighbor Japan is not much better off. After the economic bubble burst in the early 1990s, Japa nese society saw the decline of the middle class and a similar pattern of socioeconomic polarization. As Japa nese corporations began to downsize and restructure their businesses in response to economic recession, lifetime employment was no longer the norm, and the flexible labor regime created low-paid, part-time workforce. Beginning in the 1990s, many Japa nese youth entering employment as contract or temporary workers have subsequently been labeled “the lost generation”— a generation that is trapped in a bad economy and suffers from economic hardship and a sense of insecurity. Prevailing economic precarity and lack of social protection caused new social problems such as declining marriage, low birthrates, and increasing poverty and crime. In the midst of economic recession, the struggles of ordinary citizens to make ends meet are a familiar story.
It is common everywhere that many middle-class families experience a stagnant standard of living, while their children have a hard time maintaining the lifestyle and social status their parents had. The decline or collapse of the middle class in developed countries has often been explained by globalization and neoliberal economic restructuring (Frank 2007; Newman [1988] 1999; Sullivan, Warren, and Westbrook 2000; Zunz, Schoppa, and Hiwatari 2002). The movement of white-collar jobs from developed countries to places like China and India, corporate restructuring, retrenchment of welfare benefits, and rising costs of living all combine to increase the economic burdens on the shoulders of middle-class citizens and to increase their suffering. While it is important to understand how these changes after the economic crisis have led to the economic deterioration of the middle class in Korea, this perspective misses how particular domestic factors, such
The State, Development, and the (Un)Making of the Middle Class 5 as housing and education, have affected the lived experience and collective identity of the middle class.
The waning and suffering of the Korean middle class are more striking and dramatic because of the prevalence of images depicting its dazzling economic success and achievements. As one of the Four Asian Tigers, Korea has been taken as the most exemplary case for other developing countries, having transformed itself from a poor, war-shattered nation into one of the world’s most successful economies within a mere generation. Explosive growth for three consecutive decades lifted the majority of the population out of absolute poverty, and it was not uncommon in the 1970s and 1980s to see the children of poor peasants attain comfortable middle-class lifestyles. In 1987 the country’s authoritarian regime was overthrown by popular protests, and Korea became a democracy. Now a member of the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD), Korea has joined the ranks of high-income, developed nations, as Korean corporations such as Samsung and Hyundai produce some of the best-selling cell phones and cars in the global economy. In addition, the entertainment industry in Korea, with the rise of the Korean Wave (hallyu), now makes huge profits by exporting K-pop (Korean popular music), soap operas, and movies to neighboring China and Southeast Asia and throughout the world. As of 2012, K-pop was a US$235 million industry (Korea Times 11/4/2013). In 1960, GDP per capita was US$156 (current US dollars), whereas it was US$27,222 in 2015.3 Korea’s GDP per capita in 1960 was similar to that of Ghana or the Congo and much below that of the Philippines, but five decades later Korea had become the thirteenth largest economy in the world. For many scholars and commentators, Korea has seemed to be an ideal case of achieving both economic development and democracy.
This perception of Korea’s miraculous transformation has shaped academic discourse on the nation’s development. Many scholars have focused on explaining how Korea achieved this unprecedented economic development, overcoming adverse conditions such as its lack of natural resources and its unstable geopolitical situation. They argue that exceptionally successful, large-scale economic transformations in Korea (and also in East Asia) were made possible by the well- organized, efficient developmental state with a capable bureaucracy and effective policy implementation (Amsden 1989; Chibber 2003; Evans 1995; Kohli 2004; Woo- Cumings 1999). Korea’s high economic growth and material prosperity, in turn, enabled the growth
Introduction
of the Korean middle class as a social backbone. Comprising massive armies of white- collar workers, corporate managers, and engineers in large conglomerates, the Korean middle class was provided with high wages, job security, and consumer lifestyles. By the late 1980s, the Korean middle class had become the dominant social force and played a crucial role in the democratic transition (Koo 1991; Villegas and Yang 2013). Many members of the Korean middle class were born to unprivileged backgrounds, but hard work and education enabled them to get decent jobs and to climb the economic ladder. The tale of the Korean middle class and its upward mobility is paralleled by the tale of the Korean nation as a whole— a change from a backward, agricultural, completely undeveloped country smothered by Japanese colonialism and torn by the Korean War to a strong player in the global economy. This inspiring story of the “miracle on the Han River” told by most scholars becomes quite puzzling, however, when one hears about the daily struggles that the current Korean middle class faces. This book tackles the puzzle of why the celebrated middle class of developed Korea has entered a period of decline. Why, in this age of prosperity, is Korean society experiencing a large-scale decline of the middle class? Why is household debt growing rapidly, and why are ordinary middle-class citizens losing their grip on the comfortable lifestyle they thought they had earned? What are the political economic dynamics that have exacerbated the lives of the middle class? Why does it feel more difficult to achieve and sustain a middle-class lifestyle now? And what are the broader social and political implications of the shrinking of the middle class?
The goal of this book is to explain why the Korean middle class is where it is now: first, by describing historical processes that triggered the current conditions faced by the Korean middle class; second, by offering a new account of the practices that constituted urban middle-class life; and third, by demonstrating how the notion of the middle class has changed over time. Throughout this book, I examine the origin, pro cess, and outcome of middle- class formation along with Korean capitalist development—from ideological construct to mainstream actuality, and from the rise of comfortable lifestyles to a decline into a precarious existence. I look at the rapid, large-scale social transformations resulting in the making and unmaking of the middle class that took place in Korea within just a couple of generations, from the 1960s to the end of the 1990s and beyond. By demonstrating who has become the middle class and how, and how the rules of the game have
changed over the past five decades, I seek to explain why the seemingly successful and progressive state project of building a middle- class society resulted in such an unexpected and unintended outcome. This book argues that the current conditions that the Korean middle class faces—its overall economic deterioration and its heightened level of status anxiety— can be understood only by looking at the historical trajectory of the middle class: the particular ways in which the Korean middle class was formed, both speculative and exclusive, have shaped the condition of the middle class and the pattern of social inequality in the long run.
Many of the first generation of the Korean middle class acquired their wealth by purchasing homes and gaining hefty benefits from skyrocketing real estate prices. In the midst of an overheated property market, those who invested in real estate were able to climb the social class ladder, leaving others behind. The success of profit making and upward mobility through real estate investment had a lot to do with simple luck. Some entrepreneurial people knew where to invest, which would bring them substantial income, but many families bought homes in booming areas by pure chance. Those who happened to own real estate in booming areas could get further ahead of others with similar household incomes and occupations who bought property somewhere else— sometimes acquiring three or four times more wealth due to differential increases in real estate prices.
This book also views the process of middle-class formation as exclusive in two different ways. First, only certain groups of people could be the beneficiaries of state policies, and in particular the housing system. In a tight housing market, income-eligible people, mostly white-collar families, could apply for new, affordable apartment units in newly developing areas. Second, upwardly mobile social groups tried to nurture their own distinctive communities and culture and to prevent outsiders from gaining access to their networks and rationed benefits. By forming closed social networks and sharing information exclusively among themselves about schooling or investment opportunities, the upwardly mobile could perpetuate their privilege.
The speculative and exclusive process of middle-class formation contradicts a widely accepted depiction of the middle class as based on open membership and class mobility through merit and hard work during periods of high economic growth. This exclusionary process of selecting economic winners produced a corresponding sense of unfairness and frustration among those who did not benefit from the system— a feeling that the actual
rules of the game were unfair and defective. By looking at the process by which economic winners were selected and, in turn, perpetuated their privilege over the long term, this book offers a story of the reality behind the myth of middle-class formation and the economic miracle in Korea and reveals the contradictory and contested nature of Korean development.
Why the Korean Middle Class?
As far back as Aristotle, scholars have paid attention to the critical role of the middle class in social and political changes. The middle class has been considered variously as a carrier of economic and political modernization (Huntington 1968; Lipset 1959) or as a coalitional actor for political transformations (Luebbert 1991; Rueschemeyer, Stephens, and Stephens 1992). As countries industrialize and urbanize, the middle class emerges, expands, and becomes the social and cultural mainstream. For the government and politicians, the growth of the middle class is the basis of social and political stability, mitigating class tensions and promoting social cohesion. The expansion of the middle class exemplifies the material improvement of overall living standards for ordinary citizens. Thus, the growth and welfare of the middle class are linked to political legitimacy in important ways. For the business and corporate sectors, the rise of the middle class represents enhanced spending power and consumerism. Appealing to the middle class determines the success of their businesses. For these reasons, the middle class has often been the central topic in market research and political discussions in the public sphere as well as in scholarly debates.
For example, addressing the welfare of the American middle class has become a concern of US politicians and policymakers, and the agenda of rebuilding the middle class has been critical to winning elections. For emerging economies like those of China and India, creating a robust middle class is essential to attracting foreign direct investment and to achieving successful economic reforms by strengthening national development. In most societies, building the middle class has been an important political project: the social contract that promises the aspirational middle-class lifestyle as an outcome of hard work and frugal living becomes a source of political legitimacy, and the presence of the middle class in turn reinforces national identity and social unity (Fernandes 2006; Yang 2012). While the specific character-
The State, Development, and the (Un)Making of the
istics of a middle-class lifestyle might differ across time and place—from owning a home in the suburbs, to owning a car, to sending one’s children to college, to having enough retirement savings in the bank—the term “middle class” has long evoked material comfort and optimism. However, when this “norm” or “social contract” shared by ordinary citizens is challenged or no longer applies, it can lead to frustration or social conflict. As the living conditions of the middle class strongly affect the overall social and economic conditions of a particular society, the middle class shapes contemporary political dynamics that influence political identity and public opinions.
Despite the importance of the middle class in the general literature, it has received relatively little attention in scholarship on Korea. Mainstream development scholars focus on state elites or state-business relations, whereas critical scholarship examines socially excluded or marginalized groups. Scholars of “developmental states” focus on explaining how rapid economic development was possible in East Asia. In this field, scholars provide statecentered, elitist explanations, emphasizing in particular how state bureaucrats promoted industrial transformations by collaborating with capitalists— mainly, big businesses, or chaebol (chaebŏl ) 4 in the Korean context (for example, Amsden 1989; Chibber 2003; Evans 1995; Waldner 1999; WooCumings 1999). According to this line of thinking, particular geopolitical conditions in East Asia during the cold war were important, as economic failure could potentially jeopardize national sovereignty and interests (Campos and Root 1996; Doner, Ritchie, and Slater 2005). Under the pressure of economic growth, East Asian leaders built incentives for good performance into the system. Scholars argue that East Asia’s “equitable” and “shared” growth strategies have allowed the wider population to reap long-term benefits, as indicated by relatively low rates of income inequality (Campos and Root 1996, 2). This approach contributes to understanding how the autonomous, efficient state bureaucracy promoted economic development in Korea (and East Asia). Yet its focus on strong economic growth emphasizes only the positive side of development and discounts the tremendous socioeconomic costs inherent in “compressed modernity” (Abelmann 2003; K.-S. Chang 1999), such as a lack of labor and welfare rights, chaebol’s monopolistic business practices, and a growing rural-urban gap. Its elite-based, state-centric view also excludes the subordinated, popular classes from its explanations.5
A more critical perspective, running counter to the vast celebratory developmental state literature, examines how the socially excluded and
marginalized undergirded the so-called economic miracle in East Asia. This approach takes account of political and economic costs as well as the human costs of growth-oriented development. These critics have identified a variety of social subjects who have had to make immense sacrifices for the glory of development—be they workers, the urban poor, farmers, or women (Abelmann 1996; K.-S. Chang 1999; Deyo 1989; S.-K. Kim 1997; Koo 2001; N. Lee 2007; Seungsook Moon 2005). By examining the politically or economically dispossessed, these scholars highlight tensions, conflicts, and struggles between the authoritarian state that tried to impose its own modernization project and the disempowered who challenged this project. Yet the emphasis on a dichotomous relationship between the state and the populace leaves unexplained the situation of the majority of people who were neither exploited nor politically active.
Unlike the socially disadvantaged, the middle class was placed in a better position and benefited greatly from state-directed development. It was a social group that was neither economically deprived nor politically active, made up of individuals who were able to improve their lives by negotiating with, adapting to, and riding the wave of a rapidly changing society. Taking advantage of the chances provided by the state to the fullest, and following (but sometimes bending) the rules of the game to attain economic success, many middle-class citizens ascended the social ladder during Korea’s socioeconomic transformation. Analyzing who gets what in the midst of social and economic transformations and how those who climbed the economic ladder have deployed diverse strategies to maintain their status enables us to illuminate the process of class formation. Through an examination of dramatic shifts in middle- class conceptualizations, identities, and boundaries over time, this book tries to contribute to the understanding of the nexus of development, social mobility, and class politics.
The Middle Class as a Contested Concept
Before moving on to explain how the Korean middle class was created and what changes this social group experienced over time, we need first to consider who the middle class is. Conceptualizing and defining social class, including the middle class, have long been controversial and challenging tasks in the social sciences. Not only is the concept of the middle class ambiguous—
The State, Development, and the (Un)Making of the Middle Class 11
people use the phrase in different ways and mean quite different things by it— but the heterogeneity within the middle class itself also makes it difficult to classify this group of people as one social class. This task of conceptualizing the middle class is particularly daunting in the context of developing countries, because their socioeconomic structures and degrees of development are very different from those of their Western counterparts. Moreover, the notion of the middle class becomes more ambiguous in societies where there is sociopolitical diversity that creates different layers of social inequality. As William Mazzarella writes, “Even if we accept the validity of the middle class descriptor for India, we are still left [with] a sense that the term is being stretched to cover a staggering diversity of socio-economic cultural situations. An income that in smaller towns or rural areas might qualify a family as middle class will, in the major Indian cities, only be barely enough to sustain life outside the slums” (2004, 2–3). No matter how challenging it is to attempt to conceive of the reality of the middle class, the category itself has been an important symbol of identification, aspiration, and public discussion. Many scholars of social stratification and mobility have defined the middle class by objective socioeconomic characteristics, including income, occupation, wealth, and educational level (for example, Goldthorpe 2008; Weeden and Grusky 2005). Using one of, or clusters of, these attributes, these scholars have measured the size of the middle class and focused on how people are objectively located in distributions of material inequality. Official statistics adopt this approach by defining the middle class as an income-based group due to the methodological convenience and plausibility of these factors. Yet this definition, mainly focusing on individual attributes, does not account for power relations and various mechanisms of exclusion and closure built into certain class positions (Wright 2008). By contrast, neo-Marxist scholars understand class as a relational concept (for example, Abercrombie and Urry 1983; Burris 1992; Wright 1985). From this perspective, the middle class occupies a unique, “contradictory class location,” because it belongs to neither the bourgeoisie nor the proletariat (the working class) (Wright 1985). This middle class is distinct from the bourgeoisie since it does not own any means of production. Yet, unlike the working class, it is endowed with a certain level of power and privilege, as it derives its economic opportunities from orga nizational authority or possession of scarce occupational skills (Fernandes and Heller 2006). Human capital, the stock of skills and credentials a person possesses, generally commands higher wages in the labor
12 Introduction
market (Becker 1971; England and McLaughlin 1979; England 1992). The higher wages and occupational prestige of the middle class can be seen as the “natu ral” market outcome—in other words, higher returns on years of schooling and/or job expertise. Yet the differences in pay scale and prestige between the middle and working classes are also maintained by the gatekeeping practices employed by the middle class to exclude others from access to resources (Wright 2008). Through the mechanisms of “opportunity hoarding” and “social closure” (Giddens 1973; Tilly 1998), the middle class reproduces its relatively privileged position with autonomy and capability. For example, people with higher education and professional expertise effectively control access to certain jobs through institutional sanctions such as legal recognition of credentials or higher returns on certain skills. Furthermore, social networks and gatekeeping confer advantages by granting monopolized access to information and other resources. According to this definition, the middle class has three broad strata. The first includes professionals and technical elites with professional credentials or advanced skills. Because their skills and expertise are not easily replaced, they can enjoy a higher level of income and authority. The second category includes salaried employees in both the private and public sector, who are mostly white-collar workers. The last group is the old middle class or petty bourgeoisie, including self-employed small-business owners, merchants, and shopkeepers. This book focuses on people in the second and third categories, who are more vulnerable to downward mobility during economic crises. Many displaced workers in the second category also become self-employed, given the lack of options after an early forced retirement.
Previous scholarship on the middle class in Asia has adopted this approach, based on objective socioeconomic characteristics, by investigating the economic status and political perceptions of the middle class (Goodman 2008; Hong 2005; Hsiao 1993; Li 2010). Using quantitative or survey data, scholars in this school measure the size of the middle class or portray particular characteristics of the middle class, including lifestyles, political orientations, and consumption patterns. The essential assumption here has been that class behaviors and actions are derived from class interests based on actors’ structural positions (Marx 1978). This approach helps to draw a broad picture of social inequality and stratification, placing the middle class within the larger class structure. However, because of the narrow definition of class as a static
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is not every yam, however, which is esculent; and some are so “hot” that even the smallest portion of one applied to the mouth will severely blister the mucous membranes. Here again the expert knowledge of the native is of inestimable service to the inexperienced, for it is he who can at a glance tell which is fit for consumption and which is not; and it is he who can treat some of the peppery varieties in such a way as to eliminate the objectionable taste. Some kinds he discards entirely because he knows that, if he ate them, they would cause a painful “fire in the anus.”
Within a somewhat restricted area, extending from north of the Musgrave Ranges eastwards to the Depôt Sandhills, a fungus exists, which is known to the Aluridja and Wongapitcha as “widida,” and to the Arunndta as “oridja.” In general appearance it is much like the European truffle, and, like it, grows mostly below the surface of the ground; indeed it is difficult for the untrained eye to detect a widida, except under the direction of an aboriginal. At times one finds old sweetish juice. The inner layer of the shell is white, soft, and specimens showing above the ground, which have been exposed by wind or rain, but when this is the case, the fungus is not really fit for consumption, because its richness will have attracted many blowflies, and it will, in consequence, be teeming with maggots. A few specimens of this interesting fungus were collected by me and submitted to Mr. A. Grant, of Sydney, who determined it to be a species of Scleroderma. The widida may be eaten raw, but more commonly they are cooked in hot ashes.
In the mulga country of the Flinders Ranges, and all over central Australia, a species known as Marsdenia Leichhardti is rather common. It is a creeper with slender stalk and smallish, elongate leaves, and bears a pear-shaped fruit, consisting of a thin green skin, which encloses a mass of silky seeds. When broken the plant exudes a thick milky sap. The fruit, stalks, and leaves of the plant are eaten; they have quite an agreeable, sweetish taste. The Wongapitcha call the plant “päuya,” the Arunndta “langu,” whilst in the Flinders Ranges the recognized name for it is “kaula.” On account of the shape of its fruit, this plant is referred to by the settlers as “native pear.”
Gall nuts and excrescences, when obtainable, are also on the daily menu. The most popular is one which is found on the twigs of the mulga. It is usually referred to by the settlers as “mulga apple,” and grows up to the size of a walnut. The whole of the growth, with the exception of a small kernel-like structure, containing the insect, is edible. The taste, though slightly eucalyptine, might be compared with that of a “tasteless apple.” The Wongapitcha call the mulga apple “jarrulge,” and the Arunndta “takul.”
Another variety of gall nut is found on the smaller branches of the Bloodwood (Eucalyptus corymbosa), and is, in consequence, spoken of as the “bloodwood apple.” It is a nodular, warty, and woody growth, about the size of a billiard ball, the inside of which is hollow and contains, besides the parasite, a sweetish juice. The inner layer of the shell is white, soft, and edible; the whole reminding one of a miniature cocoanut.
CHAPTER XVI BEVERAGES
Honey solution Pandanus cider Human blood.
Although, naturally, the principal and practically only drink of the various tribes is water, there are one or two special beverages deserving of notice. In central Australia, the Aluridja, Arunndta, and Wongapitcha collect many handfuls of Eremophila flowers, commonly called honeysuckle by the local white settlers, in their bark food-carriers, on to which they pour a quantity of water The flowers are stirred around for a while with a stick and then skimmed off with a piece of bark or by hand. The drink is ready for consumption immediately after; it has a slightly sweetish taste, and is relished by young and old. Another source of nectar is the beautiful red flower of Brachysema Chambersii, which grows in abundance in the sandhills both north and south of the MacDonnell Ranges and is known by the Arunndta as “aumba.”
On the north coast of Australia, the wild-bee honey is upon occasions dissolved in water and drunk. This is nearly always done when the comb, obtained in the first place, is mixed with sand and grit, or when the honey is absorbed in the fibres of the collecting implement described above (page 146).
The Roper River tribes pick the large fruits of the corkscrew palm or pandanus, which are not unlike pineapples in appearance, but very hard and stringy, and, after bashing them between heavy stones, they keep them immersed in water for some time before they drink the solution. The water absorbs the sweetly stringent juice and produces a refreshing toddy It being necessary to keep the fruit in water for some time to extract as much of the palatable ingredient as possible (it may be, for that matter, that the natives leave the solution behind in a cooleman, while they go on a hunting tour, returning for it
in the course of some days’ time), opportunity is given for the solution to start fermenting; a mild pandanus-cider is the result. It actually happens that upon great festive occasions, when large quantities of this beverage have been made some time beforehand, the natives imbibe more than ordinarily, and thereby bring themselves into a condition of indubitable merriment. The Katherine and Victoria River tribes make a similar beverage, but do not store it for any length of time. This is the only instance I am aware of where Australian natives, intentionally or unintentionally, make an intoxicating drink.
When men are on a long-distance stage, as, for instance, during a drought, when water is scarce and the sun is relentlessly fierce, they are occasionally obliged to resort to the old tribal custom of drinking each other’s blood to escape perishing of thirst. They open a vein in the arm and collect the blood in a cooleman, or they allow one or more of their companions to drink straight from the wound. In certain cases of sickness blood is also given to the patient to drink.
CHAPTER XVII
PITJURI
Distribution of native tobacco Collecting grounds Native names Pitjuri habit
Preparation of leaves Stimulating and comforting properties Ash added to liberate the alkaloid Properties of piturine.
Most of the central Australian tribes have learned to recognize the narcotic properties of the tobacco-like plant commonly called pitjuri. All tribes, from the Wongapitcha eastwards to beyond the borders of Queensland and New South Wales, know the value of the plant, and even if it does not actually grow in the particular tribal area, its leaves are obtained from adjoining tribes by barter. The Dieri, Yantowannta, Wongkanguru, and Ngameni are all required to procure their supplies from further north, because the plant does not grow in the Cooper Creek district. The Arunndta, and latterly the Aluridja as well, regularly collect as much pitjuri as they want in the valley of the Finke and other gorges of the MacDonnell Ranges, whilst the Wongapitcha have their resources in the Musgrave and Everard Ranges.
The collecting grounds are as a rule owned by a circle of old men, each of whom clearly defines his boundaries by placing a number of stones upon the ground. A proprietor may give another person the necessary permission to gather leaves on his plot according to certain terms agreed upon. The owner usually takes a share of the leaves, and, in addition, levies other articles in exchange for what the collector has removed.
The plant is known by different names among different tribes; the Arunndta call it “engulba,” the Wongapitcha “peturr,” and the Aluridja either “mingul” or “warrakinna.” Scientifically it goes by the name of Duboisia Hopwoodi.
The leaves and stalks of pitjuri are chewed by both men and women, and in many cases by children also. It cannot be denied, once a person starts chewing pitjuri, he soon develops a craving for it, like a habitual smoker does for tobacco. The usual plan is to partially dry the leaves in the sun, or over warm ashes, on the spot, and subsequently pack them into bundles to take home, with the intention of storing them for future use. But once camp is reached, the future aspect becomes entirely inconsequential, because so long as pitjuri is known to be available, the supplies are drawn upon; the result is that the larder soon becomes depleted.
The men have a way of their own when preparing the pitjuri. Some of the dried leaves are ground between two stones and the powder brushed on to a small piece of bark. Then a few twigs of acacia or eucalypt bark are burned to white ash, which is mixed with the powder, the whole being subsequently worked into a softish mass with saliva. Of the final mixture a quantity is taken and rolled between another dry leaf of the pitjuri, cigar-fashion; and it is ready for mastication. A plug of pitjuri does not always remain the property of one individual, especially when the supplies are running short, but often passes from one mouth to another, until it has done the necessary round. When not in use, the plug is secured behind the owner’s ear, after the style an office clerk carries a pencil.
The natives admit the stimulating benefits they derive from chewing, or, as they say, “eating,” of pitjuri, both when they feel off colour or fagged after a strenuous day’s outing. On the other hand, they look upon pitjuri-chewing in company as a social comforter, which fosters mirthfulness and friendly fellow-feeling. When natives meet, even though they be comparative strangers, an exchange, loan, or presentation of pitjuri takes place, as a token of friendship. In the same spirit, a native considers the gift of a stick of tobacco from a European stranger, who, according to tribal ideas, unlawfully passes over the hereditary boundary, as a mere formal obligation, which expresses the intruder’s peaceable intentions.
The burnt acacia ash, which is added to the powdered leaf of the pitjuri plant, has a somewhat important function to perform; and one marvels at Nature having given the unsophisticated aboriginal the
hint to add it. One of the favourite species, which is burnt for the purpose, is Acacia salicina. A. J. Higgin has determined by analysis that the ash of this plant contains the astounding amount of 51.15 per cent. of calcium sulphate, mixed with a little carbonate of lime. It is the alkali in this ash which liberates an alkaloid, known as piturine, from the crushed pitjuri leaves when the two substances meet in the presence of moisture supplied by the spittle; and this piturine is much the same in its action as nicotine. An alkaloid is nowadays manufactured from the leaves of the Australian plant which is used in medicine as a powerful sedative and hypnotic. It is not difficult, therefore, to understand why an emu, drinking from a water poisoned with the leaf of pitjuri, should become stupefied. Vide page 139.
CHAPTER XVIII NAVIGATION
Floating log Log rafts Paddles Outfit carried on board Bark canoes of different patterns Used in southern and northern Australia “Housing” of canoes “Dug-outs” With or without outriggers Sails.
We have on several occasions alluded to the fact that the natives make use of some kind of craft while hunting and fishing. A few remarks, therefore, upon aboriginal navigation in general may be appropriate at this juncture.
The simplest type of float is no doubt the log of light timber used along the north and north-east coast. The straight trunk of a mangrove is selected, and from it a log is cut, about five or six feet long, which is stripped of its branches. Where a river or an estuary has to be crossed, such a log is slipped into the water and the native lays his body over it, lengthwise, with his legs straddling it. With his head and shoulders well above the surface of the water, the swimmer propels himself along by means of his legs; occasionally he also uses his arms, but then primarily for steadying his body above the log. The natives maintain that this method gives them a certain amount of protection against the attacks of crocodiles, since, when viewed from below, the man and the log together resemble one of the reptiles in form. For the same reason the lower thin end is often left tapering to a point, to simulate the tail of a crocodile.
When two or three, or more, of these light logs of mangrove are lashed together, a simple raft results—a type in frequent use along the eastern shores and rivers of north Australia. The craft is propelled by either a pole or a paddle, the man standing in the former case and sitting in the latter.
The same contrivance is used when a man wishes to cross a river or a bay, and carry his children or belongings across, without
swamping them. In this case, he usually swims alongside the raft and propels it by powerful leg-strokes.
In the north-western corner of the Australian continent (i.e. the King Sound—Glenelg River districts), navigation is undertaken in large rafts. These are constructed as follows: From six to ten poles are cut out of the trunks of a tall, straight-growing mangrove, resembling a pine in shape. The poles are cut into twelve-foot lengths, and are then trimmed longitudinally, so that they taper from about one-quarter their length downwards, like an elongated club; the two ends are pointed off. In their thickest part, the poles measure about six inches in diameter. Two of these pieces are now laid upon a level patch of ground, side by side, with the thick ends all pointing in the same direction, and “nailed” together with stakes of hard wood, at various distances along the entire length of the poles. The remaining poles are linked to the original two in a similar way; and so a strong platform results, in which the poles converge in the direction of the thin ends like the arms of a fan. Another platform is constructed exactly similar to the one just described. The only tools used in the making of these structures are tomahawks and large stone and shell scrapers.
All completed, one of the platforms is dragged down the beach and floated; then the second is taken to the water and lifted so that it rides upon the former with the converging ends reversed. The raft is now ready for use (Plate XXII, 2).
Crudely fashioned paddles are used, about six feet long, and similar to those of the Melville and Bathurst Islanders. The local name for these is “kanbanna.”
One or two natives usually go out with a raft like this, and it is astounding with what skill and celerity the clumsy-looking structure can be handled and paddled along.
The local name for the raft is “kaloa.” The principal use to which it is put is fishing and turtle-hunting; the mainland tribes moreover use such rafts for general ferrying, when they make their periodic visits to the islands included within their tribal possessions.
One or two cushions of grass or reeds are laid upon the platform before leaving, to afford dry seating accommodation; and the hunters never go without taking a fairly solid fire-stick, which is stuck in an upright position between two poles of the raft. A few spears and a long harpoon (about ten feet long), with a barb at the pointed end, are carried, the latter being secured to the raft by means of a good length of rope. A heavy boomerang is also added to the outfit, with which the hunters might kill the spoil when they haul it on deck.
Similar log-rafts are in use on some of the islands in the Gulf of Carpentaria, but one platform only is constructed, and the logs are simply lashed together with vines.
Any observant visitor to the River Murray will not fail even nowadays, when much of the original timber has disappeared, to observe the numerous trees, growing at or near the banks, from which large sheets of bark have been removed years ago by the local natives. The bark was used for making canoes. Sheets were cut from the eucalyptus trees, measuring from twelve to twenty feet in length by from three to four feet in width. These were laid horizontally upon the ground and moulded into shape while hot ashes were applied to them, the edges being propped up all round while the bottom was kept more or less flat. Several stakes were placed crosswise to keep the sides in position, both at the ends and at the centre. One end was usually more pointed than the other and slightly more elevated; this acted as the bow of the canoe. When thoroughly dry, the craft was launched and carried up to six or seven passengers. In addition, a small bed of clay was built upon the bottom, which carried a fire. The canoe was propelled by a man, who stood near the stern and either poled or paddled it along with a long oar.
PLATE XX
Kangaroo hunters, Aluridja tribe.
“It seems almost incredible that a native can approach a grazing kangaroo on a more or less open plain to within spear-throwing distance....”
A number of different types of canoes are in use on the north coast, constructed out of one or more pieces of bark. In the Gulf country, a piece of bark is freshly detached from a tree, folded along its length, and laid upon the ground in a horizontal position. The ends are then heated, to render them pliable, and securely clamped between two upright stakes, and tied closely together above and below the folded sheet. Stakes of a length equal to that of the required width of the craft are next propped from side to side, to give the canoe its shape, and the ends trimmed on either side with a sharp stone-knife or fragment of shell. The bottom corners are
usually bevelled or rounded off. The edges are finally held together by sewing them with strips of cane. Long, thin saplings, stitched along the inner top edges of both sides, act as gunwales and considerably strengthen the structure. One or two ties of lawyer cane are stretched from side to side to prevent the bark from bulging in the centre. When afloat, a native squats low in the canoe near the stern and makes good headway by paddling with a small, oblong piece of bark, first on one side and then on the other.
In some cases, the bark sides are stiffened by poking flexible Ushaped hoops under the saplings which form the gunwales; and in others the sides are kept in position by a number of such hoops, together with stretchers and ties, without any special gunwale at all.
The Melville and Bathurst Islanders use large bark canoes up to nearly twenty feet long, which they construct after the following principle: A single sheet of bark is cut from either the woollybutt (Eucalyptus miniata) or the stringybark (E. tetradonta) by chopping through it circumferentially at two heights from the ground, the distance between which represents the required length of the canoe that is to be. Slitting this piece once vertically for the whole length, it is removed by forcing the edge of a chisel-pointed stake under the bark and levering it off. The outer surface of this piece of bark is rough and becomes the inside of the canoe. Transverse cuts are made about two feet from each end, and half the thickness of the bark removed with a sharp bivalve shell (Cyrena). The ends, which have by this treatment become pliable, are further softened by holding them over a fire. The sheet is folded lengthwise along its middle and clamped at its ends with stakes rammed vertically into the ground. The bottom corner of the fold is bevelled off by one or two sloping cuts, along which the two pieces are sewn together with close, overcast stitches; then the pieces are stitched together horizontally at the top corner, for a distance of three or four inches. Thus secured, an angular or curved piece is cut away from the bark, lying between the two sewn corners, in imitation of a fish-tail, and neatly laced together with strips of the lawyer vine. Holes are previously drilled through the bark with an awl made out of the legbone of a wallaby. The joints are made secure by plastering them
with wild bees’ wax, and the corners are caulked with plastic clay and fibre or resin. Along the top, inner edges of the canoe, on both sides, thin, straight poles are lashed with “run on” stitches. These, however, do not extend the whole length of the canoe, and, being straight, do not enclose the stern and bow of the craft. In other respects the structure is much the same as that in vogue in the Gulf of Carpentaria country.
When not in use, the canoes are “housed” on a level piece of ground under the overhanging branches of a banyan or other shady tree. They are laid in a normal, upright position (not inverted), and are kept so by short pieces of timber, which are propped against the sides. The bark thus dries in the required shape and does not become lopsided. Each canoe has its recognized place. When a dense growth of mangroves skirts the foreshore, a regular approach to the water is kept clear by cutting away the trees as they grow up. The paddles are laid within the canoes.
When the occasion demands it, quite a large number of natives may be carried in a canoe, but usually, when on a simple turtle or dugong hunting expedition, two persons only man the craft. The boatmen, while propelling the canoe, squat with their buttocks resting upon the heels, and with their knees pressed against the vessel’s sides. The weight of the bodies being thus well within, the stability of the canoe is considerably increased.
Although these canoes are mostly used for navigating the various rivers and estuaries of Melville and Bathurst Islands, and especially Apsley Straits, occasionally, when wind and weather are favourable, the natives venture far out to sea, and not infrequently do they make the journey across to the mainland, some forty or fifty miles away, where in former days they carried on a bitter warfare with the Larrekiya and other tribes.
It is at times imperative that a canoe be attached to a hunting or warring party, which is travelling overland and later might want to drift down, or paddle up, a river or inlet to reach its destination. Under such circumstances, six or eight men carry the craft upon their shoulders as they walk alternately left and right of it.
Paddles are made of hard wood, having a single, well-shaped blade and a rounded handle. The edges of the blade are parallel, or taper slightly towards the end, which is either square or rounded. They are from three to five feet in length. When rowing, the natives clasp the handle with both hands and dip the blade on one side or the other, just as the steering requires it.
Certain north-eastern tribes of Queensland used to make their canoes of two or three sheets of bark. In the first instance the sheets would be stitched along the keel, and in the second a lenticular or oval piece was inserted, which acted as a flat bottom.
Dug-outs are found all along the north coast, but it is very probable that they are of foreign origin, presumably Melanesian or Polynesian. A suitable tree having been felled, its ends are shaped and the inside chopped, gouged, and burned out, so that only the outer walls remain. Some very big boats of this description were seen in use among the Larrekiya, and their seaworthiness was proved time after time.
Some of the Queensland tribes attach one or two outriggers to their canoes, which, of course, give them additional safety when by chance they might be overtaken by a rough or choppy sea.
The Groote Islanders in the Gulf of Carpentaria carry a mast in the centre of their dug-outs, to which they lash two long horizontal bamboo-booms and spread a sail between them. This circumstance is remarkable, since the Groote Islanders are among the least known of the Australian tribes and have come less into contact with Europeans than other tribes who might have learned the use of sails.
PLATE XXI
1 Arunndta girl digging “Yelka ”
“The gins use “wanna” or yam-sticks, which they mostly hold in the fist of one hand ”
2 Arunndta gin cleaning “Yelka” in bark pitchi
“ all that is required to be done is to rub it between the palms of the two hands ”
CHAPTER XIX DUELS
Bragging preferred to fighting Duels frequent among the women Petty provocations The “Kutturu” Men use similar sticks and boomerangs for striking purposes Waddies and clubs described The “Damatba” Wooden swords Duels with reed spears Stone dagger duels Heavy spear duels Chivalrous methods “Bone-pointing” and other methods of suggesting death to an enemy “Pointing” sticks How the “boned” person is affected Counter-charm the only cure The medicine man or “Nangarri” His witchcraft The recovery
Although under ordinary circumstances the aboriginal of Australia is a peaceable, placid individual, who prefers to talk of what he could do to his enemy rather than look for trouble in a hostile camp, yet, being human, there are naturally extenuating circumstances, which might thrust the obligation upon his shoulders to pick up arms and fight for the sake of his individual honour or of his tribe’s safety. In the former case a duel is arranged, in the latter a regular warfare is waged, which might last a day or continue, off and on, for years at a time.
Duels are perhaps more frequently fought among the women than the men, the cause in most cases being trivial. A common disturbance of the peace is brought on by petty theft. One woman might, intentionally or otherwise, appropriate a small article belonging to another. When the article is missed by the owner, an argument ensues, which soon warms up to a strained pitch of excitement. Abusive epitaphs become prolific, which repeatedly embody references to excrement and other filth. Eventually the irate hags can constrain themselves no longer and each produces her fighting stick, known throughout central and northern Australia as “kutturu.” Walking towards each other, and all the time striking the ground in front of them, from left to right, and from right to left, the women continue their vilification. In the Arunndta tongue this is
something after the following style: “Uttnarranduddi, uttnatikkia, atutnia, arrelinjerrai!”
The ground is struck with the heavy sticks immediately in front of the opponent’s feet, so vigorously that dust and dirt fly into the air. It is not long before the foot of one of the gins is struck; and then the fight begins. The gin that was hit immediately lifts her kutturu and aims a blow at the head of the offender. But the latter in all probability will have been prepared to ward off the blow.
The kutturu consists of a heavy “ironwood” stick, on an average about three feet long and of circular section; it is bluntly pointed at each end and usually has a carved decoration upon its surface. The parrying party holds the stick with its pointed ends between her palms, and, by moving or swaying it from side to side in an inclined position, diverts the force of the impact from her head. The duellists take it turn about to strike and parry. The head is the principal mark, but it is not against the rules to aim at the fingers. When the latter are struck, it not infrequently happens that one or two of them are broken.
If the antagonist is too clever at warding off a blow, a gin might occasionally alter her tactics and try to stab the head opposite her with the point of the kutturu. If the attempt proves successful, a very deep gash often results, followed by a prolific flow of blood. The damaged gin wails aloud and drops her kutturu whilst she catches the blood, which is pouring from her wound, in the hollow of her hand and throws it in the other’s face.
The triumphant assailant does not take a mean advantage of her “score,” but replies to the blood-slinging by rushing to the nearest fire, from which she scoops a double handful of hot ashes to throw at the lamenting one. This is by no means the end of the trouble, but really incenses the combatants to more desperate action.
So soon as the wounded gin has overcome the shock, she plucks fresh courage and again takes up the argument with her kutturu. The fight continues until one of the gins receives a blow on the head severe enough to disable her, or until both have kept the strife going to a stage of complete exhaustion.
When a gin has been disabled, and lies more or less in an unconscious condition upon the ground, the victor stands over her, triumphantly swinging her kutturu, whilst her tongue dispels the hatred by talking incessantly without opposition.
During the whole time of this heated altercation, the camp has been generally disorganized. Other women are vociferating wildly, children are screaming, a few score dogs yelping, and the men are sitting around quietly and gloomily, with their eyes turned from the scene of the duel, and only occasionally exchanging a few words in a subdued whisper.
The method the men adopt for settling their disputes among themselves is not unlike that of the women, but more systematic. They place themselves face to face upon a clear piece of ground, with their kutturus in their hands, and about half a chain apart. After the customary abusive preliminaries, the psychological moment arrives, when one man rushes at the other carrying his weapon in both hands behind his back, and, as he runs, preparing for a monstrous blow. When he reaches to within striking distance of his opponent, he pulls up short, and, with the momentum created by his run behind him, deals an awful whack. But the other man has placed himself in the defensive attitude, and, as the weapon falls, he springs forwards and upwards to parry the blow destined to crash upon his skull. The striker now retraces his steps and prepares to receive the onslaught from the opposite side. This procedure of alternate attack and defence continues until one of the men falls or both combatants are thoroughly exhausted. All through the fight, however, there is a wonderful display of power, agility, and chivalry, the figures of both the striker and receiver being conspicuously graceful in their movements (Plate XIII, 2).
Where the boomerang is known it, too, is extensively used, in conjunction with the shield, by duellists to settle minor altercations. The offended party throws one of his missiles into the camp of his rival as a summons to the fight, whereupon the latter immediately responds by throwing another back, and walks out into the open, carrying with him a single boomerang and a shield. Both men now start a war-dance, during which they gradually approach each other,
lifting their legs high in the knees, brandishing their boomerangs in the air, and holding their shields in front of their bodies. After a while, they close in; and the real fight begins. Whenever an uncovered spot presents itself on either man, the opponent, with the quickness of lightning, attempts to strike it with his weapon. The hands in particular are selected as the best marks to quickly put the rival out of action; and this opportunity is never missed when it presents itself to the quick eye of the native.
Waddies and clubs of various forms are used all over Australia, both with and without shields, to decide the rights or wrongs of individual grievances.
There is no hard and fast line of demarcation between a waddy or fighting-stick and a club. The original conception of either is a short stick or truncheon, which is used both for beating and throwing.
The commonest form is a cylindrical rod of hard wood with a smooth or vertically grooved exterior and rounded ends. It is either straight or curved.
The Bathurst Islanders have a type similar to the above, but with a slightly swollen distal end. The stick often carries a sharp spike, which projects from the same end.
The largest fighting-sticks are to be seen in the Forrest River district in the far north-western district of Western Australia, measuring up to four and a half feet in length. The stick tapers from the top towards the handle end, and has a flat face at either extremity. A gripping surface is made by roughly incising the thinner end all round for a distance of four or five inches.
A peculiar combination of implement with weapon was used by the women of the lower River Murray tribes. It consisted of a stick with a blade at one end and a knob at the other, the one moiety serving as a digging stick, the other as a club.
Along the Cooper Creek, a large, stout baton of mulga, with a globate knob at the handle end, was used by the Wongkanguru, Yantowannta, and other tribes.
Some very shapely clubs belonged to the Narrinyerri. They were made of casuarina wood, and had a heavy, inflated head, which was usually pointed off at the top. The handle was moderately thin and had a number of circular grooves cut near its end to prevent the hand from slipping when the wood was wielded. Further west, on the Nullarbor Plains, the thick end was not pointed off, but, on the contrary, was perceptibly flattened. In both types mentioned, the surface was well smoothed and polished, although the clubs of the coastal tribes along the Great Australian Bight were generally longitudinally grooved.
A rather fanciful form of club, reminding one of the medieval spiked clubs, was found in the possession of the fast disappearing Yantowannta tribe at Innamincka. A stick, nearly two feet six inches long, and circular in section, had an enlargement near the head-end, which was deeply grooved vertically and, in the upper portion, circumferentially also, the intersection of the grooves producing a number of pointed prominences.
Used in conjunction with a heavy three-sided shield, the southeastern tribes of South Australia fought most of their duels with a dangerous type of waddy, some two feet or more long, which had an attenuated knob at the handle end and a flat, angular projection at the opposite end; the latter was sharp and pointed. The weapon was known as “lionila,” and, from our point of view, might be classed as a battle axe.
In the Roebuck Bay district, a flat, hard-wood club is found, the sides of which are straight and slightly tapering towards the handle end; the edges being rounded off. One of the flat sides is usually ornamented with an engraved geometrical pattern.
The Larrekiya and Wogait construct a flat throwing weapon, not unlike a small cricket bat in shape, from six to twelve inches long, which they call “damatba.” It has a short handle and very sharp edges, and, being hurled at an enemy edgewise, it flies through the air with a revolving motion. If any part of the native’s naked body is struck with this weapon, a very deep wound is always inflicted, from
