2. CONTENT
2
9
13
The Village of Pure Happiness
Music of the Mountains
The Tujia Around the Bend
18
Home in the Mountains
Editor’s
Note
Dear
readers,
The
four
of
us
would
like
to
thank
you
for
reading
this
magazine.
Special
thanks
go
to
our
hosts
for
allowing
us
to
mooch
off
of
their
hospitality
and
eat
their
food.
China
is
an
amazing
place,
with
room
for
heartwarm
and
wonderful
people.
We
truly
hope
that
you
enjoy
this
little
edition
of
writing
about
the
many
different
depths
that
make
up
China
as
a
country
and
a
home
to
millions
upon
thousands
of
stories
waiting
to
be
told.
We
present
you
the
glorious
glowing
edition
of
our
“Around
the
World
:
China
Edition”.
From
the
Editors,
Naina,
Lai
Lai,
Jamie,
and
Winnie
The Village
of Pure
Happiness
2
3.
I
The Village
of Pure
Happiness
n the last bit of light before sunset, I see the
mountains. The car makes it up to the base of the
mountains, where I find an old woman who looks
to be in her eighties, smoking a cigarette. She looks
up at the car, and when I get out, asks me if I’m the
guest from Beijing. She speaks in Chinese with a
Manchurian accent. I nod, thinking this must be my
prearranged host, Zhao Fanleng. I pay the driver,
and after the bus as driven off, I take a look around.
In front of me, the mountains look more like hills.
There are only several houses cluttered at the
bottom half of the mountain. The mountains are
densely packed with trees. In the other direction,
there’s a flat terrain, with neat rows of crops laid
out on the soil. There are little black dots that look
like farm animals. Most of the Manchu people live
there, where there’s a lot of space for mechanized
farming, and most of their income depended on
their crops such as corn, wheat, and millet. The
Manchurian plain provides these people with the
grassland needed to grow their crops and for their
animals to graze. The sky looks clear, and the air
smells fresh, although tinged with just a little bit of
grey from the few factories in the distance.
However, right in front of me is a peaceful
mountain that seems almost completely untouched
by the modern buildings.
As I look at the clutter of houses on the lower part
of the mountain in front of me, this remote home to
only about 30 people, the cold wind bites at my
skin, and I’m reminded that here, winter drags and
fends off spring for as long as it can. In fact,
temperatures can drop down to even -14 Celsius,
which makes it hard to grow and harvest
Liaoning Province
Northeast (Manchuria)
Northeast of Beijing
crops in the winter, but also keeps pesky
insects and rodents at bay. The Manchu
people had originated from Northeastern
China, and ruled China for almost 300 years,
starting in 1633. After their rule, they were
scattered all across the country, but most of
them moved to the Liaoning province.
In the direction of the flat terrain, there are
many apartment buildings and factories seen
even from here. In front of me though, I see
the little village on the mountain isn’t as
modernized. It’s very small, and consists of
only a few small houses and some roads
winding down from the village like a snake.
It seems much more peaceful than the usual
busy city life in other parts of China. I see
the famous Songhua River flowing through
Liaoning in the distance. Although the
Manchu people could use this river as a
water resource, many canals were built to
bring water to other cities in China, meaning
that the people living in Liaoning don’t have
enough water.
3
4. We make our way up the mountain,
and I’m humiliated as my elder of
almost 60 years climbs faster than me.
As we enter the village, I notice all of
the men and women have very tan
faces like my host, from years of
gathering all sorts of herbs like
Ginseng, mushrooms, and Dang gui.
They don’t have the flat terrain needed
for mechanized farming, so the people
in this village gather herbs for an
income. The forests are suitable for
developing herbs, and herbs can
survive harsher and colder weather,
such as the weather in Liaoning. This
zone also has plenty of rainfall,
especially in the summer, going up to
almost 250 mm in July. This makes it
an ideal place to grow herbs.
All villagers are wearing
casual, worn out clothes. Quite a few
people are wearing traditional Chinese
farm clothes. The men are wearing
loose mid-sleeve shirts with the
traditional Chinese “buttons”, paired
with pants made of rough cloth, thick
jackets made of wool, and worn out
sneakers. The women also wear loose
shirts, although without the buttons.
Instead, they have shirts that you just
pull over your head, with beautiful
patterns embroidered at the edges,
which are paired with ankle-long
skirts, thick jackets, and the same
shoes as the men are wearing. Some
women are also wearing earrings and
all sorts of headgear. Needless to say, I
feel incredibly out of place in my Tshirt and jeans.
Eventually, we reach my host’s house.
It’s about as big as an average
apartment. In front, there are a couple
of chickens pecking at something on
the ground. The house is built with
little grey bricks, with a wooden door,
and windows with wooden patterns
stuck onto it.
In and Out of Liaoning
My host has already hung up two red lanterns, in
anticipation of the New Year. She opens the door and
gestures for me to go in. After I step inside, she comes
in too, and I look around for a while. The traditional
Manchurian house is built in three divisions. The middle
section serves as a kitchen, while the other two wings
serve as a living room and a bedroom. Walking into the
middle wing, I see that the kitchen is a small room with
a stove hiding in a corner, and a brick counter running
along the side of the grey walls, groaning under the
weight of knifes, cutting boards, and cooking utensils.
There are small cupboards above the counter that
contain bags of rice, millet, and stacks of jars containing
pickled food like ham, mutton, lettuce, etc. All sorts of
foods are crammed into jars filled with solutions, or
pickled.
4
5. The people here depend heavily on
preserved/pickled food, because of
their short growing season and
harsh winters. It is one of the most
common things to have in a meal!
Temperatures usually begin to drop
drastically in late September, and
rise again only in May. There is
always very little time to grow all
their needed food, and so, many
people preserve it for the winter.
The bedroom is like a room with
four little hearths, each hearth with
a gigantic, flat top piled with
blankets and pillows. The brick
beds are called “kangs”, and can be
heated in the winter, as there is a
small hole at the bottom of the bed
that resembles a hearth. Although
the newer houses no longer have
this feature in the beds, this house
still does. They can be used as a
bed or table, and are placed on the
north, south, and west walls. The
elderly family members sleep in
the North kang, the younger people
are given the south, and guests and
friends are given the west kang.
There’s a smell of vinegar and
burning wood in the air due to all
the pickled food and the hazel
wood burning up below the kang in
the bedroom.
The living room was also fairly
small, with only three wooden
chairs covered with a white, thick
cloth made with cotton. These
people live where the climate is
colder. They’re also on more
elevated land, so it’s naturally
colder, making it necessary for
there to be places to burn wood and
coal inside. Because of that, there’s
a small stove in the kitchen and
four small hearths in the bedroom.
My host goes to the living room,
sits down and starts embroidering
very beautiful, detailed flowers
into a piece of cloth. This is a
popular hobby among the Manchu
women.
For a while, we sit, munching
in silence, listening to the fire
under our kang crackle and
pop. At the end of the night,
as we get ready for bed, I get
ready to settle in on the west
kang, but instead, she points
for me to sleep on the south
kang. Moved, I smile and get
ready for bed.
I wander about the small house,
just looking around. I wander by
the kitchen, and spot my host
cooking. She turns around and
tells me to wait in the bedroom
for dinner.
Soon, my host walks in with
preserved chicken and cabbage,
along with two eggs she has just
prepared. The eggs come from the
chickens I had seen earlier
outside, and the ham and cabbage
are probably from long ago, being
saved for now. Cabbage is a
common crop that many people
are able to farm in Liaoning, so it
only makes sense that it’s what
she pickles and serves. This is
because cabbage can survive
frost, it grows incredibly fast
compared to many other crops,
and it can be stored for a fairly
long time. Chickens are also
common animals to keep in this
area, as they don’t have all the
grazing space needed for many
other animals. It’s only for special
occasions that they make food
such as eggs, dumplings, etc.
Touched by how she took the
time to prepare so much food, I
pile my plate high with all the
dishes. My host beams, and starts
eating.
In the morning, I wake up,
remembering the day before,
and dread the moment I’ll
have to leave this peaceful
village. Soon, my bags are
packed, and I’m standing at
the base of the mountain with
my host, waiting for the bus to
bring me back to Beijing.
Soon, it arrives. As I help put
my bags into the side of the
bus, the driver asks me how
my trip was, and if the
incredibly long bus ride was
worth it. I crack a smile. “Ten
car rides would have been
worth it,” I say. The last thing
I see from the back of the car
is Zhao Fanleng’s waving
hand, and a smile radiating
pure happiness.
Traditional Manchu
house
5
10. Music of
the
Mountains
Through the unfocused camera lens, the trees
that blanketed the mountains are just a blur of
rosy red and citrus orange. Slowly the image
focuses, revealing a majestic view of the rolling
mountains and overlapping valleys that stand in
front as if to whisper “come here”. A soft sweet
sunlight fills the day, the bus that had just
dropped me off grumbles away around the
corner. I inhale the air and close my eyes
listening to the last growl from the bus, and
then it fades, the last sign of modern
civilization.
I remember a while back I had watched a
program about the “Chaoxian” or better known
as the Korean ethnic group in China. It was said
to be lively place to visit (especially during the
Fall), with singing and dancing. Watching that,
I was convinced it would a perfect scenario to
write a travel article on. Thus, here I am
standing on this dirt path looking up at the vast
mountains and valleys huddled together
sheltering the small village at the bottom of
them. I take my camera and snap another
picture of the ove Lost in my thoughts, I barely
notice the tap on my shoulder. I turn around to
see a woman with a flowing bellowing dress
painted with the colors of spring. She smiles,
the crinkles on her face creasing.
Lost in my thoughts, I barely notice the tap on
my shoulder. I turn around to see a woman with
a flowing bellowing dress painted with the
colors of spring. She smiles, the crinkles on her
face creasing.
She then graciously bows and asks in a broken
English “Are you the traveler?”. I nod and she
gently takes me by the arm, ”Piao” she says, eyes
growing bright. We exchange greetings and then
we were off, off to see the village that lied inbetween the mountains and valleys. A village
supposedly brimming with agriculture and music.
We walk (I stumble) down the path toward the
village under the autumn like sky. I watch as Piao’s
eyes gleam in excitement when she talks about the
children and the swings. Something about the
swings, she seems very excited about. As we walk
on forward the first close sight of the village dawns
upon me. Houses lay comfortably next to each
other, cluttered but not quite cluttered. I can hear
the faint melody of music accompanied with the
laughter of men and women all around echoing the
sides of the valleys.
Once Piao and I were upon the village and I saw
everything come alive. Children dancing, men
talking to each other under the many pear trees that
sprouted in the village, and women hanging the
laundry in front of their beautiful white houses.
Soon enough we walk and reach the residence of
Piao. It is just like the other houses within the
village, warm and welcoming, framed within a
wood structure with walls made of clay colored a
chalk like white. She welcomes me in and guides
me to my room, which is blocked by a sliding door
with squares formed by the wood that lay
overlapping. I walk inside looking at the “bed” that
lay before me. Piao smiles, amused by my puzzled
expression explains that the type of bed her people
uses is called a “Kang”. Apparently there are
hearths underneath these beds (covered by reeds or
sheets) that can be heated up. One hearth charges
the entire house in one Korean household.
As I settle in, Piao decides surprise me with my
very own traditional Korean dress. It is made of a
silky fabric and the sleeves of the top become wider
toward the bottom. The skirt is a beautiful ruby red
that comes billowing down my waist, hiding my
feet. I smile in pure joy, as did Piao as she sees me
with my new traditional outfit. She explains to me,
that white (symbol of serenity and simplicity) is
usually the top of the dress. The skirt part is filled
with bright vibrant colors (spring like). I examine
my dress and see a pattern of blue stripes along my10
sleeves. A ribbon like belt with its own unique
design of blue and red (to match the dress) is
(strangely) wrapped
11. wrapped loosely along the collar
of my dress and drops down
calmly, slightly below my knees.
I smile and embrace Piao.
After giving me my rippling
dress, Piao leads me to her small
cozy kitchen. Along a small
wooden table sat many bowls of
food. Rice and barbeque seems
to be the main course
(customarily served on special
occasions), however the many
tiny plates around were piled
with many delicacies that
included kimchi, pickles, and
sauced soup. Barely anything is
of the greasy variety.
Everything I taste is sweet, sour,
or spicy. Much different from
what I usually eat. Piao smiles at
me and asks, “How is your first
traditional Korean meal?”
“Delicious” I reply and smile.
Piao then gets up and finds a
plate of sticky rice that was set
next to the furnace. “Try one”
she encourages and I do. It is
amazing, my eyes light up and
Piao laughs. “Come,” she
beckons, “I will show you how
to make sticky rice.” We bend
over the stove and she explains
the recipe. First, you must wash
the rice thoroughly and but into
a steamer to cook. Then put the
steamed rice over a flagstone
and pound it with a wooden
hammer. Usually, (like the one I
just ate) you put sugar, giving it
a soft texture. As I learn how to
make my first sticky rice, the
sun is now setting below the
Changbai Mountains.
I fall asleep to the feeling of the
warm hearth from my “Kang”
bed and the soft jingle of music
with the men and women, still
up dancing and singing.
Traditional Korean
Clothing
Photo by Winnie Sun
Waking up, I can already hear
wild music and dancing
happening. Strange. Does this
happen every morning? The beat
of the drums seemingly echoes
the entire village and I now get up
to find Piao. She is waiting for me
at the kitchen. Today would be
the day I tried the special Korean
swing. She leads me to the
outskirts of the village to up on a
hill. There, a swing is tied on a
sturdy branch, this one was
different though. Far to close to
the ground for me to be able to sit
on, instead I see people standing
on what I originally thought was a
seat.
The Korean Swing was used in a
game mostly women participated
in during ceremonies such as the
Dragon Boat Festival. The
swinger swings to the beat of the
music surrounding musician’s
play.
Throughout the community, there
are also times where people hold
and ethnic swing and dance
contest. One who has the greatest
and most clever dances and one
who can swing highest can claim
to be winner of such contest.
Piao eagerly points at it and walks
toward it. She steps on it with
grace and tells me to push her. I
stare at her unsure and afraid to
hurt her, she just smiles and says
to go ahead. I start by a light
push, and then slowly she says
she is able to swing herself. I
watch as she soars through the air,
her grey hair in a messy bun
slowly coming undone, she looks
so happy. As she finishes and
steps off the swing, she smiles
and says she feels young again
and hugs me.
11
13. Roses from a Korean
Garden
13
Photo by Winnie Sun
14. Now she motions me toward the
swing, tells me to hold on tight
and not to fall. I step on, shaking
and unsure, then I feel a push,
suddenly I am flying through the
air able to see the vast mountains
that cover the land. I too feel like
a child again. I smile and as the
swing moves backward I see
Piao’s face full of something that
looked like pride. As I get off I
am dizzy but also quite proud. I
embrace Piao and we both laugh
thinking about our childhood. I
grow sad as I realize that my time
with her would be over soon.
“Come” she motions and gently
grabs my arm “I have just one last
thing to show you”. She leads me
toward another path where the
music now turns louder. I see a
beautiful woman in the center of
the plain preforming a strong and
bold dance, her figure moving
around gracefully. I turn around
to see Piao’s reaction, however
she is gone. I look in surprise to
see her now in the center of the
field with the young woman. Piao
is equally amazing and young
looking whilst doing the graceful
dance. I smile and cheer for her,
she laughs and then runs toward
me. She grabs my arm and pulls
me toward the plain. I find myself
dancing amongst the many
beautiful women (young and old)
through the fields. I had never felt
so at peace in my life.
Through my camera lens, I say
goodbye to the beautiful
mountains and valleys. Then I see
Piao, I wave and smile. She
returns with a bow, much like the
one she had greeted me with. I put
down my camera and run up to
her, one last embrace. Piao then
presents me with the outfit she let
me wear yesterday “It’s your to
keep” she smiles. I laugh and say
thank you. She replies “Thank
you for the company”. I smile and
turn around stepping on to the
bus. One last wave to Piao and the
I was gone. As the bus growled
down the mountain I swear, I
could still hear the laughter and
singing of the “Chaoxianzu”
people, echoing through the
valleys.
14
15. Explore the Magical World of Central China
+
Don’t miss a
chance to ride the
famous BaiLong
Elevator in
Zhangjiajie
BaiLong Elevator travels up the
side of a mountain in the
Wulingyuan area. Don’t Miss It!
+
See the
Famous Three
Gorges Dam
Enjoy a boat
cruise through the
Qutang, Wuxia
and Xiling Gorges
and see the
famous Three
Gorges Dam
+
Buy Homegrown
Tujia Crops
The Tujia people
make a living by
selling their crops.
Buying the crops
grown on the terraced
mountainsides would
help them
Visit the
famous
Xianning
Hot Spring
This natural Hot
Spring has been
used since the
Song Dynasty,
over 1400 years
ago. Pay a visit to
the Spa!
15
16. The Tujia Around the Bend
Tujia “Ancient
Waist loom “
H
uge, limestone karsts towered over of
the calm waters of the Qing River, seeming
to crush anything that came in their
daunting shadows. Jungle green bushes
clung to the sides of brownish beige rock
formations. The cool, midmorning breeze
made the leaves on the bushes swirl, and
fall into the crystal-clear water as my boat
crawled by.
The April air seemed so calm in contrast to
the constant noise of Zhangjiajie, the
touristy town from which I had just come. I
had come to western Hubei province hoping
to learn more about the Tujia minority.
After travelling to Zhangjiajie and finding
that it was a place overrun by tourists, I had
decided to travel north to a more rural
village to get a better feel of traditional life.
I curled around the last bend in the river and
I caught my first site of the village. Before I
could observe it in detail though, the boat
bumped against the rocky shore of the river
and the boatman signaled that this was the
end of my journey. Shouldering my bag, I
clambered out of the boat, and trudged up
the bank and through the pagoda entrance of
the small village that I had arranged to visit.
Sweet potato plants were growing in orderly
rows on either side of the dirt road, and as I
walked by, I wondered how many
backbreaking hours of work must have gone
into planting and nurturing the crops.
As soon as I entered the village, I was
treated to an immense amount of scrutiny
from the locals. I heard chatter about the
“Waiguoren” or the “foreigner”.
Soon, an old lady wearing a black blouse
and skirt with green vine embroidered
patterns walked up to me. “Why are you
here?” she asked in a blunt but not rude
manner.
“I wanted to learn about the Tujia. Is it okay
if I stay here for a day?” I asked. To my
relief, she nodded.
She ushered me into her large, two-story,
stilted wooden house and sat me down in a
cozy kitchen. The houses were called
Diaojiaolou, and the stilted features ensured
that they were well-ventilated and damp
proof in the cool, high altitude air where the
Tujia lived. The furniture in these houses
was made mainly out of pine and cypress. I
recalled seeing some of these trees around
the outskirts of the village.
As I sat down at the kitchen table, she
passed me a bowl of sticky rice. “First you
eat,” she said, “then I will show you
around”.
I assumed by “eat” she meant this bowl of
sticky rice. I might have been a bit off.
Okay, a lot off. Within the next 30 minutes,
a total of nine different dishes were cooked
using a variety of iron, wood and bamboo
tools, and placed onto the table. Nine
dishes. Gaping at the feast set out in front of
me, I asked why there was so much food.
“Eight dishes for a beggar” she said simply,
“and 10 sounds the same as stone, so that
would be disrespectful. Nine is perfect”. I
guess I can see the logic in that.
My host urged me to try one specific corn
dish, a Tujia specialty. Immediately, two
flavors exploded in my mouth. My lips
immediately puckered at the sour taste and I
scrambled to drink a cup of tea to quench
the burning sensation that the spice had left
in my mouth.
16
17. Seeing my reaction, my host laughed. “Too
spicy?” she asked, as she rose to refill the
teapot with boiling water. She went on to
explain to me the process of making the dish.
The corn, which grew and dried very well in
this warm climate, is taken of the cob and
poured into a small stone grinder. If there were
large quantities of corn, it would be put in the
path of a huge stone wheel. The wheel was too
big to be turned by humans, so the water left
over after heavy rainstorms and flooding was
channeled under the wheel and used to grind
the corn into meal. The ground corn would be
left in the sun to sundry and sour. The dish
was made out of this corn directly.
The Tujia people made their own corn oil too,
apparently. The ground corn is put into large
wooden cylinder and wood (which was very
abundant), would be pushed into the other end
of the cylinder to put a lot of pressure on the
corn, causing oil to squeeze out.
I was fascinated by these ingenious methods
for making such a seemingly simple dish.
After the meal, my host showed me around
her beautiful house. Each window was carved
with a unique design featuring flowers and
vines, but the most amazing sight lay on the
other side of the windows. Rice terraces
climbed up and over the mountains in a
shining through the misty midday air, cast its
reflection onto the water that flowed through a
variety of brown-green shades. The sun,
shining through the misty midday air, cast its
reflection onto the water that flowed through
terraces. Many people, young and old, were
working in the fields. The immense,
unintentional beauty of this place amazed me.
in the fields. The immense, unintentional
beauty of this place amazed me.
My host dragged me on. “Come, there is much
more to see”.
As we walked around the house, I heard what
sounded like a young woman wailing from the
upper rooms. “Is she all right?” I asked my
host.
“Yes, yes, she is just preparing for her
wedding”
“By crying?”
“It is traditional here. The brides have to cry
for at least half a month before their wedding
A map of the Yangtze
Valley and where the
Tujia live in it, at
31.2° N South of Beijing
17
18.
brides may not be able to return home for
a long time after their wedding because
of how mountainous it is here. My
granddaughter is getting married in two
days.”
Okay. Crying for a wedding? I was not
expecting that.
A wooden hut for
hanging and
grinding corn
I walked on, anxious to get past the
dreadful, depressing sound of celebration.
My host brought me into a small family
room and we settled down. She picked up
her weaving and I watched as her old, yet
nimble fingers flew across the
embroidery like birds fly through the sky.
“Why are all your patterns of leaves and
flowers?” I asked, intrigued.
“Tu means earth. Jia means family. We
are the Family of the Earth, and we must
pay homage to nature and our love of
life. Our weavings are called Xilankapu”.
She showed me her loom, calling it an
“ancient waist loom”. The beautiful
landscape of Hubei province was
obviously the inspiration for these
patterns. The Xilankapu brocade uses
yarn as warp and silk as weft. The cotton
from cotton trees and silk from silkworm
cocoons is collected and spun into thread
by the Tujia people, who cultivate and
harvest the silkworm cocoons and cotton
trees. The silkworms thrive in humid,
Western Hubei weather conditions and
the long, growing seasons are perfect for
cotton trees. Right then, I fell in love with
the intricate woven designs.
I spent the rest of the afternoon
wandering the village, mostly walking
among crops to stare at their beauty. Out
of the crops growing, I noticed corn, rice,
wheat, potato, sweet potato and tea, all of
which were planted in neat rows and
were thriving in the rainy, mountainous
climate.
That evening, as I was heading back to
the house of my host, I heard singing
from the center of the village. Following
my ears, I soon came upon what looked
Photo by Naina
Kaimal
like a Tujia version of Karaoke in honor of the
upcoming wedding. People were gathered around
a space in the center of the room, where dancers
were dancing and singers were singing. The
atmosphere was lively and fun, but I hung back,
hesitant and somewhat reluctant to join in. I did
not stay unnoticed for long. I was soon dragged
into the circle, where I too started stomping my
feet and clapping my hands to the catchy rhythm
of the music. A young girl taught me a few steps
of the renowned Tujia ‘hand waving dance’, and I
was pushed into the song and dance circle,
introduced as “the foreigner who came to visit”,
and expected to dance along. I did dance along,
hoping that I was not making a fool of myself.
Later, as I was preparing to retire for the night, I
could not help thinking how much I had enjoyed
myself.
The next morning, when I awoke, I realized that
my boat had returned to take me back to a place
where I could catch a flight home. My morning
was a whirl of sad goodbyes and praises of my
dancing, but there is one thing that I remember
with crystal clarity. My host handing me a
Xilankapu weaving. Looking down at it and
seeing dancing people with a border represent the
crops. Knowing that it would always be the
perfect representation of these amazing people.
And climbing onto the boat, watching the Tujia
village till I rounded the bend and they
disappeared from view. My first sight of these
amazing people was also my last. To me, this
culture would always be, “the Tujia around the
bend”.
18
21. Home in the Mountains
O
ut
the
windows
of
the
plane
I
can
see
the
mountains
already,
contours
and
curves
and
dents,
lines
curved
running
steadily
beneath
us,
like
someone
were
kneading
dough,
pressing
their
knuckles
hard
into
the
stuff,
flipping
and
folding
and
rubbing
with
the
base
of
their
palms.
Yunnan
is
a
high
altitude
sort
of
place.
Standing
alone
at
the
bus
stop,
I
nearly
break
my
jaw
trying
to
pop
my
ears.
It’s
mainly
because
Yunnan’s
a
more
mountainous
province
than
most
others,
its
average
elevation
of
1,980
meters.
The
northern
and
western
parts
of
Yunnan,
the
half
LiJiang
occupied,
were
made
of
soaring
mountain
ranges
and
dropping
valleys
at
astounding
altitudes.
Extremely
diverse,
its
rich,
astounding
mountains
house
twenty-‐five
of
China’s
fifty-‐six
ethnic
minority
groups.
But
LiJiang,
this
part
of
Yunnan,
belongs
to
the
Naxi.
Perhaps
it
was
the
nervous
energy
created
during
the
wait,
but
I
kept
folding
and
rubbing
the
paper
in
my
hands
with
my
hostess’s
name.
It
crumbled
to
dust.
She
came
to
me
in
a
blur
of
energetic,
bright
color
and
fabrics.
I
had
no
idea
what
hit
me
until
she
was
shaking
my
hand.
“I’m
sorry!
I’m
so
terribly
late!
You
must
be
freezing,
look
at
you,
you’re
wearing
so
little…”
She
exclaimed.
Actually,
it
was
very
near
the
end
of
Autumn,
and
to
my
surprise
even
in
this
mountainous
region
the
wind
was
mild
and
not
at
all
the
biting
cold
I
expected.
Lin
looked
a
little
older
than
middle
aged,
with
smile
wrinkles
running
deep
and
soft
hands
that
crinkled
and
folded.
Long
dark
hair
striped
with
white
had
been
pinned
up
in
a
neat,
strict
bun.
She
had
a
dark
red
“gown”,
a
wrap
around
top
the
color
of
dark
roses.
Her
sleeves
and
skirt
were
a
deep,
deep
blue,
the
edges
outlined
with
a
cheery
bright
blue.
The
skirt
hung
low
around
tiny
feet.
It
was
warm
enough
for
the
harsh
winds
of
the
mountains
and
efficient
enough
to
do
chores
in.
I
was
later
shown
her
more
formal
clothes,
not
as
smart
or
comfortable
as
these.
The
road
to
the
village
means
a
trip
over
high
grounds,
a
dusty,
beaten-‐down,
winding
path
coiled
around
a
mountain
down
to
the
village.
I
fall
behind
her
and
find
myself
staring
at
Lin’s
back.
For
some
reason
I
hadn't
noticed
the
strange
cloth
on
her
shoulders,
a
deep
blue
fabric
strapped
to
her
back
with
seven
small
white
braids
swinging
from
it.
When
I
squinted
at
it
less
subtly
than
I
thought,
she
explained,
“This
is
sheepskin.
Very
tough
stuff.”
She
reaches
her
hands
behind
her
back
and
touched
the
circles
from
which
the
white
beads
hung,
the
three
closest
to
her
fingers.
They
look
somewhat
like
Dr.
Pepper
bottle
caps,
from
the
red
color
and
the
ring
around
the
edge,
except
in
fabric
and
with
a
lot
more
intricate
decoration.
“I
wear
it
because
when
I
carry
baskets,
they
will
rub
against
my
shoulders.
A
lot
of
us
wear
it,
we
women.”
I
can’t
take
my
eyes
off
the
circles.
What
are
they,
anyway?
She
smiles
proudly
and
speaks
four
words,
a
proverb
I’d
once
heard
somewhere
before.
“Pi
Xing
Dai
Yue,”
(披星戴月,
literally
wearing
stars,
adorned
with
moon)
“These
are
stars.”
She
stops
to
let
me
admire
it
from
behind.
“The
braids
are
cow.”
She
informs
me.
“And
the
belt
I
made
myself.”
The
belt
had
been
preciously
decorated
and
sewn.
I
was
captivated
by
the
patterns,
the
precise
stitches
and
each
perfect
swirl.
I
let
go
of
the
fabric,
reluctantly.
She
smiles
over
a
shoulder,
and
we
move
on.
Baskets,
I
soon
learn,
are
essential
to
the
Naxi.
21
22. Courtyard
Photo by Jamie
Jiang
When
you
live
in
the
mountains,
I
suppose
it’s
not
easy
to
carry
suitcases
around.
I
tug
self-‐
consciously
on
the
strap
of
my
backpack
as
we
enter
the
village
and
women
pass
us
by.
The
baskets
are
of
every
shape
and
size,
every
material,
and
I
soon
find
not
only
for
carrying
material.
Occasionally
a
chubby,
curious
face
would
pop
out
of
one
basket
and
give
me
a
toothless
yawn.
Somehow,
the
little
village
felt
a
little
closer
and
homier.
The
village
is
winding,
like
the
roads
up
on
the
mountains,
and
every
step
brings
new
twists
and
turns
and
tight
alleys.
The
houses’
walls
seem
to
squeeze
in
to
my
sides.
The
road
is
not
smooth,
either,
though
now
it
is
tiled,
with
dark
gray
glaze
and
long
spindly
cracks
in
the
road.
On
the
map,
the
village
is
sandwiched
between
a
river
and
a
long
row
of
mountains,
so
the
Naxi
people
of
this
village
built
it
snuggled
right
up
against
the
feel
of
the
mountains.
That’s
why
none
the
village
rises
and
falls
so
irregularly.
At
first,
the
housing
does
not
look
so
inviting
to
me.
The
outside
walls
are
tall
and
bleach
white,
the
roofs
tiled
with
a
dark,
angry
gray.
I
am
surrounded
-‐
light
gray
to
my
left
and
right
and
really
dark
gray
under
my
feet
and
above
my
head.
We
pass
walls
and
walls
of
gloomy
colors,
and
I’m
just
about
to
come
to
the
conclusion
that
the
Naxi
don’t
have
as
much
color
in
their
architecture
as
they
do
in
their
clothing
when
we
reach
Lin’s
house.
The
entrance
to
her
house
is
a
charming,
miniature
marble
bridge
over
a
tiny,
manmade
canal
that
had
not
yet
dried
up
completely.
Two
marble
lions
gleam
at
the
foot
of
it,
glaring
straight
ahead.
It’s
been
22
elaborately
carved
and
gleams
slightly
under
the
sun.
23.
From
the
outside,
before
we
stepped
over
the
bridge,
the
courtyard
had
seemed
drab
and
bleak,
but
entering
it
was
as
though
everything
had
flipped
from
gray
to
red.
The
interior,
it
turned
out,
is
a
clearing
totally
surrounded
by
the
rooms
and
wall
of
this
house.
Each
and
every
door
is
a
vibrant,
screaming
red
color,
dusted
a
pale
shade
by
morning
sunlight.
The
entrances
sport
contrasting
green
pieces
of
paper
stuck
horizontally
and
vertically,
announcing
the
room
and
its
purpose.
The
structure
is
wooden,
mostly,
a
very
pretty
two-‐
story
building
ringed
and
roofed
with
dark
gray
rows
of
stone
shaped
in
a
cylindrical
sort
of
way.
Pale
yellow
morning
sunlight
trembles
on
the
surfaces
of
pebbles.
In
the
middle
of
the
courtyard
is
a
babbling
radio,
and
three
people
about
Lin’s
age
are
squatting
on
low
stools
around
it.
The
Naxi
are
a
gentle,
extraordinarily
thoughtful
people.
They
have
an
astounding
respect
of
nature,
so
much
as
to
refuse
to
eat
any
animal
that
once
served
their
ancestors,
for
example
a
dog
or
a
cow.
Hunting,
or
emptying
the
mountains
the
Naxi
have
relied
upon
of
animals
has
been
deeply
frowned
upon,
and
another
extraordinary
rule
is
never
to
lay
a
finger
on
your
host’s
dog
when
you
are
visiting.
The
animals
now
swarming
me
look
well
fed
and
I
know
have
been
treated
like
gods.
A
few
ducks
pad
happily
after
me
into
the
yard.
An
extraordinarily
small
pig
wiggles
over
the
step
in
the
door
and
gives
me
a
pleased,
“Hello
underling”
look.
The
most
I
ever
learned
about
botany
was
on
the
dinner
table
of
the
Naxi.
With
Yunnan’s
(typically
this
part
of
Yunnan’s)
mountainous
area,
you
wouldn’t
have
expected
too
much
farming
land.
“Come
in,
come
in”
My
hostess
urged
me,
looking
over
her
shoulder.
The
step
in
the
door
is
so
extraordinarily
tall
that
my
knee
goes
up
somewhere
around
my
waist.
I
nearly
fall
onto
the
other
side.
“We’ve
got
dinner
ready.”
She
chuckled,
and
I
probably
lit
up
like
a
Christmas
tree.
23
24. But
Yunnan
contains
snow-‐capped
mountains
and
tropical
temperatures,
the
reason
it
is
the
most
biologically
diverse
province
in
China.
The
plateaus
of
Yunnan
keep
the
moisture
of
rainy
winds
inside
the
province,
sustaining
the
largest
spectrum
of
plants
in
China.
The
Naxi
have
always
been
more
of
a
water
people,
actually.
They’ve
always
relied
on
Yunnan’s
abundant
river
and
moisture
to
live.
If
you
look
at
it
strategically,
you’ll
find
how
well
place
the
Naxi’s
LiJiang
really
is.
The
Naxi
purposely
squeezed
it
in
between
the
mountains
and
one
of
the
most
important
rivers
of
Yunan
(The
Pearl),
so
that
the
Naxi
will
always
have
enough
to
eat.
bid
her
the
saddest
goodbye,
and
she’s
waving
at
me
all
the
way
to
customs.
Well
then.
It’s
only
until
I
get
on
the
plane
again
that
I
realize
my
ears
have
popped-‐
were
popped
since
long
ago.
I
look
back
out
the
window
and
wish
I
could
still
see
them
waving
at
me,
the
stars
on
their
shoulders,
but
all
I
see
is
tarmac.
And
in
the
distance
the
splash
of
shadowy
green
ink,
a
smooth,
sharp,
outline
that
is
the
Naxi’s
home.
Dinner
is
a
green
affair.
Veggies
lie
half
submerged
in
sauce,
soup,
duck,
other
veggies,
and
I
eat
a
little
bit
of
everything.
There
is
a
delicious
dish
of
buns
called
the
BaBa
(粑粑)
and
pretty
soon
I’ve
got
the
little
fried
bits
of
bun
all
over
myself,
but
I’m
warm
and
full.
Over
dinner
we
have
discussed
everything
there
is
to
know
about
the
Naxi
–
the
Naxi
museum
in
LiJiand
Old
Town
(the
more
touristy
part
of
LiJiang),
their
history,
how
they
mostly
do
business
by
tourism
and
selling
their
stitchery
in
Old
Town,
their
long,
winding
history,
and
happy
stories
of
the
past.
There
is
no
end
to
the
laughter
and
homey
atmosphere
in
the
house.
A
tiny
pig
wiggles
under
my
chair
and
nudges
my
foot.
I
cannot
help
but
wish
this
were
really
my
home,
that
maybe
I
could
stay
here
a
little
longer
than
I
would.
That
night
my
hosts
sing
for
me.
A
string
instrument
is
taken
out,
everyone
gets
into
formation,
and
into
the
dying
light
of
the
sun
they
sing
a
wild,
soaring,
unpredictable
tune.
They
dance
to
it,
too,
swaying
and
jumping
and
holding
hands.
The
music
of
the
Naxi
is
said
to
cleanse
your
heart.
As
I
sit
in
the
dusk,
looking
up
at
them,
smiling,
I
wonder
if
the
fuzzy
feeling
in
my
chest
really
is
my
heart
being
cleansed.
The
next
morning
they
sing
again
for
me,
briefly
though
because
I
must
be
rushed
to
the
plane.
The
women
crowd
at
the
entrance
to
the
village
and
see
me
off,
shouting
and
bidding
me
luck
and
catching
my
hand
to
kiss
it.
Back
around
that
mountain
we
go.
I
hug
Lin
hard
and
24
