When I stood at the top of the Mount Laozhai in Xingping of Yangshuo and overlooked the verdant Li River shrouded under mists, I made up my mind that it's time to explore the mysteries of the off-beaten zone toward the southeast Guizhou province.
That was an early daybreak when dawn light shed crimson over semi-wakened land and crenellated hill contour remained murky behind dark green mountains that were closer to me. I was aware that those villages in my dream just hid away beyond the horizon of 100 plus kilometers northwest under the heavy mist of morning. Those villages belong to Dong and Miao people, minorities dwelling over a large part of bordering area among provinces of Guangxi, Guizhou and Hunan, southwest of China. Comparing with god-blessed splendor of Guilin's scenery, I am more enticed by the richness of folk custom of Dong and Miao people and its intact niche far away there.
My planned route would lead me to southeast of Guizhou and apparently it was not at all a trailblazing mission since hordes of backpackers in scarlet charge jackets had rummaged through the region and contributed many vivid travelogues or leads to the travel column of media and websites. I did not take my journey, however, as a simple repeat. I had my own version of Hamlet and it wouldn't become unabridged and full nor vivid enough till I set my foot there and soak myself up in the unique folk culture of Dong and Miao ethnics though it'd be a hasty glimpse only.
Several friends and I had been invited to take the tour to the region by Jiangyong County government of Hunan province. This larger region was then still enjoying the cozy and brisk late spring air in June. Although drizzles dominated the weather for four continuous days over Jiangyong under the Dupang Ridge, we were still very lucky considering that June is usually the rainy season in whole southeast China, and especially so when we left Jiangyong behind and reached Longhu Pass it was totally clear. When we could finally wet our feet at Lijiang riverside in Xingping, we happened to hit the moment of appreciating the splendor of a subsiding sun into the river water. Boosted by the rousing mood, we sweated out climbing to the top of high-standing Mt. Laozhai and swept over a grandeur picture evolved to the horizon from under our feet. More fancy was that I was once again standing at the same place but beholding the daybreak scenery.
What makes me set my mind to explore northbound back again to Guizhou? It was the appealing landscape, the mild weather or just my own good mood? I was not quite sure. However, I had been haunted by an obstinate desire for years so much that some friends helped collecting information and guides to the area for me, which kept urging me to fulfill the errand as soon as possible.
During the March 3rd Festival last year, I had been to Guangxi toiling over sheer mountains of Leye and I happened to stumble into a hamlet named Donglatun which sat in shade of banana and bamboo trees beside Buliu riverlet. Dwelling in the community was Zhuang people who could not tell of the time when their ancestors came to settle down there. For me, too, it was not what I was concerning most; instead, I was very disappointed at the loss and absence of the folk derry that had been sung generation after generation, especially at the March 3rd Festival. Today, villagers could access to modern entertainment with the help of satellite technology: the white-colored dish perched on the hillside was transferring kaleidoscopic TV shows into their woodsheds. Their talent for singing age-old derry was fading away and they might now again be attracted by those beautiful lyrics on TV without an uneasy expression. Sigh.
At the time inexplicably sorrowful reflections snarled me: even after thousands of years of transformations of our planet by the human we can still find many remote and untouched corners where make us enamored of, and, those thoroughly exploited lands may rest and recover in tens or a hundred years; but some cultures that had been in tight symbiosis with a large group of people onetime are now being shredded and seems destined to vanish entirely and irreversibly in the end under the overwhelmingly ruinous sweep of modernizations with no attention or caring from us pitifully. Same story very likely will happen to the folk culture in Qiandongnan (southeast Guizhou). Some parts of their unique culture and mores are said on the way of dissolution. So there was no room for hesitation: I got to quicken my planned excursion soon.
The idea was echoed with bingos among friends of mine. We left Xingping at once and headed for Yangshuo where we checked in a hotel near Yulong bridge and wound up with an itinerary for further journey. On the clear following day a bus took us weaving along mountain roads.
We stopped over Longsheng 80 plus kilometers away from Guilin, a showplace featuring piled up terraces around hill knobs in big scale but the spring drought tampered with the lure of rice fields that should look like a concourse of glistening glass in summertime. So we just skipped over and headed for Sanjiang directly.
Sanjiang is the name of a Dongzu(Dong ethnic) autonomous county, sitting on a meeting location of three small rivers: Xunjiang river, Rongjiang river and Miaojiang river, and Sanjiang is neighboring Congjiang county of Guizhou province.
What had firmly stored in my head about Sanjiang was the Bridge of Wind and Rain at Chengyang, regarded as one of the 4 world-famous bridges. As for Bazhai(meaning eight villages) of Chengyang, I just learnt it when reading travelogues at Yulong riverside yesterday.
After about 3-hour bus ride from Guilin, it was at dusk when we finally found ourselves in the town of Sanjiang. We did not pause a moment but hired a car rushing to Chengyang for 20 kilometers hoping that we could catch the last glow of sunset for photographing that notable bridge. Besides, we preferred to stay over in a local Dong's lodge, better closing to the bridge, to tarry in tedious county town.
Very soon, our romping minivan took us to enjoy great moving pictures composed of verdant hills, clear and emerald brooks, aged banyan trees, Diaojiaolou (a local wood architecture hoisted and supported by a group of wood poles) and walking Dong girls carrying a bamboo pannier on the curb till our van pulled in a hill cove where we saw it, with naked eyes this time – the corridor bridge with 5 pavilions over the span, in a backdrop of greeneries.
We chose to stay in Minzu Hotel near the bridge. The hotel owner had already been in the front of hotel awaiting us. We were arranged with rooms on the second floor of this wood architecture hotel. Without unpacking our packs, we opened a door in the room that led to the veranda where the bridge in backlighting, together with close-by bamboo tufts and green paddy fields were greeting us!
The real bridge was stunning! The pagoda-style wood architecture presented a contour poised in a perfect balance and an unpretentious way in tranquility of a pastoral corner. It reminded me somehow, of a pristine Dong's song swirling in the air. I almost held my breath for a long while as if I would sponge up all aesthetic nutrition from what this particular bridge contained and radiating out before I took a picture of it. It was the first photo I took since we set off the journey.
It was not until I went down on the ground floor of the hotel for a shower when I squinted at two larger board gazeboes extending out and over the farm field and shadowed in wavering bamboo leaves – another perfect location for appreciating the bridge. As if for affirming my point, a foreign couple with three kids were just sitting in chair and staring at the bridge, with two cups of coffee on a small table.
I could not recall why we did not hurry to the bridge. Instead, we sat back and relaxed and enjoyed tea and dinner first. It was under moonshines when we strolled toward the bridge. We comfortably sat on the run-through wood sitting board with low bench along both sides of the bridge and sniffed light pleasant scent of paddy blossom. It seemed everything that from silhouette of Dong's houses and flickering surface of rivulet under sheen of moonlight was melted into a great harmony of tenderness. For a good while I was knocked out into a state of torpidity of where I was.
Author: David Zhang Date: August 07, 2005 |