through the looking glass

Langde is a small Miao minority village tucked in the hills along the scenic route from Kaili to Leishan. a rickety bus carried us to the bottom of the hill, and after purchasing a flashlight, batteries, cigs and breakfast crackers we headed up the dark road. 20 minutes later we see one or two lights, our destination. a motorcyclist waiting for his lady directed us to a house designated for visitors, we went and explored, and though the rooms were lovely the idea of the five boisterous children at sunrise made us push on. I’d spotted a warm and welcoming light near the top of the hill, and packs and hour (~10pm) notwithstanding we tried for it, and were greeted warmly at the door by a woman who spoke not a word of mandarin and did not appear to run any sort of an inn. we ended up in a cold but cozy dorm room for 10 kuai for hu, 12 for me. though it irked me, as I make chinese money just like everyone else, I swallowed my complaints. we’d have the whole place to ourselves and a balcony overlooking the town sqaure, even if the bathroom was a hole in the ground down a flight of stairs and across the cobbled street.

we stopped long enough to drop our packs and set out for a walk. a little wandering brought us to a small river; we tried to build a small fire, failed, settled for skipping stones, and played on the see-saw. for the first time since my arrival in china I touched natural flowing water. dancing around my fingertips, it was warm.

I followed the patterned pavers, walked counterclockwise circles around the lone tree in the square. later, the whole town would do the same.

my morning wash and brush in the outdoor sink delighted the few locals in the area. smoke wisped from holes in rooves as we clambored around on the smooth muddy stones, slippery from rain the night before. our sliding also greatly amused the locals, as did out breaking tequnique of sliding into each other. hu procured a long stick and this delighted them even more, but it kept us shiny side up. it was a small, impeccably clean villiage, and the view of the mist encased mountains surrounding lended a tranquil air. women carried crops or water in two buckets balanced on a stick, chopped wood or fed chickens in courtyards; the men were decidedly absent from view. we were drawn into the embroidery shop by a woman who told us of a special performance that afternoon. a group of beijing officials were stopping through (quite literally as it turned out) and they’d paid the 500 kuai price for traditional singing and dancing (which they essentially did not watch, chatting on cell phones or with each other throughout, but I digress).

I didn’t want to stay but hu wanted to photograph it, so I watched from the balcony, a nice out of the way vantage point, reasoning if it was different than I thought I could walk downstairs. it wasn’t. everyone in the villiage appeared to come out, whether to participate or stand around the fringes dressed in their traditional costumes with baskets of needlework or silver hoping for a sale. yet there was no air of celebration, the only smiles on the faces of children amused at the crash of tin when they wrestled and chased each other. the dancing was beautiful but out of context, I had no idea whether one celebrated a new year or the hope for a good crop or was part of a funeral procession. the singing had a decided mountain yodel flair, which I found enjoyable if not something to put on the ipod, yet it too felt heartless. and who can blame her, it’s not like any of the people watching were actually paying the girl any mind.

I’m glad I saw it, I am, but it saddened me. it’s something I’m struggling to come to terms with, on one hand it’s a way for them to make a lot of money, and money will build better schools or send their kids to the cities for college. yet it feels like they’re selling an idea, what we want to see, a departure from reality. for me their reality was on those slippery steps so easily walked under heavy burdens, their dancing a celebration of important events, not a show for bored beurocrats. but those bored bureocrats have the power to give them funding, to help make their town a better place to live. to give them indoor plumbing to match the single lightbulb illumination or the satellite dish if that’s what they want.

we admired the scenery on the way back to the road that we’d missed in the darkness the night before. we didn’t have to wait for a bus, a taxi stood at juncture with the main road waiting to fill, 4 kuai each bought us a trip with a woman and her rice sacks into Leishan. the countryside along this road overflowed with mountains, waterfalls and streams, the drizzle enhancing the green.