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As cranes and bulldozers proliferate like ants across China,
depositing cities and highways in their hammering trail, now is the
time to venture inland in search of the more traditional side of
China. In a vast crescent of land, curving from Guilin's moonscape
through the jungles of Xishuangbanna to the Tibetan plateau in the
north west, reside many of China's ethnic minorities. From the Dong
to the Yi to the Bai, each minority, with its own distinct lifestyle,
culture and mythology embodies a unique and refreshing vision of the
world.
North-west of Guilin, Guizhou, a rarely visited, landlocked
province is an anthropoligical treasure trove. Its poor farmland and
geography, discouraging the interest of powerful neighbours, are
home to 13 of China's 60 officially recognised ethnic minorities.
The tawdry provincial capital of Kaili, a five hour train ride east
of Guiyang, provides a good base for explorations of the surrounding
Miao villages.
Courtship, Miao style
On our arrival at Langde, south-west of Kaili, visitors were already
being conducted into the village to participate in its New Year
festival. At each turn in the zig-zagging path that climbed to the
hillside village's stone portal, children and beautifully bedecked
local women were on hand to offer celadon-coloured cups of the local
wine. Their heads held rigid beneath ornate silver head-dresses,
their bodies delicately poised in intricately embroidered,
traditional costumes, they appeared like guardian angels at the
gates of heaven. As I tipped one of the proffered ceramic cups back,
glancing beyond its dark outer rim at the silver-framed, smiling
child before me, I wondered how long this idyllic custom might
continue.
My thoughts were interrupted by the warbling notes of lusheng
pipes emanating from the stilted wooden homes. These hand-held, reed
pipes, used by the Miao minority, have become the generic term for
their courtship festivals. We hurried towards the music's source;
its wavering melody, enlivening the still, damp air, teased us
through the village's labyrinthine, stone-paved pathways. Skirting a
moss-covered pond with a breath-taking view over the river, we
eventually arrived at the main square.
Stepping onto the "Flower Ground", also translated as the
"choosing a lover ground", we were overwhelmed by the
bustling activity before us. This cobble-stone patterned courtyard,
tucked in on three sides by beautiful, tiled houses and overlooking
a low valley on the fourth, was a kaleidoscope of colour and sound.
Dozens of elaborately clad girls and uniformed boys were crowding
around each other. At a resolute, booming signal from a large bronze
drum, the elderly folk, wearing dark robes with embroidered sleeves,
guided their grand-children (ethnic minorities are exempt from the
one child policy) to a nearby stone wall, clearing the square. They
chattered amongst themselves as the boys, once more playing the
lusheng pipes, led the girls through a delicate, shuffling dance of
graceful bows and dainty hops.
Although the mood is gay and the occasion light-hearted, there is
little aimlessness about these courtship activities. Their goal is
to bring together boys and girls of marriageable age for matchmaking.
If a particular boy's looks and dancing make some maiden's heart
palpitate and her knees go wobbly, tradition dictates that she
should place a ribbon around his neck. If the boy is similarly
smitten, he may show his interest by returning the talisman to her
later in the day.
 It
appeared that the greatest risk to any ensuing relationship stemmed
from the macho stunts the boys perform at the end of the festival to
prove their mettle.
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Having walked across hot coals and lain on a bed of nails,
one brave Miao youngster approached the tall pole in the centre of
the square. During the subsequent drum-roll, we noticed that the
rungs punctured into this pole were actually comprised of up-turned,
dagger blades - which the boy now circumspectly ascended. A villager
informed us that the trick to doing this consists in not nudging your
hands or feet sideways as you lay them on the blades. And if you do?
In response, our interlocutor resignedly shrugged his shoulders.
As we were ambling out of this picture-book village, serenaded by
the lilting tune of the pipes, we were loathe to acknowledge the
undeniable influences of the modern world on this age-old festival.
On a superficial level, many of the elaborate head dresses, used to
differentiate women from various villages, were being replaced by a
tacky assembly of bath towels held in check by plastic combs. More
significantly perhaps, we observed a marked absence of young men in
the crowd. A villager confirmed that many had left for the towns in
search of work. The farms were barely surviving, he claimed, only
kept going by the irregular remittances of these migrant workers.
An inter-village bull-fight
The very next day however, we drove by a terraced hill bedecked
with such young men and their bulls. Leaping out of our minibus, we
rushed past food stalls to see what was going on. It was an
inter-village bull-fighting competition. And it was being conducted
in deadly earnestness. While the men huddled excitedly around the
bull-fighting ground, women and children sat disinterested, high on
the hill.
Unlike their Spanish equivalent, these bullfights do not pit man
against beast, but bull against bull. Having been drawn opposite each
other, metal-tipped horn to metal-tipped horn, their oil-rubbed
flanks glistening under the low, flat skies, it is a matter of
seconds before the bulls' heads lower and, with a crack, they
aggressively ram each other. With their horns locked and their
muzzles scraping along the kicked up turf, the bulls embark on a
titanic struggle. Since each bull's character is as varied as its
physique, every fight, incorporating different fighting strategies,
is absorbingly unique - the winner being decided in one of two ways.
Either a team of judges selects a champion or else every so often one
of the bulls flees, often into the nearby crowd, scattering
exhilarated onlookers in all directions.
In the excited tension, articulated on every male face in the
valley, there was no doubting the enduring fascination and enjoyment
of this entertainment.
Ethnic Opera
More surprising perhaps, given the general disinterest of city
dwellers, is the popularity of "dixi" or ground opera at a
Bouyei village we visited. This local strain is derived from Han
opera, brought to the region by soldiers from Nanjing during the Ming
dynasty.
Glamorously dressed singers were surrounded by the whole village,
who sat enraptured for the whole of the five hour performance. In
fact, so enthusiastic was their reception, that the singers were
called upon to repeat favourite arias for different sections of the
crowd. For us, nonaficionados, it was as fun to watch the antics of
the audience and chat with the villagers as it was to listen to the
opera.
Guizhou's relative poverty continues to shield its indigenous
peoples from the encroachment of China's predominantly coastal
consumerism. Those travellers prepared to venture far from Guizhou's
main roads can still be rewarded with cultures who seem to have
escaped the claws of time. As the incipient Chinese tourist industry
gathers momentum however, expect the innocent spirit of these fragile
societies to be compromised by the easy lure of the tourist dollar.
(This article is contributed by Imperial
Tours - Editor. For more interesting travel articles, please
visit InfoHub Specialty Travel Guide)
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