Artificial reality
I've written about places like Huanglongxi and Lijiang before. They're both sites of very old settlements but populated with buildings barely five or ten years old, recreated in an approximation of the original style. The only difference, of course, is that they've been rebuilt to accommodate modern day supermarkets, banks and public conveniences so their authenticity is dubious to say the least. Some students took me to another "ancient village" near Chengdu called Longquan recently and one of them proudly told me that her brother had actually designed the main street.
Chinese people I speak to don't find anything odd in this. They seem to have a different perspective on history. If a building is in Tang Dynasty style then it's a Tang Dynasty building. When I've pressed students on things like this, asking for instance, when exactly the Tang Dynasty was they haven't a clue. And if any building is from more than about thirty years ago then it's "very old". I don't know if it's something to do with the skewing of history during the Cultural Revolution but "the past" just seems to be a single block of time - sometimes known as "culture" - rather than a long timeline of discrete events.
Six hours' bus ride north west brings you to another "ancient village": Zhongdian. This one is actually still being built. To add to the surreality of it all, the authorities audaciously renamed the town "Shangri-La" claiming it was the inspiration for James Hilton's novel Lost Horizon. (Most foreigners - and locals - seem to find this an absurdity too far and refer to it as Zhongdian still.) Its friendly jumble of Tibetan style buildings houses hostels, 7-11s and more 'outdoors' shops than you can shake a walking pole at, all stuffed to the rafters with fake North Face branded waterproofs, fleeces and jackets.
The dancing in Luoshui had not been free (although I'd not paid having been invited by a couple who knew the guy on the door). Even here though, where I knew the dancers were getting paid, it was kind of amazing to see the pride of young men and girls in their traditions. And it wasn't all fake by a long chalk. Spending three days walking round the lake, I was surprised to find villagers wearing traditional dress or - among the young ones - combining the old skirts and shiny leather boots with the new jeans and trainers.
The villagers were people from the Mosu and Naxi minorities who are coming to terms with the Twenty First century, combining their old pastoral lives with the new and potentially lucrative opportunities offered by tourism. Each village has a handful of guesthouses all decked out with Tibetan prayer flags, the city slickers' shiny 4x4s parked in the courtyard. And, of course, they have some of the most magnificent scenery in the whole of China.
Straddling the border between Sichuan and Yunnan, Lugu Hu is a vast lake set among the mountains at 2690 metres above sea level and covering an area of around 50 square kilometres. Ten hours from Xichang, about nine from Lijiang, it's not easy to get to but, boy, is it worth the effort (even in a truly ancient minibus along roads and tracks blocked every so often by the most recent landslide having tumbled down a virtually sheer mountainside).
This was everything that Chengdu isn't. There were no car horns blaring mindlessly, no squealing brakes and no smog. There were blue skies, there was fresh air. Huge purple butterflies wobbled through the air as though leading the way along the lake shore. You heard bird song. Hell, you even heard the flutter of birds' wings. Every corner brought a new perspective on the lake, a new way of looking at it: now from high above on the unmetalled road, now within earshot of the water slip-slapping the side of trough-like boats hollowed out from tree trunks. I sat alone on a jetty listening to singing as one of these boats crossed the lake. There were four Mosu women, all blue skirts, white sashes and black bonnets, rowing from the other shore and bringing huge bundles of firewood, singing as they paddled, giggling as they brought it all ashore.
It felt good. It felt real.
Chinese people I speak to don't find anything odd in this. They seem to have a different perspective on history. If a building is in Tang Dynasty style then it's a Tang Dynasty building. When I've pressed students on things like this, asking for instance, when exactly the Tang Dynasty was they haven't a clue. And if any building is from more than about thirty years ago then it's "very old". I don't know if it's something to do with the skewing of history during the Cultural Revolution but "the past" just seems to be a single block of time - sometimes known as "culture" - rather than a long timeline of discrete events.Still, I rather like Lijiang (as long as it's not choked with tourists). You don't so much "suspend your disbelief" as ignore it altogether and just enjoy getting lost in its tangle of narrow, cobbled streets criss-crossing streams of fast flowing mountain water.
Six hours' bus ride north west brings you to another "ancient village": Zhongdian. This one is actually still being built. To add to the surreality of it all, the authorities audaciously renamed the town "Shangri-La" claiming it was the inspiration for James Hilton's novel Lost Horizon. (Most foreigners - and locals - seem to find this an absurdity too far and refer to it as Zhongdian still.) Its friendly jumble of Tibetan style buildings houses hostels, 7-11s and more 'outdoors' shops than you can shake a walking pole at, all stuffed to the rafters with fake North Face branded waterproofs, fleeces and jackets.But come seven o'clock in the evening Zhongdian comes into its own. I'd seen traditional folk dancing in the town square in Lijiang and in a kind of open air theatre in Luoshui on the banks of 
Lugu Lake but you couldn't escape from the fact that both of these shows were put on purely for the (mostly Chinese) tourists with the suited and booted dancers going through the motions a bit. In Zhongdian it feels different. The square becomes packed with concentric rings of dancers old and young. One or two are in traditional dress, most come as they are but all know the moves for each tune being played through the loudspeakers. Old ladies lead grandchildren by the hand; middle aged shopkeepers join-in to unwind after a long day of selling all that dodgy gear; and teenage lads seem genuinely proud to be part of the tradition, dancing the intricate (often almost effeminate) steps with a kind of hip hop style and a rapper's glare.
Lugu Lake but you couldn't escape from the fact that both of these shows were put on purely for the (mostly Chinese) tourists with the suited and booted dancers going through the motions a bit. In Zhongdian it feels different. The square becomes packed with concentric rings of dancers old and young. One or two are in traditional dress, most come as they are but all know the moves for each tune being played through the loudspeakers. Old ladies lead grandchildren by the hand; middle aged shopkeepers join-in to unwind after a long day of selling all that dodgy gear; and teenage lads seem genuinely proud to be part of the tradition, dancing the intricate (often almost effeminate) steps with a kind of hip hop style and a rapper's glare.
The dancing in Luoshui had not been free (although I'd not paid having been invited by a couple who knew the guy on the door). Even here though, where I knew the dancers were getting paid, it was kind of amazing to see the pride of young men and girls in their traditions. And it wasn't all fake by a long chalk. Spending three days walking round the lake, I was surprised to find villagers wearing traditional dress or - among the young ones - combining the old skirts and shiny leather boots with the new jeans and trainers.
The villagers were people from the Mosu and Naxi minorities who are coming to terms with the Twenty First century, combining their old pastoral lives with the new and potentially lucrative opportunities offered by tourism. Each village has a handful of guesthouses all decked out with Tibetan prayer flags, the city slickers' shiny 4x4s parked in the courtyard. And, of course, they have some of the most magnificent scenery in the whole of China.
Straddling the border between Sichuan and Yunnan, Lugu Hu is a vast lake set among the mountains at 2690 metres above sea level and covering an area of around 50 square kilometres. Ten hours from Xichang, about nine from Lijiang, it's not easy to get to but, boy, is it worth the effort (even in a truly ancient minibus along roads and tracks blocked every so often by the most recent landslide having tumbled down a virtually sheer mountainside).
This was everything that Chengdu isn't. There were no car horns blaring mindlessly, no squealing brakes and no smog. There were blue skies, there was fresh air. Huge purple butterflies wobbled through the air as though leading the way along the lake shore. You heard bird song. Hell, you even heard the flutter of birds' wings. Every corner brought a new perspective on the lake, a new way of looking at it: now from high above on the unmetalled road, now within earshot of the water slip-slapping the side of trough-like boats hollowed out from tree trunks. I sat alone on a jetty listening to singing as one of these boats crossed the lake. There were four Mosu women, all blue skirts, white sashes and black bonnets, rowing from the other shore and bringing huge bundles of firewood, singing as they paddled, giggling as they brought it all ashore.It felt good. It felt real.
P.S. See more photos at
posted by PatRawle at
5:08 pm
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