A Distant Harmony
 

By Yinjie Qian

It was raining when I landed in Lijiang, a small town nestled in the Jade Dragon Mountain ranges in Yunnan, south-west China. At once, I smelled the fertile valley and alpine meadows; I felt the snowy mountains looming, as if within my arm’s reach. And yet all was shrouded behind a heavy, mysterious mist. I had hoped to see this unspoiled land of beauty; to explore the fascinating, yet unknown culture of the Naxi (Na-shee) – a people with obvious matriarchal influence. Now with the rain, my plan seemed thwarted.

"Is the rain going to stop soon?" I asked the driver the moment I hopped into the 

taxi. "No one can predict," he said, smiling. "It’s nature’s blessing whether rain or shine."True. But this was not the answer I had expected.

We set off for Lijiang Old Town, a previously-isolated place, now a World Heritage Site, whose main habitants are the Naxi - a small group among China’s 55 minority nationalities, who have lived for centuries with the Bai, Yi, Tibetan, Pumi and Han (Chinese) on the Qinghai-Tibetan plateau 13,000 feet above sea level.

Music was playing, monotonous and ancient. How strange that a taxi driver would like this. I hoped he wouldn’t fall asleep. My eyes moved to the meter on the dashboard. My mother had told me before I left Shanghai: "Make sure drivers turn on the meter." She was worried about me traveling alone to this remote region to which criminals and out-of-favor mandarin officials were banished in ancient times; a place still considered "uncivilized" by most Han people (95 percent of Chinese population).

"My name is ‘He,’" the driver said. "It’s one of the two major surnames among the Naxi."

I noticed that he had a full-moon face, quite tanned, with high cheek bones - a feature rare among the Han. "But you speak very good Chinese."

"Not very well," he said modestly. "We learned it in school."

"Do you speak your own language?"

"Yes. But I can’t write. Our written language is pictographs. Except a handful old men, most people don’t know how to write it now."

"This ‘He’ is not a common name among us Han," I said. "We have a different one."

"I know. In the old days the Naxi had no family names. We went by first names. In the 14^th century the emperor of the Ming Dynasty awarded our tribal chief the name ‘Mu’ for his loyalty. The chief then named all his slaves ‘He’ - the character that writes like a man in a straw hat carrying a basket on his back."

"I like my name," he continued. "It means harmony. We’re peace-loving people. Over the centuries, we’ve lived in harmony with the surrounding tribes, and the Han, despite all the differences. You will find the heavy mix of the Han, Tibetan and other tribal influences in our culture. But, unlike some ethnic groups that have totally acculturated to the Han, we’ve kept our own."

The rain was still falling. Strangely, I felt it wasn’t annoying anymore. We drove through the new town – a new urban sprawl with some awkward-looking concrete buildings, shops and modern hotels. After a few traffic lights, the driver pulled up at a stony square. In front of me stood a huge granite monument on which was inscribed "World Heritage - UNESCO."

"Welcome to Lijiang Old Town," said the driver with a proud smile. "No vehicles are allowed in town. You need to walk to your hotel. It’s not far, about five minutes." He showed me the direction.

"Thank you for giving me such a good orientation."

"You haven’t seen Lijiang yet. The rain is to blame," the driver teased.

"But I’ve met one of its people." I waved good-bye.

In the rain, I rolled my bags through the narrow, winding, cobbled streets. The houses looked ancient, earthen-walled with gray slate roofs, reminiscent of Ming-Dynasty architecture. Tiny bridges connecting each house, some stone-carved, others just a piece of plain board, spanned on the gurgling canals that crisscrossed into the heart of the town. A windmill was spinning cheerfully in the nearby stream lined with weeping willows. The red lanterns were lighted, creating a warm ambiance. I felt an instant attachment to this place. It reminded me of some aging water towns in southeast China, though the wood tracery, bold colored, carved with intricate mythological figures, suggested a strong Naxi influence. There was something else different. What was it? I wasn’t too sure… NYC Manhattan hotel is located in the heart of Manhattan.

My hotel was a wooden, two-story inn with an open-air corridor leading to a courtyard where colorful orchids in earthenware pots were in full bloom. "Ar la la," a Naxi young woman greeted me warmly in her own language, then followed with the Chinese "Ni hao." She wore the traditional outfit: a white apron around her waist and a cape tied to her back. She quickly found my name in the computer and handed me the key.

"I’ll help you with your luggage."

I was about to stop her, she had already picked up the bags and gone ahead of me through the narrow passage. From behind I saw the colorful, embroidered circles sewn onto her cape – seven of them. It is said that they symbolize the stars. To me, they looked like her pretty smiling face.

I left my bags and walked out to find a place to eat. It was quite late, but the town was still busy. Tourists were bargaining for souvenirs; restaurants were full with diners babbling in various tongues; disheveled backpackers roaming through the maze of alleys. I turned into a quiet lane and found a little noodle shop. It was not crowded. I picked a table by the window. The table was at my knees and the stool was even lower. A Naxi woman, plain and down-to-earth looking, emerged from the kitchen smiling, wiping her hands on her soiled black apron; the sheepskin cape on her back was worn. She pointed to the board by the kitchen door where the menu was written and asked kindly what I wanted to eat. Арабские hyip проекты.

After a long day switching flights, I wanted something warm and soft to please my grumbling stomach. I picked Guoqiao mixian (literally "across-the-bridge rice noodles") from a choice of livers and intestines. In a few minutes, the woman came with a bowl of angel-haired rice noodles, a plate with sliced raw meat, another with spinach, chives, bean sprouts and chili peppers. Then she brought me the broth in a big bowl.

"You first put the meat in the hot broth," she explained like a patient mother. "Let it cook for a few seconds, then throw in the noodles and vegetables, and mix them together."

I quickly made myself a noodle soup with red peppers floating on the top. About half-bowl down, my eyes were watery, my nose was running and I had to stick out my tongue repeatedly to get cool air. But it was delicious.

"Why is it called Guoqiao mixian?" I asked when the woman brought me the tea.

"It’s an old story," she said while wiping the table. "Long time ago, a man was studying for the Imperial Examination. Every day his wife walked several miles and crossed a bridge to bring him the noodle soup. She continued doing this until he passed the exam and became a mandarin scholar. Later all Naxi women made the soup for their men. It became popular."

"I’ve learned that Naxi men were much into literature and music," I said. "But they didn’t have much say in the family. A woman had power over her husband. Is the matriarchal tradition still strong?" I was curious, having come from the patriarchal Han society in which women’s role was trivial, subordinate in the past.

"Yes, women are still in charge in the family. We do everything – we run family business, handle money, go to the market, work in the fields and barns; we wash, clean and cook. Naxi men don’t do any of these. You don’t see them in the kitchen or at the market place. They spend most time reading or playing music."

"Don’t you ever complain you do so much?"

"Never." She shook her head. "It’s not good. It destroys the harmony in the family. Would you rather have arguments or music at home? The old way has been around for ages. I find it fine."

I told her I had my father’s calligraphy on the wall at home, which said: "Books and music bring harmony to the home."

She smiled approvingly.

I then asked her about their marriage custom.

"Most Naxi practice monogamy," she said. "But the Mosuo, a sub-tribe of the Naxi, still keep the old tradition. When the axia – a Mosuo word for lovers, are in love, the man comes to the woman’s place every night and leaves at dawn to go home to work for his family. They stay like this as long as they want without having to be legally married. If they split, or the man gets kicked out, the children they have together belong to the woman and are raised by her family. He doesn’t have any financial responsibility for his children. Then both can find a new axia to start another relationship."

I was a bit surprised that this axia system existed. In the traditional Han culture, with its deeply rooted Confucian influence, this would be condemned.

It was late. I thanked the woman and rose to leave. She disappeared into the kitchen, and came out with a brown paper bag, thrusting it into my hands. "It’s ‘baba’ (flat wheat bread)," she said. "For your snack."

In the rain, I held the bag close to me. It felt warm despite the damp chill in the air. The rain fell on the stone-flagged street, on the bridges, and dimpled the surface of the water flowing quietly in the streams. The ancient lanes, dark and bewildering, seemed to hold many stories – happy, nostalgic and mysterious. I felt a sudden unknown force pulling me deep into the labyrinth. The stories began to unfold before me – beautiful, intriguing…

I found myself in the town again next morning. The air was fresh and crisp. The sun was a little pale behind the clouds. Bougainvillea - red, and hot pink, impatient to show their passion - peeked from behind the earthen walls. Lush, green willow trees swayed gently in the morning breeze. The town had come to life. Naxi women with hoes on their shoulders or loaded baskets on their backs marched to the market. Naxi men loitered with bird cages in hand; rosy-cheeked children, in their colorful traditional outfits, skipped on their way to school. I followed the women to the market. If you complained that you saw more tourists than Naxi women in town, then the market was the right place. Here was a world of them. They brought the fresh produce that grew in their yards – beans, soy, nuts, corns, vegetables, fruits. And they bought things they needed for the household. Occasionally, I saw some Yi or Bai women in their colorful dresses, often adorned with heavy metal pieces on their neck and elaborate head wraps. Compared to them, Naxi women in their dark-bluish outfit looked homely and un-embellished. The Mao-style hats on their heads made them even less attractive. Most of them were well-built with broad shoulders and big feet; their skin was dark, roughed by the blazing sun of the plateau. I walked around and watched. I found them a group of happiest breed. They were warm and cheerful. The heavy loads on their backs didn’t seem to add any grudge on their faces. They laughed and joked; they shared their baba for breakfast; they showed each other things they had bought for their husbands and kids. If, by their matriarchal tradition, they had to be the "captain" at home, the market place seemed to be their "playground," a place where they re-found their girlish innocence. From a smiling woman I bought some bananas. They didn’t look as appealing as Chiquita bananas, but they certainly tasted sweeter.

At a Naxi culture museum by the Yuquan Park, I met a young lady who offered to give me a tour. She told me her name was He Wen. "I’m part Naxi, part Han," she said. "Interracial marriage is common here."

We went to the first exhibit room, where a teacher was telling a group of school children about Dongbawen – Naxi’s written language in pictographs. On the wall were charts comparing Dongbawen with ancient Chinese and Egyptian hieroglyphs.

"Teacher, I want to learn Dongbawen," one girl said. "They’re beautiful, like pictures. I know this is the sun, a river, a tree, a hill..."

"I don’t," a boy argued. "It takes forever to write. I want to learn English and computers."

I was amused. I asked Wen if Dongbawen was being taught. She didn’t reply directly. Instead, she showed me some thread-bound books in a glass case. They looked ages old, their pages turned coffee-brownish. "These are Dongba classics, a valuable anthology of Naxi culture and religion," she said. "They’re all hand written in Dongbawen by Naxi shamans. These men are learned; we call them Dongba. They perform rituals and record events and scriptures into the Dongba classics." She then told me she was taking lessons with an old Naxi shaman. "Sadly, not many of these learned men are left. But the classics need to be studied. They’re too precious to be left forgotten."

In the next room I found exhibits on Naxi’s religion - its rituals, festivals - scrolls and pictures of frescos suggesting the strong influence of Daoism, Buddhism and Tibetan Lamaism in the Naxi culture. One introduction panel said that there once had been over 60 temples, lamaseries, even churches in the Lijiang area. I was very honest with Wen and told her that I didn’t know much about the religion, and had always associated it with voodooism. "You’re not the only one," Wen said understandingly. "Compared to Buddhism, Daoism or Lamaism, ours is not a strict religion. It doesn’t teach doctrines. It doesn’t worship a specific god. We don’t have temples. All rituals and festivals are held outdoors in the open field or by the water, where we have direct contact with nature. More appropriately, we’re nature worshippers. We worship heaven, ancestors and every living thing in nature – mountains, rivers, trees and animals. We believe the world is in peace if we keep a harmonious relationship with nature. If we abuse nature, the harmony is broken and disasters will occur."

I remembered what the Naxi driver had said about nature. I felt ashamed of my folks - the "civilized" Han, who had destroyed so much of our ecological environment in the past. I began to understand, and appreciate, the Naxi belief.

We finished the tour and came out to the courtyard, where the ground was paved with beautiful pebble-stones in the shape of a Bagua Diagram. Wen suggested I walk around it, clockwise, three times. "You’ll be blessed."

I took a short cut through the park back to town. The mist had dispersed. A few white clouds, thin as a cicada’s wings, were swirling around the snow-clad Jade Dragon Mountain. Shy like a young maiden, the unconquered peak slowly revealed her beauty – stunning, shimmering under the blue sky, as if the clouds were the veils she had tossed away; the arched marble bridge, the jade hair pin she had left behind. The placid lake, rimmed by emerald green trees, flowed peacefully at the foot of the mountain into numerous rivulets to nurture the town, its people ... It was a paradisiacal land of sheer beauty and harmony! Why were the Naxi so blissful? … I then realized: The Naxi revered nature; in turn, nature delivered its promise - beautiful and bountiful.

That evening I went to a concert of ancient Naxi music. The hall, remodeled from a courtyard inside a simple-looking house, festively decorated, was full of tourists, Chinese and foreign. I took my seat, actually a long bench with a dozen of us sitting in one row, elbowed against each other. Shortly, the musicians walked on stage, unhurriedly, with their ancient instruments. Most were old men, bald, or with inch-long white goatees, in their long robes topped with shiny satin vests. I thought of sages from ancient times.

Then Xuan Ke, the spectacled host, appeared. He told the audience, in both Chinese and English, that he was a musician. He had been put in jail for 20 years, but his love for music was never diminished. In 1981, after he was released, he got these people together in a single hope to revive the ancient music from the Han and Tang Dynasties that had disappeared in most parts of China due to wars and upheavals.

"I feel an immediate urgency," Mr. Xuan said. "I’m almost 70 and the oldest one here is 89. Every year we lose about two people." He pointed to the beam above the stage, with pictures of those who had died. "If we don’t do anything, the music that only the Naxi have been able to keep for hundreds of years will die with us." His voice was low.

"Over the years, we grew and added new blood," he continued with an upbeat. "People from all over the world have come to hear our music. We’ve also performed in some European countries. I remain hopeful that our ancient music, our legacy, will be preserved and understood without national and cultural boundaries."

With the applause from the audience, the orchestra started to play. Slowly the melody flowed, sacred and peaceful. It filled the heart, it touched the soul, it infiltrated every inch of one’s existence. I closed my eyes. I felt as if I had been carried away to a place of serenity and peace, a land where nature and man existed in perfect unity, a world free from woes and chaos, a realm in which you felt so close to the Divine.

The audience was captivated, immersed in the immeasurable richness of the music. Then a cell phone rang – the most disturbing noise of the modern era! The guy started to talk, oblivious to the looks around him. Mr. Xuan stood up, his face red with anger. "Please turn off your cell phone or leave. No dissonant chords are allowed here." We all applauded. The music resumed - again, celestial and harmonious.

The concert ended. I walked out. A few stars sparkled in the deep night sky. The air was invigorating. The music was still lingering, inspiring. I thought about the beautiful people I had met, the simple, industrious Naxi women, their smiles, their belief; the fascinating culture, the snow mountain and the lake… I walked around, thinking the question that had been on my mind for days: What made this town unique?

Suddenly, I found the clue: There was no wall! The Han built the wall around the country, in each town, to fence us in. The Naxi didn’t. With their open heart to embrace nature, to accept differences, the Naxi were able to create a culture so colorful, so rich, so prismatic.

On the stream nearby floated some flickering candles in the lotus-shaped little boats. A Naxi said it was their ritual to pray for blessings on their town and people. I lit one candle and made a little wish… 

March 31 2001 in Boca Raton, Florida

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