Soul Mountain (34 page)

Following close behind the prefectural head, I slip into the building past the saluting police on guard and receive the warm reception accorded to the cadres in the group. Young Miao women in full festival attire bring basins of hot water and present each of the guests with a brand new scented hand towel to wash their hands and faces. The women, who all have bright eyes and white teeth, then present us with cups of fragrant new season tea, just as they do to visiting officials on the news. I ask the cadre in charge of reception if they are performers from the prefectural dance troupe brought in for the occasion. He tells me they are exemplary middle school students from the county town with weeks of training by a special group of the county people’s committee. Two of them put on a performance of Miao love songs. The senior officials make some encouraging comments and then everyone is escorted to their seats in the dining hall. Food and drink have been laid out, there is beer and soft drinks, and only napkins are missing. I am casually introduced to the party secretary and to the town head, who both speak some Chinese, and they shake hands with me along with all the others. Everyone praises the culinary skills of the chef sent by the county administration, and as he announces each of the dishes he clasps his hands and bows humbly. Afterwards we wash our hands and faces again and drink more tea. It is two o’clock in the afternoon and the dragon boat races should be starting soon.

The town head and the party secretary lead the way down the stone steps through a narrow lane crowded with people. Some Miao women in multi-pleated skirts who have come from elsewhere are doing finishing touches to their dresses in the shade of the pylon houses. At the sight of this group with a police escort they stop looking in their little mirrors and combing their hair to stare curiously. The group filing past also stares at the several kilos of various kinds of silver headdress, silver necklets and silver bracelets they are wearing and for a while it is hard to tell who is more keenly scrutinizing who.

Chairs and benches have been arranged on a platform on pylons by the river. It is surrounded by civilian police. Once seated, everyone is given a small floral parasol similar to the ones the young Miao women carry, but held by these cadres they are decidedly
not
pretty. The blazing sun is slanting but even with a parasol I sweat profusely, so I go down to join the bustling crowds by the river.

The scent of tobacco, pickles, sweat and the acrid smell from the tables of beef, mutton, pork and fish all waft up in the intense heat. The stalls sell things from department store cloth to little snacks like toffee peanuts, bean-paste jellies and melon seeds, and there is a lively din of bargaining, flirtatious laughter and children weaving in and out of the crowds.

I am easily carried in the tide of people down to the river until I am almost treading in the water and am forced to jump into a small boat tied to the shore. Up ahead is a dragon boat made from a hollowed out tree trunk. To preserve the balance a shaved branch is fitted at the waterline on the side. In the boat, facing the same direction, are thirty rowers, all dressed identically in indigo-blue trousers and jackets with pleats shining from the ox bone fat in the cloth and small hats of intricately woven bamboo. Each of them is also wearing sunglasses and a shiny metal belt. At the middle of the boat is a boy dressed up as a girl. He is wearing silver neck rings and a headdress and from time to time he strikes the club-gong hanging in front of him. At the prow of the boat a large, carved wooden dragon rears its head. It is strewn with little flags and red cloth streamers, and hanging on it are also quacking, honking live ducks and geese.

There is a burst of firecrackers and people bearing sacrificial objects arrive. The captain at the prow beats the drum and gets the rowers to stand up. A middle-aged fellow with a vat of liquor in both hands walks straight into the thigh-deep water without rolling up his trouser legs and presents bowls of liquor to the crew. The men in sunglasses quaff down the liquor as they sing their thanks and with a flourish rinse the dregs in the river.

An old man runs into the water along with some men carrying a live pig. The terrified animal is hanging upside down by the legs and its frantic squealing heightens the drama and excitement. The vat of liquor and the pig are then put into the small boat containing sacrificial objects tailing the dragon boat.

It is almost five o’clock when I return to the viewing platform. The river resounds with drums which start up in one place and subside in another, at times intense and at others slow. The dragon boats are playing with one another and don’t look as if they are about to race, a few boats will bunch together and then suddenly separate. The people on the viewing platform start getting impatient. First they summon the prefectural committee, then they send word to the cadres of the sports committee to say there is advice from above that each participating dragon boat is to be awarded one hundred
yuan
in cash as well as coupons for two hundred catties of grain. Some time later the sun is about to set, the heat has abated, and there is no need for the parasols. However, the dragon boats still haven’t started to assemble and there is no sign of a race starting. At this point word arrives that there will be no race today and people would have to go thirty
li
downstream to another Miao stockade tomorrow. There is immediately a stir on the viewing platform and the decision is made to go back.

The procession of vehicles head to tail on the highway starts to move off. Ten minutes later it has vanished in a cloud of yellow dust and on the road there remain only the crowds of young Miao tourists who continue to flock in. It seems that many of the highlights of the festival take place at night.

When I decided to stay, a cadre who had come in the prefectural car warned that there wouldn’t be a car if I left tomorrow. I said if I couldn’t stop a passing car I’d walk. However, he was very kind and fetched a couple of cadres from the Miao village, entrusting me to their care, and telling them, “If anything happens you’ll be responsible!” The secretary and the town head nodded profusely and said, “You can relax, everything will be fine.”

When I return to the small building of the town administration office, no-one is there and it is locked up. The party secretary and town head I expect will wake up somewhere from a drunken stupor tonight. Afterwards I don’t see anyone wearing a four-pocket cadre jacket and who can speak Chinese and I feel suddenly liberated and freely wander about the stockade.

On the old streets and lanes running along the river, every household is entertaining relatives. Where there are large numbers of guests, tables are laid out onto the street and buckets of rice, bowls and chopsticks are by the door. Lots of people are helping themselves and no-one is keeping watch. I’m hungry and can’t worry about standing on ceremony, and in any case I can’t communicate, so I also help myself to a bowl and chopsticks and end up with people continually urging me to eat. This is probably an ancient Miao tradition and I have seldom enjoyed such freedom.

The love songs start at dusk, at first drifting across from the other side of the river. The bamboo groves on the mountain opposite are bathed in the gold of the lingering rays of the sun while this side of the river is already cloaked in night. Young women in groups of five or six come to the river-bank, some standing in a circle and others holding hands, and begin calling their lovers. Melodious singing rapidly fills the vast night. Young women are everywhere, still with their parasols up and also holding a handkerchief or a fan. There are also some thirteen- or fourteen-year-old girls who are just becoming aware of boys.

In each group, one girl leads the singing and the other girls harmonize. I observe that the lead singer is invariably the prettiest of the group, I suppose choice by beauty is a fairly natural principle.

The voice of the lead singer rises in the air and I can’t help noticing her utter sincerity. The correct word is perhaps not “sing”, for the clear shrill sounds come from deep within so that body and heart respond. The sounds seem to travel from the soles of the feet then shoot up between the eyes and the forehead before they are produced – no wonder they’re called “flying songs”. It is totally instinctive, uncontrived, unrestrained and unembellished, and certainly devoid of what might be called embarrassment. Each woman exerts herself, body and heart, to draw her young man to her.

The young men are even less inhibited and come right up to the women to choose the one they like best, as if they are choosing a piece of fruit. At this point the women move their handkerchiefs and fans, and the more they are examined the more feeling they put into their singing. When a conversation starts, the young man takes the woman’s hand and they walk off together. The marketplace with its stalls thronging with ten thousand heads during the daytime is now a vast singing stadium. I am suddenly surrounded by an expanse of passions and think that the human search for love must originally have been like this. So-called civilization in later ages separated sexual impulse from love and created the concepts of status, wealth, religion, ethics and cultural responsibility. Such is the stupidity of human beings.

Night grows palpably thick, the sound of the drums ceases and the black surface of the river is dotted with the lights of the boats. I suddenly hear someone call out in Chinese, “older brother”, and the voice seems to be right near me. I turn and see four or five girls on the slope all singing to me. One again calls out in a clear voice “older brother”. At this point, I realize this is probably all the Chinese she knows but it would be enough to seek love. I see her expectant eyes in the darkness, unblinking and fixed on me. My heart starts pounding and I seem to return to the long-lost trembling of my passionate youth. I am drawn to her, perhaps affected by the actions of the young men here, perhaps because of the darkness. I see her lips moving slightly although she doesn’t speak again and just waits, and the singing of her companions grows soft. She is still a child, her face hasn’t lost that childish look – the high forehead, upturned nose, small mouth. If I give the slightest sign I know she will come away with me, snuggle up and, all excited, put up her parasol. But this tension is unbearable. I quickly smile, no doubt very awkwardly, resolutely shake my head, then turn and walk away, not daring to look back.

I’ve never encountered this style of love. It’s what I dream about but when it actually happens I can’t cope.

I should confess that the low bridge and upturned nose, high forehead, small mouth and expectant bright eyes of the Miao girl revived painful, tender feelings which had long since become forgotten memories. But I am instantly aware that I can no longer return to those pure passions. I must face the fact that I have become old. It is not just age and various other intangible differences even if she is right here and I can just reach out and take her with me. It amounts to the fact that my heart is old and I can no longer ignore all else and fall in love, body and heart, with a young woman. My relationships with women changed long ago and lost this instinctive youthful love . . .  only lust remains. I’m afraid of shouldering the responsibility of even pursuing momentary happiness. I’m not a wolf but I would like to be a wolf, to return to nature, to go on the prowl. However, I can’t rid myself of this human mind. I am a monster with a human mind and can find no refuge.

Reed pipes sound. On the river-bank by clumps of bushes, lovers embrace under parasols, no longer as couples between heaven and earth but immersed in worlds of their own. But their worlds are remote from me, just like an ancient legend. Sadly, I walk away.

At the reed pipe venue by the highway, a bright kerosene lamp hangs on top of a bamboo pole. Her head is covered with a black cotton scarf and her hair held in a silver ring on top. The silver crown with a dragon and phoenix centre-piece she wears is flanked by five phoenix feathers of beaten silver-leaf which tremble as she moves. The feathers on the left are threaded with a coloured ribbon which hangs to her waist and accentuates her graceful body in dance. Her black gown is drawn in at the waist and the wide sleeves show her silver bracelets. In her black headscarf and black gown only the neck with its pair of big heavy silver rings shows, and over her slightly raised breasts is a spread of delicate longevity chains made of interlocking silver rings.

She knows what she is wearing is more striking than the colourful embroideries of other women and the abundance of silver indicates her high status. Her bare feet are also beautiful and the two silver bracelets on her ankle clink like crystal as she dances to the pipes.

She is from the Black Miao mountain stockade, a beautiful white orchid produced there. Her bright red lips are like the camellias of early spring and her teeth are like small pearls. Her flat childlike nose and round face make her eyes look far apart, always smiling, and the flashing black pupils of her eyes add to her extraordinary radiance.

She doesn’t need to go to the river-bank to seek a lover. The toughest young men of every stockade come to bow to her, shouldering reed pipes twice their height tied with flowing ribbons. They puff out their cheeks, sway, step back and forth stamping their feet to get the women in their multi-pleat skirts swaying with them, but she has only to lightly lift a graceful foot to get all of them bowing, and blowing so hard that they wreck their pipes and develop blood blisters on their lips! It is the vitality she exudes that gives her this arrogance.

She doesn’t understand what it is to be jealous, doesn’t understand the malice of other women, doesn’t understand why they make a potion of centipedes, wasps, venomous snakes, ants and cuttings of their hair mixed in menstrual blood and spittle, put it into an urn with their husband’s shirt and a pair of his trousers cut into shreds, seal it and then bury the urn in a hole three feet in the ground.