Lijiang

When I arrived in Lijiang old town at 7am, after disembarking the sleeper bus from Kunming, it felt like stepping into another era. Doors and windows were still shut against the chill that dawn hadn't yet quite erased. The large grey paving stones wending between carved doors and tiled roofs. Being early, and Sunday, few people were out, so the sound of the water, coursing surprisingly quickly through the maze of canals echoed off the stone, and guided me to the market square. I had heard such mixed things about this place. Infinitely charming , and overly touristed, by turns. I found it to be both.

My guidebook being 10 years out of date, I failed to locate any of the recommended lodgings, so began knocking on doors. Many of the guesthouses are converted Naxi (local ethnic group) homes, rooms on two or three levels opening onto a central courtyard, very charming. I found a quiet one with a simple room on the hill above the market square. My flat berth on the sleeper bus not having prooved as sleep inviting as it looked, a nap was in order. First, though, a load of laundry, as my bad had apparently lain in some pool of vilenss in the luggage compartment, soaking nearly all of my clothes with a foul stench.

Reemerging a few hours later, and in search of lunch, I found the town a changed place. No longer a peaceful have for contemplative wanderings, the city was flooded with people, color, and sound. All of the boards removed, shops and cafes repeated unceasingly. Traditionally clad Naxi hawkers carried wares attempting to entice teh camera welding throngs. Another era no more, it now reminded me more of Busche Gardens - still pretty and quaint, but having no life or soul other than the goal of selling food and souvenirs to visitors.

Seeking escape, I began to climb. From above, Lijiang looks flat, belaying the sense from the ground, where all seems to be sloping walks and climbing stairs, confirmed by the ever present music of rushing and falling water. Lion Hill guards the town from the west, and the difference between its height and teh small swells of the city render the town two dimensional when viewed from its crest; a flatness further emphasized by the towering mountains on the horizon, led majestically by cloud enshrouded, snow capped, Jade Snow Dragon Mountain. Its faces will watch over my journey north through Yunnan, and along the Tiger Leaping Gorge as well. Perched on Lion Hill is a wooden tower, the climbing of which affords a 360 degree view of old and new Lijiang and the surrounding mountains. At the base of the towers is a small temple, where I received a blessing from a monk; an auspicious way to begin my holiday.

That evening I went to hear the Naxi Orchestra play traditional Chinese, Naxi, and Bai music. As the musicians shuffled in, over a millennium in age between them, one is flooded with a sense of the fragility of this music - literally dying with its last aged performers. Five of the group are over age 80; the eldest is 87. The music was beautiful, dissonant, haunting, and energetic by turns. The pieces that most stuck with me were a bluegrass-esque Bai folk song played on a stringed instrument with uncanny resemblance to (an Asian interpretation of) a banjo, an ethereal solo chant by the eldest orchestra member, and a lament composed by a banished emperor ("the water flows on, flowers fall, and spring has gone...").

**********

Was contemplating not venturing out again this morning. So glad I did. Heading south from the market square quickly also took me away from the throngs, and eventually, from the tourist shops as well. This part of town isn't fully renovated, making it a mix of construction sites and crumbling buildings. It looks poorer. But also more peaceful. More women in Naxi dress - not like in the market square, with sequins and satin ruffles, but in the traditional indigo and ivory, that looks handmade, and very worn. Women carrying loads in the baskets on their heads: bricks, vegetables, a child. An old woman pauses to rest on a steep stretch of street. I cannot count the wrinkles on her face. She doesn't smile.

Here it is quiet. The willow trees sigh in the breeze. Women talk together at the wells, each with three pools: first for drinking, then for washing vegetables, and the third for washing clothes. This is not life for show, it is just life, and I feel like an intruder.

Eventually I wander out of the old city altogether - into a very modern Lijiang. Tourist flock here to celebrate what was - Lijiang is trying hard to create what will be. So often we seek out those untouched pockets, choosing only to view their quaint surface and old ways - ignoring, or unaware of, the undercurrent pulling them forward. We celebrate what they were even while they are striving to change. Not to say that they want to walk away from culture, but from the difficulties, the hardship, that accompany the old ways of life. When we ask them not to change, are we asking them to endure what we are not willing to? The delicate balance - preserving culture in a way that allows forward movement.

***********

Bells are hung all around here, prayers and wishes written on cards hanging below catch the wind, and send up the message with each chime of the bell. A placcard near one such row of bells declares their intent:
Donga Aspiration Windbell
This is a miracle place,
you call the heaven, it answers
you call the earth, it responds.
Make your wish from your heart.