The air hummed with the echoes of ancient songs and the scent of woodsmoke. It began in Sanjiang’s Dong villages, specifically in the charming Cheng Yang Eight Zhai. We, a small group of writers, had come seeking stories, hoping to find a spark for our own creations. Cheng Yang felt introspective, a quiet girl reflecting on centuries of tradition.
Then, a shift. We journeyed to Rongshui’s Miao Dream鸣 Village, and the atmosphere exploded with vibrancy. Dream鸣 felt like an extroverted, playful girl, eager to share her tales. Everywhere we looked, beautiful young women greeted us with song and dance, eager to pull us into the heart of their culture. It was overwhelming, exhilarating, and instantly inspiring.
I found myself swept up in the energy. I, usually reserved, raised my hand to participate in a “High Mountain Flowing Water” game – a welcome ritual involving a cascade of wine poured from vessel to vessel, culminating in a shared drink. The sweetness of the wine, the laughter of the villagers, the feeling of connection… it washed away any sense of awkwardness and ignited a creative fire within me.
Later, in Dream鸣, we joined in a bamboo pole dance, a familiar echo of my childhood lessons. The rhythm, the movement, it unlocked a flood of memories and inspired a scene for a story – a young woman rediscovering her heritage through dance.
But it wasn’t just the performances that moved us. The story of the restaurant owners in Dream鸣 was equally poignant – a man who left his home to build a life with the woman he loved. This willingness to start anew, to embrace a different culture, resonated deeply. Then, we discovered a parallel story within our own group: a northeastern man who had become a son-in-law in Liuzhou, following his love. It was a reminder that love transcends boundaries, forging new roots in unexpected places.
The journey wasn’t just about observing; it was about participating, about feeling the pulse of a culture, and allowing those experiences to shape us. It was about finding the small ripples, those seemingly insignificant moments – a shared meal, a welcoming greeting – that could create waves of inspiration, shaping the stories yet to be written. The villages weren’t just places; they were living, breathing narratives, waiting to be told. And we, the writers, were ready to listen, to learn, and to share those stories with the world.
LKW, based on Nanabee’s original prose
