Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Frontier Between Civilization and Wilderness (Part One)

At half past three in the afternoon, Kang Ning and his group of twelve finally crossed the remote mountain and descended to its northern foot. Before them, a clear river flowed, and through the chatter around him, Kang Ning learned that this north-to-south river was called the Dog-Beating River. He was still pondering the origin of such a name when Old Mo casually revealed its simple reason—long ago, there was a local custom: if a dog fell into the water, whoever beat it first claimed it as their own.

They followed the riverbank northward, traversing ten kilometers of breathtaking scenery. The winding river was flanked by sheer cliffs, perilously beautiful, their peaks converging overhead like the blades of two sharp knives forming a sliver of sky. Mist enveloped the mountain tops and slopes, clouds swirling and colored by sunlight in dazzling hues, so enchanting that one felt transported to a celestial realm.

Within the gorge, the river featured many tumultuous rapids, but its broad bends were as clear as mirrors, cool and refreshing. Kang Ning mused that this was the perfect season for tourism; a rafting venture here would surely attract many. Even before he finished marveling, cheers and shrieks echoed from upstream. Focusing his gaze, Kang Ning saw that his idea had already been realized: seven inflatable rafts emerged from the rapids into the river bend, each carrying five men and women, all exuberantly celebrating.

The Yao people were proud, so everyone bathed in the river. They washed their clothes and hung them to dry on saplings by the shore, and by the time they dressed again, the garments were nearly dry. Kang Ning had intended to change into his jeans and athletic shirt, swapping his canvas shoes for running shoes, but seeing everyone else, he felt embarrassed to indulge alone. He dropped the idea and, like the others, wore Yao attire.

Though known as Lao Village, the settlement by the Dog-Beating River was not truly a village but a township. More than eighty percent of Lao Township’s population were White Pants Yao. Located less than fifty kilometers from the new tourist hotspot of Libo, the headman of Lao Village was Jin Duan, Old Mo’s in-law. Ten years ago, Old Mo’s eldest daughter married Jin Duan’s eldest son. Old He, too, was sworn brothers with forty-eight-year-old Jin Duan, so their meeting was warm and affectionate.

Kang Ning sat on a finely carved stone slab beneath a stilted house, sipping tea. He glanced two hundred meters away to the parking lot, where dozens of luxury cars and tourist coaches were parked, and groups of brightly dressed men and women strolled about. He felt as if he were in a dream.

The entire village had been extensively renovated for tourism. Rows of new Yao stilt houses nestled amidst greenery along the riverbank; every road was freshly paved with concrete, and the trees flanking them—Chinese junipers and graceful golden bamboo—were clearly recently transplanted from the surrounding mountains. In the three-hundred-meter square plaza, two massive timbers supported a mountain of knives adorned with a dozen colorful flags. Beside the knives stood a brand-new bronze drum, about one and a half meters in diameter, set atop a festive red-painted platform. Several dozen male and female tourists, both local and foreign, inspected the drum and the mountain of knives with great interest, their excitement and curiosity palpable.

Yet all this struck Kang Ning, fresh from the deep mountain forests, as discordant. Compared to an authentic Yao village, what was missing here was not only nature and harmony, but also that inexpressible, unique feeling—the deep, ineffable sentiment. Take the new bronze drum on the platform: its color and shape were all wrong, lacking the aura of history and the dignified solemnity that inspired reverence.

Old He emerged from the stilted house reserved for the headman, approached Kang Ning, and asked, “How is it? Isn’t it beautiful here?”

Kang Ning shook his head. “It is beautiful, but it’s no longer a true Yao village. The houses, the paths, the trees, the mountain of knives, the bronze drum—all lovely, but they have no soul.”

Old He laughed heartily, clapping Kang Ning’s shoulder. “You really are my brother! I’ve looked it over time and again and always felt something was off, but couldn’t pinpoint what. You nailed it in one sentence. It shows your heart is truly connected to our Yao people!”

Old Mo and the headman Jin Duan came out together. Hearing Old He praise Kang Ning, they drew near and asked about it. Old He repeated Kang Ning’s words, and Old Mo, delighted, laughed, “Our own people, indeed! I like what you said, truly!”

Jin Duan, with a helpless expression, explained: five years ago, Lao Township received a fifty-thousand yuan poverty alleviation grant from the Central Ethnic Affairs Commission. He and the township leaders resolved to build roads and promote tourism. But as soon as the road was finished, someone swooped in—a foreign investor, enchanted by the landscape, invested three million yuan to construct this ethnic holiday resort, which was only completed earlier this year. Now, the whole Lao Village had become workers at the resort. While incomes had risen, Jin Duan and the villagers felt it was unreasonable, yet they had no recourse. The younger villagers were gradually influenced by outside trends, and the once peaceful, tranquil ancient Yao settlements in the surrounding area had lost their former serenity.

Perhaps this was the impact of progress. Everyone sighed helplessly, and Jin Duan announced that the banquet was ready, urging everyone inside. Once seated, rounds of toasts ensued, and after a few cups, laughter and cheerful chatter filled the room. Kang Ning was especially intrigued by several types of fish on the table, whose names he couldn’t identify. These river fish, caught from the Dog-Beating River, were exceptionally rare and delicious. Traders waited by the river, willing to pay thirty yuan per pound; in Guiyang, they fetched two hundred eighty yuan per pound, and only those with status could enjoy them.

After the meal, Jin Duan grinned and addressed the group, “Today, several tour groups have arrived and there are many guests. At eight o’clock, we’ll perform the bronze drum dance for the tourists. Let’s go together and see how our young folks dance.”

Everyone agreed, seeing it was nearly time. Kang Ning, reaching the door, noticed the calendar read August fourth. Counting on his fingers, he realized he had been on the run for forty-five days. Reflecting on all that had transpired and his current surroundings, Kang Ning could not help but sigh.

A five-minute walk from the stilted house at the foot of the mountain brought them to the performance plaza. On the north side, over two hundred tourists from various places waited expectantly, watching more than thirty young men and women in White Pants Yao attire prepare for the show.

Jin Duan led Old Mo’s group to sit on two rows of stone benches on the west side. Old Mo pointed at the bronze drum atop the platform and teased, “In-law, you drum every year. Why aren’t you up there tonight? So many guests are watching, and look—there are even a few blond, fair-skinned foreigners. You’d shine up there!”

Jin Duan slapped Old Mo, “Get lost! That piece of junk up there dares call itself a bronze drum? I wouldn’t even use it to store corn! Ever since the resort opened, I’ve never beaten the bronze drum again. They first offered a hundred thousand yuan to buy the drum my ancestors left me. When I refused, they pressured me through the authorities. I told them, if they dare touch my family’s drum, I reckon tens of thousands will beat hundreds of war drums and pour out—just try it! After that, they never dared mention it again.”

Everyone burst out laughing, drawing astonished glances from the tourists.