Reading Xiangxi (Sangongqiao III)
Chanting Scriptures: Fu, Bi, Xing. I did not obtain from this old man — his face etched with wrinkles yet showing no sign of age — any vivid description of rituals, nor did I see the voluminous scriptures of the cattle sacrifice. He is not a talkative man, nor does he dramatize the mystery of the rituals he has experienced; he merely recounts his experiences with a touch of pride, such as the New Year tune-shifting ceremony, or climbing the blade...
This article has been compiled from historical materials on 'Zhangjiajie Tour Guide Network' (33519.com · Specialty Foods / Cuisine / Customs section). Prices, business hours, administrative divisions, and statistical data mentioned in the text may already be outdated. Before traveling, please refer to the latest announcements from merchants, scenic areas, and local competent authorities; the parts involving folk legends and folk customs are local historical and cultural anecdotes, provided for cultural reference.
Chanting Scriptures with Metaphor and Allusion
I did not obtain from this old man—whose face was etched with wrinkles yet showed no sign of aging—any vivid description of ceremonies, nor did I see the voluminous scriptures of the ox-sacrifice ritual. He was not a talkative person, nor did he embellish the mysteries of the ceremonies he had experienced. He merely spoke of his experiences with a touch of pride—the New Year festival, climbing the knife ladder, the Fourth Month Eighth festival. He was the center and protagonist of all these activities, the soul of the rituals. I had hoped he would use some magical language to narrate the solemnity and mystery of a Miao shaman, but no—he was merely a performer of rituals, not a teller of stories. He had not been influenced by the "Records of Searching for Spirits" or "Jian Deng Cao," nor did he think the protagonist had any obligation to dramatize Xiangxi's mysteries for outsiders. The various scriptures and ritual movements were passed down through his forefathers' words and example, like Peking opera—a glance, a step, a line of song, all transmitted by hand and mouth. He suddenly began to chant, squinting his eyes, about the suffering of the people during the War of Resistance Against Japan. The verses rhymed; I could not remember them all, but he repeated them line by line for me: "Airplanes drop eggs from the sky, ten villages and nine stockades bombed flat. Some lame in foot, some with broken arm, just look at how pitiful. So many fine heroes gone, parents lose their children's bond." Having chanted, he smiled: "Those times were terrible. Life is much better now—meat every day, wine to drink. Just short of money. If we had money, it would be perfect."
He then sang about Wang Jingwei: "Wang Jingwei, that dog is truly a pest, he's a traitorous dog and Han traitor. He boils beans with beanstalks, shameless, such a man is rare in the world." You cannot help but marvel at these rhymed verses—all written by themselves, combining literary grace with insight, grasping the big picture, addressing current events, plain as speech, yet with allusions that can be traced, even using Cao Zhi's "Seven-Step Poem." He said that in the past the family had scroll after scroll of scriptures, but unfortunately they were all destroyed during the Cultural Revolution. Even with his good memory, after several decades only fragments remained. I asked him whether the ox-sacrifice scriptures had likewise vanished into thin air. He said yes, yes, everything was gone. As I was sighing, he rose and went into the inner room, took out several sheets of paper with brush-written characters, and read them to me, saying that he had actually written them himself when he presided over the ceremony at the Jishou New Year festival: "...The disciple will speak and utter words, first and second to explain the cause. History put to paper in a book, to see if it's false or true... Today becoming immortal with the stars, another day in the Jade Pool passing time. Like Han Xiangzi of old, sworn brothers with Lü Dongbin. Riding clouds and mist in the heavens above, reaching out to pluck the sun, moon, and stars... The lower level governs to Jishou, the upper level unified to Beijing. Standing full on the platform in the heavens above, like the sun, moon, and stars in the sky. Ten years rarely meet a golden harvest, ten thousand years rarely meet spring at year's turn. Everyone works hard in production, in August the harvest fills the barns."
I was even more astonished. These scriptures employ both metaphor and allusion, satirizing the past and illuminating the present. Had he not chanted them in his distinctive scriptural recitation tone, one might have thought they were the work of a folk ballad poet. Though they range from heaven to earth in a jumble, seemingly utterly unrelated, they still reveal the experience and wisdom of this old man who just the day before had spent half a day barefoot plowing in the chilly spring paddies. Myths and legends and the scenes before his eyes were blended together in a strange way, full of the flavor of folk literature. Though his narration was lifeless, his scriptures had a distinctive charm.
A Ritual Performance Radiant with Splendor
He carefully folded the papers and put them back in the inner room. Coming out, he took another drag on his cigarette and looked up at us: "Let me put on my robes and show you." He meant putting on the shaman's attire to perform for us. I said great, and he stubbed out his cigarette underfoot, took out the bright red ritual robe, walked to the main hall, and put it on. As he gathered his props, he told me: this is the ritual tablet, this is the shaman's knife, this is the ritual hat. My mother offered to help him put the hat on properly, but he refused, saying he had to do this himself. There was also the willow-fringe banner, which he draped over his right shoulder, and finally he picked up the ox horn. In the dim main hall, each added prop added a layer of mystery. When he finally blew the ox horn, the one standing in that low room was no longer the Miao old man who had been leading an ox at the village entrance moments ago, but a shaman radiating an otherworldly aura from head to toe. The ox horn sounded, and he began his ritual performance. The fluttering red robe, the resounding ox horn, and his leaping dance movements gave the narrow, dim main hall an indescribable charm. He seemed to create a world all by himself, transforming this hall piled with pig fodder into a strange place full of meaning. We pressed the shutter many times; he was like a proud king, paying us no heed.
When it finally ended, he was slightly out of breath. My mother praised him, saying that at 83 he could still blow the ox horn so loudly and dance so beautifully. He said with no small pride: "I'm old now. Forty years ago, that was something worth seeing. Then again, sometimes even my apprentice can't blow the ox horn properly—strength alone isn't enough." He took off the ritual robe and returned to his ordinary appearance, once again becoming taciturn. When asked whether his children would carry on his role, he said no—it was fate. His only son had lost a hand in a stone-blasting accident; for a shaman, that meant being crippled.
The Eighth of the Fourth Month
The eighth day of the fourth lunar month is a grand traditional festival of the Miao people—their Ancestor Worship Festival, Heroes' Festival, and Carnival. On this day, people naturally gather at predetermined locations to dance the drum dance, sing antiphonal songs, wave flowered ribbons, climb knife ladders, leap through fire rings... The excitement is extraordinary, with tens of thousands of spectators and a grand and spectacular scene. People sing and dance to their hearts' content until dawn. Each year's Fourth Month Eighth Flower-Dancing Festival is held in a different place; in 2002 it was held in Fenghuang county town.
Miao People Love the "Border Market"
Miao courtship is of the woodcutter-and-herdsman variety. Even ordinary activities like grazing cattle or gathering pig fodder can create opportunities for antiphonal singing and romance. If the singing stirs love in the heart, then over the hilltop, in the dense shade of trees, the two naturally become one.
However, after this initial acquaintance was made, there was yet another way of dating—namely, far from the shade of the hometown's plants and trees, meeting and getting together in the bustling market, called "gan bianbianchang" (going to the edge-edge market). And the purpose of going to the market was, naturally, that the drinker's mind was not on the wine but on mutual affection. After looking at bright ribbons for a while and eating two bowls of steaming hot rice noodles, it was still a world of two people—either in the darkness of a cinema (or possibly a video hall), sensing each other's warmth as they nestled close, or tirelessly seeking out a hilltop or a shady spot at the edge of the market, where in tender whispers they made their vows of eternal love, with heaven as their blanket and earth as their bed, completing their union. After going to the "bianbianchang" just once or twice, the girl would automatically move into the boy's home, and only after giving birth to a child would they hold their belated wedding ceremony alongside the child's full-month banquet. In the village there was once a silly girl who, when her heart first stirred with love, followed her female companions to the market, and somehow ended up meeting a boy and becoming pregnant, and so she foolishly became someone's bride and mother. By the time the man's family discovered that her eyes looked not quite right, the engagement could no longer be broken off (of course, not all families held the full-month banquet together with the wedding feast; more often, the bride was first sent to the groom's family).
As for what exactly the "bianbian" in "bianbianchang" means, the answers I heard were not all the same. One said it was at the edge of the market, where there was an area specially set aside for young men and women to date; another said that since it was a date between a man and a woman, when speaking of the location, one would naturally say "this side" or "that side." Though the explanations differ, there is no disagreement that the "bianbianchang" is a place for dating between men and women at the market.
Going to Market
The locals call it "ganchang" (going to the market). If you go to Xiangxi without going to the market, you can't really say you've been to Xiangxi. At the market, not only are all kinds of agricultural and sideline products dazzling in variety and cheap in price, but if you're attentive, you might even pick up handicrafts with a unique ethnic style. And at the markets in Miao towns, you can see Miao people in their original colors—at a glance, all kinds of ethnic costumes, colorful and gorgeous. Township markets are held almost every day, so don't miss them.
Wanting to Be Butterflies Flying Wing to Wing
I never personally witnessed the grand scene of the "bianbianchang," but there are still some traces in my memory. I had a cousin—the eldest daughter of a paternal uncle of my father's generation, so I suppose she was my cousin—named Huaihua, who lived on a tea mountain slope deep in the mountains. The distance from the tea mountain to Sangongqiao was, first, a walk of about twenty li along a rural road, then an hour's climb up the mountain, over two or three hilltops, and then another twenty minutes or so along muddy field ridges on rainy days, before you could see the village with its curling cooking smoke. For a time, she grew tired of this rural life that required climbing mountains and crossing ridges just to get a little relief from the bustling world, and she also complained about the lonely days when, once it got dark, she could only do a bit of embroidery by the light of a kerosene lamp. So she came to stay with us for a long time. She had a never-tiring passion for going to market. Although the market was held every five days, in fact, if you were willing to travel, there was a market every day—just not in the same place. Shanjiang, La'ershan, Jixin, Qianzhou, Heku—in my memory, she had been to all these places. If it happened to be Jixin or Qianzhou, which were closer to home, and it happened to be a weekend, she would smile and beg me: "Little sister, shall I take you to the market?" I would never refuse. So she would take me, and first we'd bargain for colorful silk threads, buy a few, and then each eat a bowl of rice noodles. But she often let her eyes wander and smiled knowingly at someone in the distance. Following her gaze, all I saw was a sea of people. Then she would disappear from the rice noodle stall for a while, and when she came back her eyes would be sparkling. "Little sister, take my silk threads home and tell the family I won't be home for dinner." Then she would vanish into the sea of people.
The next day, when I saw her again, she would surely be sitting under the eaves, her hands flying back and forth on her weaving loom, on which were the silk threads she had bought the day before, preparing to weave a flowered belt. She would softly hum some lovely ballads, her cheeks flushed, her eyes like water. If I walked over and asked what she was singing, she would stare at me blankly and giggle, then slow down her speech and say softly but clearly: "What I'm singing is: I wish to be the spring wind blowing your clothes, counting how many threads are in your garment's heart; I want to be butterflies flying wing to wing, like a sparrow longing for mulberries..." The tune was indescribably gentle and moving. Not long after I heard her singing, she was about to be married. Before the wedding, she had me climb mountains and cross ridges with her back to the tea mountain, where an old woman, with tears streaming down her face, used a fine cotton thread to pluck her eyebrows into curves by the light of the grass ash in the fire pit. She put on her layer upon layer of wedding clothes, tied the newly woven belt onto her apron covered with silver buttons, held up an oil-paper umbrella, and amid the sound of suona horns, became the new bride of a family at the foot of the mountain.
Going to Market at La'ershan
When I proposed to see what the "bianbianchang" was really like, I was met with some ridicule. An old elementary school classmate said: "Would people let you see their bianbianchang? It only happens after dark." He gave a weird laugh with hidden intentions. But another person from the village told me that young people nowadays have all gone out to work, so who still goes to the bianbianchang? But even if I couldn't see the grand scene of antiphonal singing and dating, just going to the market was quite nice. It happened that the market that day was at La'ershan, a place at the border of Hunan and Guizhou with a strong Miao atmosphere. But we got up late, and by nine o'clock there were almost no vehicles left. Only a Dongfeng truck was parked at the intersection, and the driver was leaning out and shouting: "La'ershan, La'ershan, get on and we'll go." We climbed into the front seat, feeling very lucky. You have to go to the market early; the other vehicles had long gone, and it was our good fortune that not even a tractor was left. Two middle-aged women and an elderly man were already in the front seat. Several sacks were piled at the women's feet, so it seemed they were going to do business. The elderly man handed the driver a cigarette, his eyes frequently glancing toward the truck bed. Only then did I notice that many rolls of plastic film were piled in the back. It seemed this trip was mainly to deliver goods for the old man. In the truck bed there was only one person who looked like a migrant worker, with a carrying pole beside him and bedding, an iron pot, a rice basin, and the like. His hair was disheveled, his clothes untidy, and he was almost completely motionless. The driver was about fifty, with a bitter gourd face. Looking at the one person in the back and the five passengers in the front including us, he muttered: "I'm late today, not many passengers; one trip won't even cover the fuel money." He kept driving around, hoping to pick up a few more. The two middle-aged women who were in a hurry to get to the market to buy and sell shouted: "Driver Gua, if you keep circling, the market will be over. If we leave now, we can still pick up a few people on the road." Driver Gua, with a worried face, made another round, and finally drove off.
The road was a winding mountain road, so narrow that only two vehicles could barely pass each other. In the past, most market vehicles were tractors, and they were often overloaded, so countless numbers of them had plunged into the valleys. The metal wreckage and flesh and blood in the deep valleys were truly chilling to think about. When drivers reached such places, they would naturally concentrate and be especially careful, and the passengers could not help but share the fear. Now, with improvements to the roads and vehicles, accidents are fewer, so we could relax a little and enjoy the scenery.
The World's Largest Stone Bridge
Located in the Wuchao Miao Village in La'ershan, Fenghuang County, also known as the Wuchao River Bridge, it spans across the deep valley of the Wuchao River. To the east of the bridge is the towering Damashan, and to the west is the Camel Mountain piercing the sky. It runs from east to west like a giant dragon soaring, magnificent in momentum. The bridge is built of blue-gray dolomite stone, using a fully open stone ribbed arch structure, with a main arch clear span of 120 meters, the largest in the world.
The Ancestor of the Miao People Is the Divine Dog—Panhu
The mountain peaks in this area differ from those in flat lands; most are stone mountains, standing alone and towering, with the appearance of otherworldly immortal mountains. When the vehicle was within the territory of Machong Village at the foot of the winding mountain road, one could see in the distance two mountains facing each other. One of them, graceful and elegant, is the legendary Xinnyu Cliff. Between the two mountains there is a moon-shaped cave, and below the cave is the location of Panhu Cave, confirmed by research in 1999. In some Miao legends, the ancestor of the Miao people is the divine dog Panhu. Legend has it that Emperor Gaoxin once suffered from border troubles with the Quanrong, and after long battles without victory, he recruited brave men from all under heaven: whoever could obtain the head of General Wu of the Quanrong would be granted a thousand yi of gold, a fief of ten thousand households, and the emperor's daughter in marriage. After the edict was issued, the divine dog Panhu brought back General Wu's head in its mouth, and Emperor Gaoxin had no choice but to marry his daughter to it. However, after taking a wife, Panhu did not enjoy gold and fertile fields, but instead carried his wife on his back and fled into a secluded stone chamber deep in the mountains, where they had six sons and six daughters. After Panhu died, his descendants multiplied among themselves, and they became the Miao tribes later known as the Man Yi in the Wuxi region.
Panhu Cave is deeply hidden among thorns and weeds. Its discoverers, Wu Shanhuan, a researcher of Biancheng literature from Fenghuang, and Fu Yongfa, a historical geography expert from Yunnan, climbed for more than an hour in September 1999, cutting a path with a firewood knife before they could see its true appearance. Inside the cave, stalactites hang down to the ground, like the curtains of an imperial household, and there are stalactites shaped like dogs, deer, and cranes. Mr. Wu even deduced the places where Panhu practiced martial arts, held military strategy meetings, and where Xinnyu wove cloth. What Panhu Cave most stirs is only the sensitive nerves of historians. For ordinary people, unless they specifically bring an adventurous heart, they would never cut through thorns to seek Panhu's stone chamber. Thus that splendid immortal dwelling remains like a legend, far away in the depths of the clouds, something one can only imagine.
A Weathered Passenger
The road continued to wind upward, and gradually signs of human habitation began to appear. When we reached Heku, Driver Gua drove the truck right up to the front of the old man's house. The old man got off and called his son to unload the goods with him. The only passenger in the back of the truck helped by hoisting bundles of plastic film and handing them down. After the goods were unloaded, the old man's son handed him a cigarette. He lit it, nodded at the young man, and sat down again leaning against the truck bed, looking ahead with an indifferent expression. Due to the bumpy ride all the way, his face and hair were covered in dust, but he did not brush it off. All the hardships and difficulties of life seemed to press upon him, and because the burden was too heavy, he seemed to no longer have the strength to wipe away the dust that had settled on him.
This silent and resolute image lingered in my mind, like a symbol of suffering. He was no longer young, certainly past forty, heading toward fifty. Farming might fill the family's stomachs, but the children needed to go to school and needed clothes, so he had to find some money. He might happen to have a craft, or he might know nothing at all, so his only hope was to go to the city and sell his not-yet-aged physical strength. On the roadsides of Jishou and Qianzhou, I often saw group after group of people selling their physical strength. They squatted by the roadside, blankly waiting for some construction site boss who happened to be short-handed to hire them for a few hours as laborers, mixing mortar and carrying cement. They stood on the road as if they were a very powerful group, the sunlight shining on their dark skin, making it gleam. Yet physical strength is the cheapest commodity in the world, and they did not luckily meet a boss who needed hands every day and find work. As time slowly passed, their strength and dreams were consumed day by day, gradually becoming dim and powerless. In the end, they could only roll up their bedding and return to the place they had set out from, carrying bodies that had been battered lusterless in the city.
The passenger in the truck bed was one of those returning home from the city with his bedding. I thought of how overjoyed his children must have been when they saw him, cheering for their father's return on market day. They would surely pounce on his luggage and rummage through his belongings. After a clatter of pots and bowls, I wondered whether the children would be disappointed. And what would the father pull out from his own body to give his children?
Panhu Cave
Located within Machong Village, Sangongqiao Township, it is the place where, according to Miao legend, the ancestor Panhu and Xinnyu lived. Mr. Wu Shanhuan, an expert on Fenghuang folk culture, verified that the earliest history of marriage alliance between the Central Plains ethnic groups and minority peoples was not "Zhaojun Going Beyond the Frontier" nor "Princess Wencheng Entering Tibet," but the marriage of Princess Gaoxin to Panhu. Panhu Cave is actually an underground karst cave, with interlacing stalactites inside, like curtains, like delicacies, like deer and tigers. Its magnificence and wonder are said to surpass even Qiliang Cave, known as the "Second Cave Under Heaven."
All Kinds of Markets
The market was very large, truly accommodating all sorts and conditions of people. Right at the entrance we saw an old man selling Miao herbal medicine, with a pile of herbs at his feet and a red cloth beside him covered with the names of medicines and the symptoms they treated, claiming to cure all diseases. The origins and efficacy of Miao medicine, like this ethnic group itself, are full of mystery. The Fenghuang Tingzhi once recorded: "The Miao lands produce many medicinal herbs; their names are strange and not recorded in medical books. Whether swallowed or applied, they often bring quick results." At this time few people showed interest. The old man sat there without expectation, not calling out. Probably bored from sitting too long, he began to lower his head and adjust his foot bindings. I watched with interest for a long time and found that his business was truly poor. I wondered how he made a living.
Walking further, we came upon several people selling silver ornaments. Silver ornaments of unique design would not be sold on such an occasion; the several middle-aged women selling silver here were all selling old silver. The Miao people believe in old silver. They say the newly designed silver ornaments made in shops are adulterated and not as genuine as old silver. Among the jewelry being sold were head ornaments, bracelets, neck rings, and such, not many in number, just a few pieces, and all used. Some had already turned black, so a basin of water with foam was placed nearby, and an old woman was washing a set of head ornaments in it. Many onlookers gathered, all women. Whether they bought or not, they would take a look. Women are naturally interested in such decorations.
We wandered around the market for quite a while and even accidentally stumbled into the livestock area. Chickens flew and dogs jumped, cattle and sheep bleated, noisy and smelly, bustling beyond measure.
We also saw people selling rice noodles and wild mountain vegetables. We even deliberately made our way to the edge of the market, hoping to find some trace of the "bianbianchang," but there was none. The young couple who had gotten off the truck with us had long since disappeared without a trace. At the edge of the market there were only a few Miao women selling old clothes, with a big colorful pile spread out in front of them. One of them was very beautiful. We wanted to secretly take a few photos of her, but could never find a good angle. Finally we took one, and when the flash went off, she turned her head and smiled gently at us. But a fierce-looking old woman stood up and made as if to chase us, saying viciously: "You photographed me, I want you to pay." We grabbed the camera and fled in defeat.
I also went to the place selling silk threads and Miao woven goods. The silk thread seller was a Miao woman with a turban wrapped around her head. But no young girls came to buy; only a toothless old woman stood in front of the large red embroidered curtain, staring blankly for a long time, probably stirred by the bright red into memories of the past. I reached out and gently touched the silk threads, thinking of my cousin Huaihua, married far away, sitting under the eaves with lowered brows, weaving flowered belts and softly singing Miao songs. But now young girls all flock to factories along the coast. They are perhaps already unfamiliar with the craft of weaving flowered belts, and only familiar with the process of making shoes.
Everything at the market exuded the breath of life. The woman selling old clothes, the woman selling wild scallions and toon sprouts, the old man selling Miao medicine... everything was so rich, yet so simple. Life can actually be carried on in the simplest way; it is only that we have been alienated by the city, lost in the complicated and luxurious maze we have built for ourselves, so heavily burdened that we cannot breathe, filled with exhaustion.
On the truck back, we were in the front, and the space for four people was packed with seven, but no one was angry, no one complained, and no one blamed anyone for taking up a little more space. They happily chatted about one topic after another along the way, and the cramped space did not affect their thinking at all.
My heart was full of emotion, for the people of my hometown. Although life has reserved only a curled-up place for them, they can still talk and laugh freely.