Mountain jamboree
Although the previous driver was going on to Danba, I didn’t want to have anything more to do with him. Before long, I found another car heading there, whose driver was the owner of a homestay and he proposed to take us to his house, promising an entertaining night of singing and dancing. Little did we know about what was in store for us.
The imposing valley is scattered with fortified settlements consisting of stone houses huddled together, unlike the ones I saw this morning that looked more like isolated towers topped by a wooden barn structure on three sides, maybe doubling as insulation. It is a fact that every valley has a slightly different building style, that reflects cultural differences and tribe affiliations, surely. As a result, this lower lying region looks completely different from yesterday’s environment, culturally and landscape-wise.
As the car toils up the mountain road to the
There are also some Chinese guests who, just as they arrive, set about yanking down the apple-tree branches to pick fruits under the concerned but helpless gaze of the landlord. At dusk, Alex takes out his guitar and plays soothing songs that well match the atmosphere. But it’s all very short lived.
Out of the blue, we hear the screech of a huge amplifier that’s been pulled in the courtyard and within minutes a gaudy pageant is under way with dreadfully loud music. The household women have had to wear “traditional” costumes for mock heritage dances, whereas the Chinese tourists are sitting all around visibly elated. The tranquillity of this paradise is spoilt altogether. Of course we don’t join in, probably to the great surprise of our landlord who was all set to impress foreign guests with what he believed we were after.
It is as if the flickering stars that we were gaping at only moments ago had come off. The piping voice singing to the guitar with a background of chirping crickets has been completely blotted out by this hideous jamboree.
We are at cross purposes, we can’t understand them, probably as much as they can’t understand us. But hard as I endeavour, I cannot bridge the cultural gap and force myself to take part in their merriment. I stride up and down wishing it would only stop as soon as possible.
The cherry on the cake is that the Chinese tourists, who have come here specially to have this kitschy do, leave early in the morning, but not before chatting loudly in front of our open windows while we were still dozing.
The Chinese mainstream way of sightseeing and amusing themselves is so different from my conception. Groups come up here in cars, take a shot at themselves at the appointed viewpoint, better if it’s in front of a statue or posing pathetically, then rush away. There is no variation, no creativity, no exploring, no effort to meet the locals or their culture.