吴治由《最忆是苗乡》

"The Most Memorable is the Miao Village." This statement is both a prophecy and a lie. But it can be interpreted as the beautiful Miao villages in the countryside always captivating people. Does this reflect a sentiment of loving everything about one's home? Indeed, everyone believes their hometown is the best.

One morning, I pushed open the tightly closed wooden lattice window, which creaked as the newspaper covering it rustled. My gaze flew out, following the undulating eaves of the stilt house, even before my consciousness fully awoke. It was twenty years ago, a morning filled with birdsong and the fragrance of pagoda trees. For the first time, I attentively surveyed the world outside the window. I discovered that the nearby villages, distant wilderness, and cloud-shrouded mountains under the vast sky seemed to have been soaked through by crystal-clear dewdrops and awakened by the gentle wind. Everywhere I looked, the scene was so clear and serene!

At that moment, I also became aware of my heartbeat. In the years since, apart from falling in love, getting married, and having children, I have never felt that way again. It's not for any reason but simply because, at twenty years old, I suddenly realised that I had always loved this world and cherished the people and things around me, even if I had never noticed it before.

Yes, on that morning twenty years ago, besides the stilt house I was in, several others were located on the same terrace at the eastern end of the village. They formed a triangle around the only basketball court, occupying the playground's east, south, and north sides, crowding together to build a village-level primary school and housing my youth. Outside the campus, if not for a large pear tree and several thorny locust trees near the cliff whose lush branches and leaves half-obscured the windows, it would not be difficult to imagine that, regardless of sunny or rainy days, whether in the past or now, I would eventually encounter a stream called "Ganhe" that twists and turns, flowing from west to east and descending from high to low, dividing the massive Jiumen Mountain in half. The stacked stilt houses of Ganhe Village, where the Miao and Shui ethnic groups live, rose from the foot of my dwelling at the sharp turn of the stream, pushing their tiled roofs into the air.

No matter how time flows, for someone who grew up in the Miao village, those memories of the town will always come at unexpected moments. They are like old friends, crossing through time and space, sitting quietly with you while whispering to themselves, and secretly carving that particular mood into eternity.

When I was young, the stilt houses in our village had a timeless, rustic charm. Like the next, each one appeared plucked from a fairy tale, scattered between the earth and the mountains. However, instead of witches from Western stories, the inhabitants were Miao youths like myself. As I opened my sleepy eyes every morning, the windows would be bathed in a soft glow, waking up before me. At that moment, they transformed into portals to the outside world, silently transmitting the familiar scenes of my life.

On rainy days, raindrops falling on the densely packed tiles would be a symphony, whether light or heavy, merging into a rhythmic rustle. Water dripping from the eaves would fall in a line, splashing loudly as it hit the grooves in the mud or the moss-covered veranda stones, scattering like pearls and resonating throughout our world. On sunny days, the chirping of birds, the chorus of dogs and chickens, the mooing of cows, and the neighing of horses, all accompanied by the rustling wind through the trees, would filter through the beams and door cracks. These sounds would swirl in the narrow, dim space, repeating until a touch of red appeared on the eastern hilltop. This signalled the awakening of the paths before and behind the house as people and livestock began their day. By listening closely, you could instantly recognise who was speaking, where they were heading, and whether a cow, horse, or sheep was accompanying them. Whether they were going into the mountains to gather firewood, graze, or work in the fields, the village's daily life unfolded before your ears.

With a joyful heart, one moves from childhood to youth and adulthood. Perhaps this deep connection to my surroundings made me eager to share my hometown with friends whenever they visited.

In the midsummer of 2005, a poet friend from Fujian travelled far to see me. He wished to escape the city, so I took him on my motorcycle to the foot of Guilan Mountain, more than 50 kilometres from Duyun. We sat in a stilt house at night, dining, drinking, and discussing poetry while enjoying the cool mountain breeze. During the day, I guided him through different villages. Although his stay was brief, lasting only two days due to unforeseen circumstances, he later sent me a text message: "Eaten sour soup, drunk rice wine, seen horned towers, photographed terraced fields, traversed mountain roads, herded cattle and sheep, chased the setting sun, entered the mill, learned Miao language, listened to folk songs, travelled with friends, poetry and the distant future, how wonderful it is!" His simple yet beautiful words described his experiences in our Miao village with warmth and sincerity. Touched, I quickly replied with a few lines of my own: "High mountains and flowing water, lush bamboo in Maolan, flying eaves of the stilt house, small stone paths, sour soup and rice wine, vast skies and seas, if you come again someday, the old friends will still be here."

Ten years ago, a long-time female friend from the city visited in late autumn. We ventured out of Guizhou, seeking the tranquillity of the countryside. This time, we went to Bajugupo Miao village, nestled at the foot of the western slope of Longquan Mountain, more than 30 kilometres from Duyun city. The town retained its ancient traditions and character despite brief tourism development in the early 1990s. Beyond the small bridge and the cemented winding road, the densely packed, antique stilt houses followed the mountain contours, stretching up to where the green mountains met the clouds. Walking along the unaltered stone paths, we saw villagers in colourful ethnic costumes conversing in the ancient, melodious Miao language. Farm tools like ploughs and hoes lay casually under the eaves, while corn cobs, peanut pods, and bundles of garlic hung from the railings, untouched by modernity.

The highlight of that trip with my female friend was the beautiful moments we captured and the delicious Miao cuisine we enjoyed at a friend's home. We gathered around a homemade stove burning charcoal, with red sour soup simmering in the pot. On the round wooden table, there were rice fish ready to be cooked, flower rice dried during the April 8th festival, crispy fried dumplings, smoked pork and sausages prepared for the New Year, fresh tofu from the village tofu shop, mushrooms and early winter bamboo shoots picked from the mountains, and green vegetables from the garden.

Years have passed since that meal, but the memory of sharing it with three generations of my friend's family, filled with joy and laughter, remains vivid. Even now, when my then-girlfriend, wife, and I reminisce about it, we are filled with deep sentiment.

This story was featured in the May-June 2023 issue of "Zhonghua Minju" (Chinese Traditional Dwellings), Issue 19.