Chuan Di Xia - A Village Standing Firm

The entire village, and life itself, had been created from and within the massive rocks of the area. They exuded an energy of their own. Offering protection and stability. Their colours were of various rich hues. Adding depth and character to an otherwise stark environment. The rocks were used as walls, as benches and as steps. Completely dependable, they served well in the creating and maintaining of the precious historical village. Spirits of the past mingled within the powerful energies emerging from the faithful guardians of the village.

It always amazed me as to how a place such as Chuan Di Xia, so far removed from our world in South Africa, felt like home. The environment was harsh. An icy starkness engulfed us during the short winter days. It filled our bodies with an electric energy. Wrapping up in layers of warm thermal clothing and boots, our greatest pleasure was wandering around the village itself. Absorbing what our eyes saw. What our hearts felt. The ancient world rose up to meet us and bared her soul. Each window, each doorway, each step, presented us with precious insights into a time of which we knew little. Our imaginations were constantly being fed by the relics of the past.

We wandered past the many quaint guesthouses. Each one unique in style and character. Each one offering warmth and friendliness. The folk from the past had held on to the beautiful quality of hospitality. Of opening their homes to strangers. Of nurturing fellowmen. Many of their doorways had stood the test of time. They were damaged and worn. Simple and bare. But held a beauty and a mystery of their own. Windows too, held an air of intrigue. The key to a fascinating past.

The rooms were simply decorated with the odd pieces of Chinese furniture. In fact, each piece was a spectacular work of art. Proudly displaying the richness of an era past. Local Chinese folk always wanted to fill their homes with modern-day furniture from a well-known Swedish manufacturer, whilst we foreigners desired their old pieces. Those which brought history and value into a home. 

Within the thick walls of solid rock, each room possessed the traditional Kang. The solid cement bed had no sympathy for our backs. It was harder than one can imagine. The Kang is a couple of feet long and wide. Providing enough space for up to five adults to sleep side by side. This is how Chinese families slept in the past. Many still do enjoy this communal-bed in the countryside. Within the cement slab, a huge space held a fire. This is what kept us deliciously warm on those insanely cold nights. Added to this, we were each supplied with, what we called a monster duvet. It felt as though it was made of lead. It pinned one down in a certain position, making it impossible to change sides during the long nights. As hard as they were, their warmth was incredible. It seeped into every cell of my body. Bringing an encompassing sense of serenity and comfort. I gave thanks to the Kang each night. The warmth, the togetherness and the fresh mountain air ensured our sleep was deep and heavenly.

Each season we made the steep walk along the winding pathway to the top of the mountains, in whose shadows the village nestled. We had endured the brutal summer hours. The bitterly cold temperatures of winter had gnawed us to the core. We heard the crunching of autumn leaves beneath our solid footsteps and in the spring, we stopped to appreciate the new greenery making its presence known. Signalling an end to the long cold spell which had held the world in its icy grip for so many months before.

The pathway led us past the old coal mill. A stark reminder of the extremely hard work and effort it took to build and maintain the village. The local folk had relentlessly traded in coal in order to survive. The old shaft was yet another aide-memoire of one of the worst causes of the deadly pollution in which we had lived during those eighteen years in Beijing.

On reaching the mid-way point to the top of the mountain, a temple stood in silence. The ox-blood-coloured walls faded with time. But still exquisite. Remnants from the past held their magnificence. Simple frameworks with the most intricate of details adorning each item, proudly displayed their presence. They continued to be valued and worshipped. Here we would always find a rock and absorb the warmth of the winter sun. We would catch twenty winks or simply listen to the voice of the mountains. The silence. 

Sitting on my rock on top of the mountain, whilst gazing down over the village, was always a treasure. A gift of freedom. Of silence. And of being so fortunate as to be on top of that mountain, witnessing life in an ancient village. My soul was at peace. I was content. Reflecting on my many years spent in China, I am deeply grateful that my mom shared much of it with us. 

On the journey back to the village in winter, down the steep mountain paths, with the wind biting into any exposed skin, there was nothing quite like the sight of smoke drifting out of a chimney. For that resembled warmth and food. It provided us with a perfect ending to yet another magical day in Chuan Di Xia. In summer, the promise of an ice-cold beer or three provided our reward.

As there were no lights to be seen for ninety kilometres, the night skies over Chuan Di Xia were a deep inky black. There was nothing more beautiful than seeing the huge red Chinese lanterns bringing light to all. Breaking the darkness. There existed a deep romanticism surrounding each lantern. They were forever a symbol of sheer beauty and held the power of captivating all those beneath them. 

As with most things in this world, the old is slowly being replaced by the new. More modern, perhaps more practical, houses are being built in Chuan Di Xia. It is perfectly understandable. Humans want to and need to progress. The bricks being used are of a blueish grey colour. The style of the magnificent roofs is being kept. Most of the doorways too. 

The bunches of golden corn still hang out to dry. Adorning the doorways. Under the eaves. They represent happiness and successful harvesting. It is all still so beautiful. However, the magic is no longer there. Never to be captured again. It belongs to the past. It is deeply hidden within those solid rock walls which embrace the ancient village.