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River？ And does it flow down from Lingshan？
The sun is about to set。 The bright orange disc is infused with light but there’s no glare。 You gaze into the distance at the hazy layers of jagged peaks where the two sides of the valley join。 This ominous black image nibbles at the lower edges of the glowing sun which seems to be revolving。 The sun turns a dark red； gentler； and projects brilliant gold reflections onto the entire bend of the river： the dark blue of the water fusing with the dazzling sunlight throbs and pulsates。 As the red disc seats itself in the valley it becomes serene； awesomely beautiful； and there are sounds。 You hear sounds； elusive； distinctly reverberating from deep in your heart and radiating outwards until the sun seems to prop itself up on its toes； stumble； then sink into the black shadows of the mountains； scattering glowing colours throughout the sky。 An evening wind blows noisily by your ears and cars drive past； as usual sounding their deafening horns。 You cross the bridge and see there a new stone with engraved characters painted in red： 〃Yongning Bridge。 Built in the third year of the Kaiyuan reign period of the Song Dynasty and repaired in 1962。 This stone was laid in 1983。〃 It no doubt marks the beginning of the tourist industry here。
Two food stalls stand at the end of the bridge。 In the one on the left you eat a bowl of beancurd； the smooth and tasty kind with all the right ingredients。 Hawkers used to sell it in the streets and lanes； it completely disappeared some time ago but has now revived as family enterprises。 In the stall on the right you eat two delicious sesame…coated shallot pancakes； straight off the stove and piping…hot。 Then at one of the stalls； you can’t remember which one； you eat a bowl of sweet yuanxiao dumplings broiled in rice wine： they are the size of large pearls。 Of course； you’re not as academic about food as Mr Ma the Second who toured West Lake but you do have a hefty appetite。 You savour this food of your ancestors and listen to customers chatting with the proprietors。 They’re mostly locals and all know one another。 You try using the mellifluous local acoment to be friendly； you want to be one of them。 You’ve lived in the city for a long time and need to feel that you have a hometown。 You want a hometown so that you’ll be able return to your childhood to recollect long lost memories。
On this side of the bridge you eventually find an inn on an old cobblestone street。 The wooden floors have been mopped and it’s clean enough。 You get a small single room which has a plank bed with a bamboo mat on it。 The cotton blanket is a suspicious grey； either it hasn’t been washed properly or that’s the original colour。 You throw aside the greasy pillow from under the bamboo mat and luckily it’s hot so you can do without the bedding。 What you need right now is to off…load your luggage which has become quite heavy； wash off the dust and sweat； strip； and stretch yourself out on the bed。 There’s shouting and yelling next door。 They’re gambling and you can hear them picking up and throwing down the cards。 A timber partition separates you and； through the holes poked into the paper covering the cracks； you make out the blurred figures of some bare…chested men。 You’re not so tired that you can drop off to sleep just like that。 You tap on the wall and instantly there’s loud shouting next door。 They’re not shouting at you but amongst themselves： there are always winners and losers and the loser is trying to get out of paying。 They’re openly gambling in the inn despite the Public Security Office notice on the wall prohibiting gambling and prostitution： you decide to check whether the law has any effect。 You put on some clothes； go down the corridor and knock on the half…closed door。 Your knocking makes no difference； they keep shouting and yelling inside and nobody takes notice。 So you push open the door and go in。 The four men sitting around the bed in the middle of the room all turn to look at you。 But it’s you and not they who gets a rude shock。 The men all have bits of paper stuck on their faces； on the forehead； lips； nose and cheeks； and they look ugly and ridiculous。 They aren’t laughing and are glaring at you。 You’ve butted in and they’re clearly annoyed。
〃Oh； you’re playing cards；〃 you say； putting on an apologetic look。
They go on with their game。 The long paper cards have red and black markings like mahjong； there’s a Gate of Heaven and a Prison of Hell。 The winner penalizes the loser by tearing off a strip of newspaper and sticking it on a designated spot。 Whether this is a prank； a way of letting off steam； or a tally； is agreed upon by the gamblers and there is no way for outsiders to know what it’s all about。
You beat a retreat； go back to your room； lie down again； and see a thick mass of black specks around the light globe。 Millions of mosquitoes are waiting for the light to go out so that they can come down to feast on your blood。 You quickly let down the mosquito net and are enclosed in a narrow conical space； at the top of which is a bamboo hoop。 It’s been a long time since you’ve slept under a hoop like this； and you’ve long since passed the age of being able to stare at the hoop to lose yourself in reverie。 Today； you can’t know what traumas tomorrow will bring。 You’ve learnt through experience everything you need to know。 What else are you looking for？ When a man gets to middle age shouldn’t he be looking for a peaceful and stable existence； find a not…too…demanding sort of a job； stay in a mediocre position； become a husband and a father； set up a comfortable home； put money in the bank and add to it every month so there’ll be something for old age and a little left over for the next generation？
Chapter Two
It is in the Qiang region halfway up Qionglai Mountain； in the border areas of the Qinghai…Tibetan highlands and the Sichuan basin； that I witness a vestige of early human civilization； the worship of fire。 Fire； the bringer of civilization； has been worshipped by the early ancestors of humans beings everywhere。 It is sacred。 He is sitting in front of the fire drinking liquor from a bowl。 Before each sip he puts a finger into it and flicks some on the charcoals which splutter noisily and send out blue sparks。 It is only then that I perceive that I too am real。
〃That’s for the God of the Cooking Stove； it’s thanks to him that we can eat and drink；〃 he says。
The dancing light of the fire shines on his thin cheeks； the high bridge of his nose； and his cheekbones。 He tells me he is of the Qiang nationality and that he’s from Gengda village down the mountain。 I can’t ask straight out about demons and spirits； so I tell him I’m here to do some research on the folk…songs of the mountain。 Do traditional song masters and dancers still exist here？ He says he’s one of them。 The men and women all used to form a circle around the fire and dance right through to daybreak； but later on it was banned。
〃Why？〃 I know quite well but I ask。 I’m being dishonest again。
〃It was the Cultural Revolution。 They said the songs were dirty so we changed to singing Sayings of Mao Zedong songs instead。〃
〃And what about after that？〃 I persist in asking。 This is becoming a habit。
〃No…one sings those anymore。 People are doing the dances again but not many of the young people can do them； I’m teaching the dances to some of them。〃
I ask him for a demonstration。 Without hesitation； he instantly gets to his feet and proceeds to dance and sing。 His voice is low and rich； he’s got a good voice。 I’m sure he’s Qiang even if the police in charge of the population register insist that he isn’t。 They think anyone claiming to be Tibetan or Qiang is trying to evade birth restrictions and have more children。
He sings song after song。 He says he’s a fun…loving person； I believe him。 When he finished up as village head； he went back to being one of the mountain people； an old mountain man who likes good fun； unfortunately he is past the age for romance。
He also knows incantations； the kind hunters use when they go into the mountains。 They are called mountain black…magic or