English version published for this portfolio site. The Chinese original is linked in the header.
Author’s Note
This article contains several inconsistencies and contradictions in sequence and in characters’ expressions, all of which are intentionally preserved. People of different ages and life experiences understand “deities,” “faith,” and “customs” in different ways. Even the same person may hold seemingly conflicting views in different situations. The article does not attempt to explain or reconcile these differences; instead, they are left to coexist as part of a real, complex, living world—one without clear boundaries of belief, and without any repeatedly confirmed “correct” version. In concrete moments of time, place, and relationship, expression is loose and inconsistent. This itself shows that people do not live inside concepts, but within constantly changing experiences.
There always seems to be a shortcut to quickly understand a person, like decoding their MBTI (Myers-Briggs Type Indicator) type. More and more people believe it can rapidly interpret someone’s character. After all, observing and spending time with someone takes effort; how could it compare to taking a psychological test? I am clearly one of those people.
A Dong is from the Qiang ethnic group and spends at least half his time in his mountain village. For him, understanding a person is something that must be done slowly, over time. He has no interest in such tests: “What personality type or not, I’ve got character myself!” That was the first thing he said when the test was mentioned.
A Dong is my driver on the Sichuan - Tibet Highway journey.
In the autumn of 2025, I entered Tibet via National Highway 318 and returned to Chengdu via 317, a journey lasting one month. The first time I met A Dong was when he came to pick me up at the hotel. He was small but solid, his skin dark and healthy. Based on experience, it was easy to tell he was from a minority ethnic group. “Qiang, Aba Prefecture, Wenchuan,” he said. Soon after, I learned more: born in 1995, and he is a quiet person. Apart from that, in the first two weeks from Chengdu to Lhasa, my only impression of him was that his driving skills were insanely good.
On the return journey along 317 toward Chengdu, there were many temples along the way. One temple a day, awesome. We were also lucky: many monasteries were preparing for ceremonies. Some lamas practised cham dance beside temple construction sites, full of everyday vitality; other rehearsals were more solemn, accompanied by the deep, low resonance of large horns. Young monks had endless energy, as if they could keep dancing forever. Some monasteries were also painting mandalas at night, open to visitors. We drove by day and arrived at night, never missing them. Seeing all this, it was hard not to fall into concepts (again) - How auspicious!
I also knew that much of it was not just luck. A Dong is not Buddhist. While I paid respects at temples, he would sometimes ask monks about other temples or ceremonies nearby, or have local children take us to their “secret bases”. Some small, little-known temples behind the mountains. Then he gave all the snacks to those kids. Once, he found a Cham rehearsal simply by following the sound. Because of him, I saw things that are usually hidden from outsiders. Later, I said to him directly: “I’m so happy! Thank you!”
“What’s there to thank me for? We’re just out travelling,” he always replied lightly. At moments like this, I would also think he was very I (introverted in MBTI terms).
Monks we spoke to often asked where we were from. He would only say Shanghai, never mentioning himself. At first, I didn’t think much of it, but later, I increasingly felt it was like erasing himself. And with it, erasing my desire for a sense of equality between people. So whenever I had the chance, I would cut in before him: “We’re from Shanghai, he’s from Wenchuan.” I was eager to prove everyone existed on equal terms. After a few times, he began introducing himself that way, too.
Sometimes I wondered whether this was just my own intellectual projection, maybe he never thought that way at all. All that talk of equality and self-erasure might just be my own literary self-indulgence.
As it turned out, it probably was.
After we got to know each other well, once I asked him about it: “Do you remember when we were on 317, every time someone asked where we were from, you only said where I was from and didn’t mention yourself? What made you did that?”
“Just to tell them you’re tourists from elsewhere,” he said.
A Dong once mentioned that there was a Guanyin Temple in Guanyaoqiao Town, Jinchuan County, but he didn’t go into detail. I mentioned several times that I wanted to go, and only then did he relent: “That place, once you say you’re going, you can’t not go.” Meaning: if you don’t go, there will be consequences.
Then we definitely had to go.
The entire Aba Tibetan and Qiang Autonomous Prefecture deeply believes in this Guanyin Temple. It is said to be extremely efficacious. If you make a wish, you must come back to fulfil it when your wish comes true. So people do not make wishes lightly. According to A Dong, “people from Wenchuan basically all believe in Guanyin.” He said it was Guanyin of the South Sea, and that in his village there was also a temple dedicated to Guanyin of the South Sea. At home, they would “write the words ‘Guanyin of the South Sea Bodhisattva’ with a brush and paste them in the centre of the living room wall.” They called this a “shen ganzi” (god pole). “During the New Year, you must offer sacrifices to the gods, put all the dishes in front of the deity. Grandparents would chant scriptures; the gods eat first, then we eat.”
Later, I found in research that the Guanyin Temple in Guanyaoqiao is an important site of the Nyingma school of Tibetan Buddhism, dedicated to Padmasambhava. It was founded in the 7th century, and legend says it was built after a minister of King Songtsen Gampo discovered a natural image of Guanyin. The existing temple has been expanded over time, blending Tibetan and Han architectural styles.
At the temple, we met a few young Tibetan men who had hiked there to hang prayer flags. They were devout and joyful. After hanging the flags, they scattered lungta. “We Qiang people are different from Tibetans,” A Dong said. “They have more beliefs. In our villages, apart from us, who else still comes to these places? As for me, I definitely have faith. I don’t believe in Buddhism, but I believe in Guanyin.”
“Is it because your family believes in it?”
“Not entirely. After travelling more, seeing more of the world.”
“Seeing the world made you believe?”
“Yes.”
Behind the temple, the mountain wall was covered with prayer flags, an astonishing sight. Many years ago, A Dong “made a wish inside the temple and then came here to hang the flags.” He said that when he hung them, “my mind was completely blank, thinking of nothing.”
A few days later, we arrived in Wenchuan. Earlier, we had already agreed to visit his mountain village. A Dong asked whether I wanted to go to the Guanyin temple in the village: “Though it’s very small.” When visiting someone’s village, how could you not visit their temple? I said, of course we must go.
I asked him if he knew about the Qiang ritual specialist, the “shibi,” who communicates between humans, nature, and ancestral spirits. “Never heard of it,” he said, though he had heard of “duangong,” who exorcise spirits and cure illness, and perform rituals like rain prayers. He also knew of a fortune-teller near Chengdu who was said to be very accurate, though “that should be Han Chinese.” He himself didn’t really believe in these things, insisting that “fate is in your own hands.” He joined the army at 17, left at 19, worked various jobs and did business before returning to Wenchuan and opening a tea house, driving tourist vehicles at the same time. He used to handle everything himself.
However, on the road, he once had a friend consult a diviner for him. A Dong had lost all his documents during the trip and asked whether they could be found. The diviner needed to know the date when they were lost. After hearing it, the answer was clear: if the date was correct, they could be found. A Dong didn’t hold out much hope: “We looked everywhere.”
It was not his first time consulting divination. Two years earlier, he had done so because of his son. The child had been sick since he was small, and someone suggested a divination. It said he needed a godfather, and the zodiac signs and ages had to match. Coincidentally, a friend fit and was willing to take on the role. But A Dong was not reassured and asked the friend to also consult divination himself, to see if it truly matched. “You can’t just benefit your own child and harm someone else,” he said seriously.
The formal adoption required worship at the family god pole with a ritual master chanting scriptures. After that, the child gradually recovered, or at least no longer fell ill repeatedly. A Dong himself also has a goddaughter; before and after the adoption, he also consulted divination. Sometimes accurate, sometimes not.
When we visited his village temple, our journey along the Sichuan - Tibet Highway was closing its end. Each time we got out of the car, we would gradually sort through scattered things. Right in front of this small Guanyin temple, while we were packing up, all of A Dong’s documents were found. They are stuck inside an old map he no longer used. I called him over. His usually expressionless face showed a hint of shock as he checked them one by one. I went in to pay respects first, and his grandmother was also there. I heard her softly say: “Bless Dong with peace and safety. He is always out on the road…”
On my first visit to A Dong’s village, I missed the Qiang New Year (the first day of the tenth lunar month), and also way early to the time when they slaughter pigs and prepare for the Lunar New Year, which was somewhat regrettable. A Dong said that pigs are only slaughtered when it gets cold, otherwise the meat will spoil. The village still uses very traditional methods: several strong men hold the pig down, and one person makes the cut. “It’s quite cruel, but we’re not that cruel. We even burn paper money for it,” he said.
It takes about two weeks to finish slaughtering all the pigs in the village.
At the beginning of winter, I hesitantly brought up wanting to visit again to do an interview and work on a piece, also worried about disturbing their pig slaughtering and daily life. He answered very straightforwardly: “Sure, no problem… It’s quite interesting…wake up at four to boil water, to scald the pig hair… a group of energetic young guys holding down pigs…” He even sent me videos, in a very E (extroverted) way.
On impulse, I bought a plane ticket. The plan we discussed was also very casual. Apart from filming pig slaughtering and eating the slaughter feast, A Dong understood me as someone who “likes old architecture and things related to elderly people”. Meaning ancient villages and Qiang traditional culture and beliefs. He understood me very accurately. Then we would go to a few villages with old houses: “There are also many elderly people there, you can ask them anything you want.” My godness, this must be a very “P-type” (perceiving) person, I couldn’t help thinking, though I had no intention of forcing a structured itinerary.
From Chengdu Airport to Wenchuan, we kept passing through tunnels. Once, seeing the light at the end of a tunnel, it felt like the other side was shrouded in mist, until we emerged and realised it was the silhouette of mountains. The ranges stretched endlessly, soft under the afternoon sun. “After Yingxiu town, it’s all mountains,” A Dong said casually.
He kept answering phone calls along the way, people asking when we would arrive, inviting us to eat the slaughter feast. He said that if several family happened to be slaughtering pigs on the same day, he would go and eat several meals. I set down my luggage, still not fully adjusted to the mountains, and went straight to a slaughter feast.
A Dong’s village is halfway up the mountain. The winding road is challenging to drive. Without a car, transport is inconvenient; in the past, students had to walk one or two hours down the mountain to school. A Dong told me they still used the mountain paths. When he bought his car, he also considered whether it would be easy for villagers to ride in. Later, when we visited different villages, we would pick up Qiang people along the way, some were going to the county town to sell vegetables. If we didn’t give them a ride, they would still walk down the mountain, as was still common.
That day at the slaughter feast, tables were set in the courtyard. People came, and new bowls and chopsticks were added in layers. When one group finished eating, they left; others continued drinking. In corners, elderly people warmed themselves by the fire. The food was abundant: twice-cooked pork, fried pork liver, celery beef, mapo tofu, pickled cabbage fried with meat… and “xue momo” (steamed pig blood mixed with corn flour). After eating, there was barbecue. Meat from the morning slaughter, dipped in chilli powder, the fattier pieces being the most delicious.
We arrived late; many elderly people had already left. The remaining young people were very warm but said they didn’t really know Qiang chantings or much of the old traditions, and suggested, “Tomorrow morning when we slaughter pigs, there will be more old people. You can interview them.” They mostly spoke Sichuan dialect, and even though they spoke slowly, I could only half-guess. My reactions were always delayed, and I suddenly felt uneasy about interviewing the elderly. A Dong didn’t think there was anything to worry about, except waking up early. He asked whether I had any problem getting up at six. Of course not.
Walking along the night road after the feast, the mountains disappeared into darkness. At this altitude of 1,000–2,000 meters, one’s perception of mountains subtly changes. As the car turned another bend, I saw a cluster of faint lights high in the distance.
“Are those stars? That can’t be,” I asked myself, answering myself.
“The village on the mountain,” A Dong said. “I told you before, Qiang people live high up. This is still considered low.”
Villages on the stars. That thought drifted through my mind. I remembered earlier that year, when interviewing in the Arctic Circle, seeing similar distant lights and wondering whether they were stars or city lights. An Inuit elder said slowly and firmly: “They are the star people.”
At six the next morning, the mountains and the Min River were still in darkness, but the village had already awakened. Water was boiling at the doorstep of the slaughterhouse, large iron pots set over firewood, and paper money prepared. Strong men from the village arrived wearing aprons. Pig slaughtering is still “help each other”. If someone helps slaughter at your household, you must help at others. The dense web of relationships in the village remains intact. After drinking a cup of hot water prepared by the host, they quickly put on aprons and headed to the pigsty.
From the pig’s resistance and cries, it was clear it understood it was going to die, and did not want to die.
Six or seven men pulled from the front, one or two pushed from behind, holding its tail. Eventually, the pig went weak in the legs and lay slumped on the ground. A bench was brought; they forced it sideways onto it. Its head was tightly bound with a thick rope. Four or five men pressed its body down with bare hands. The butcher stabbed the knife into its throat. The blade went deep, leaving a hole larger than a bottle cap. Blood poured out. The pig did not die immediately; it kept breathing for a long time despite blood loss. From the strength of the men holding it down, one could tell it had gradually lost strength; the final moment was strangely calm.
In the past, they would drink the raw blood, washed down with strong liquor, but this has become rare. Someone once asked me if I wanted to try it; A Dong helped refuse on my behalf. The slaughter knife was wiped with paper money and then burned as an offering to the pig. “Like salvation,” he said.
Boiling water was used to scald the hair. Houses with small trucks poured water into the truck bed; others turned the pig onto oilcloth, forming a bag shape, pouring boiling water in and shaking it to scald evenly. There was no strict rule about where it was done - “whatever is convenient.”
After the head was cut off, it was used for sacrifice. Incense was placed in its mouth, and paper money was burned in front of it. “This is also because we know what we are doing is not good,” A Dong told me. During the ritual, they would say to the pig: “In your next life, be a good person, don’t be a pig.” It implies a karmic cycle - doing bad things leads to becoming a pig.
A Dong himself does not do the killing. Meaning he does not make the fatal stab, but he does assist in holding the pig. I asked what it felt like when the pig slowly lost its life in his hands.
“Cruelty, nothing else.”
Earlier, he said “not that cruel”; now he says “cruel.” I felt a suspicion, but it also made sense. Compared to industrial slaughter, traditional methods are certainly less cold, but it is still killing.
A Dong’s grandfather never made the stab either. “He didn’t dare. His hands would shake. If you can’t kill with one stab, you’ll need many stabs. You need a hard heart to slaughter pigs, soft-hearted people cannot do it,” the elder said.
“Doesn’t that mean every year is a challenge for you, too? Doing something against your own heart?” I asked A Dong.
“It’s not against conscience. It’s just the natural law of survival. Thinking like that is enough.”
Men scalded hair, butchered meat, and divided the carcass. This was technical work, usually done by older people. Every cut had its logic. Organs were quickly removed and hung in the back room to dry. Women cooked in the kitchen; elderly people prepared charcoal for later barbecue. After the work was done, people gathered by the fire. The slaughter feast began with breakfast; breakfast and dinner were not very different. Fresh fried pork liver was smooth and tender; twice-cooked pork was rich in wok aroma. Grandma did not speak Mandarin; she just smiled at me and pulled a chair over. The elderly wore black headscarves, Qiang embroidered belts, pink cotton jackets, leaning on wooden sticks. Traditional, at ease.
A Dong described the scene: “It’s just the smell of lively life, smoke and fire.”
After the slaughter and eating, everyone gathered again around the courtyard fire pit. Sometimes I mistakenly felt it was lunchtime, and after eating, it was already afternoon, until I realized the sun had only just risen above the mountains.
Slaughtering also meant making cured meat. Pork intestines were cleaned for sausage casings; A Dong’s family used pepper powder and salt for seasoning. Pork was cut and lightly salted with pig trotters, then hung high up. After at least a month of smoking over fruitwood and cypress branches, it could be eaten. His village lies on a sunny slope, rich in plums and cherries, so fruitwood is abundant. I have eaten their cured meat more than once; the smoked flavour is perfectly balanced, enhancing the meat’s aroma. The first time I ate at his home, his grandmother warmly placed a plate of fried cured pork in front of me. It was all fatty pieces, but it was not a moment for pickiness. I took a bite, and was surprised by how good it was. The fat had a crispy surface from wood-fire frying, rich but not greasy, with a soft interior.
“We like smoking,” A Dong said. “It smells good. And charcoal grilling too.” Smoke, fire, this is exactly what “the smell of life” is.
There is also a human connection. A Dong told me his grandparents worked hard all their lives, but still cannot stay idle, still raising pigs and making cured meat. Some are pre-ordered by friends, some given away, mostly friends he met while working outside. The rest is for themselves, mostly smoked pork fat. Historian Wang Mingke, in Qiang Between Han and Tibetan, writes that traditionally, pigs were mostly consumed within the household; only a small part was eaten fresh during the New Year, most was smoked into cured meat. In the past, pork fat also represented a family’s wealth.
In A Dong’s storage room, I saw long strips of pork fat, dusty yet glowing with light. I also ordered his family’s New Year’s cured meat, sausages, and cured pig trotters.
A Dong knew I was never interested in “touristy spots,” so this time he made several calls to friends familiar with old villages nearby, asking where there were still old houses. Taoping Qiang Village is famous and often mentioned. It survived the 2008 earthquake without a single house collapsing, heavily developed for tourism, with a commercial street in the new village. In the mountain old village, elderly residents even give fluent Mandarin explanations and can drive cars up. I had been there while travelling the Sichuan–Tibet Highway and already learned a lot about Qiang villages: their defensive architecture, narrow maze-like passages, stone houses made from local slate and clay, and central watchtowers used for defence. My impression there was: traditional, beautiful, full of tourists, and very professional guides.
Another option was Kuapo Village in Longxi Township, Wenchuan County, which A Dong had visited before and felt had a “warlord-like” atmosphere. So we went there.
On the mountain road, he repeatedly told me there are spirits in the mountains. In their belief, mountain gods punish those who do wrong, but do not provide protection. “Your own ancestors are the ones who protect you.”
In the afternoon, Kuapo Village was very quiet. Only a few elderly people were sitting outside their doors in the sun. A Dong greeted them and explained we were just visiting. The elders asked if it was his first time. “I’ve been here before,” he said. “She hasn’t.” The elders seemed reassured by this answer. I struggled to understand their dialect, but roughly, they meant that since A Dong was not a stranger and was local, it was fine for him to take me around. They told us to follow the main road uphill and then loop around. The village was like a maze; easy to get lost.
Kuapo Village sits halfway up the mountain, built along the slope and surrounded by mountains. It is a typical Qiang village: continuous stone houses on the hillside, with old watchtowers still visible, square, hexagonal, octagonal stone towers. High in the mountains, it feels cautious, stern, defensive.
A Dong felt the mountains here were “oppressive.” While walking uphill, he said, “Just looking at them makes me dizzy.” From the highest point of the village, he said the opposite mountain looked “tilted, like it’s about to fall over.” I looked up and only felt it was good for my neck. “You can’t see it now, those are all orchards,” he said. “Cherries, plums. And people are working there.” I couldn’t see any of it; I raised my telephoto lens and, after a long search, finally found a tiny moving dot on the distant mountain.
“How did people originally end up living in such places?” A Dong sighed. I remembered what Wang Mingke wrote in Qiang Between Han and Tibetan: scarcity of resources and frequent conflicts. High mountain villages were easier to defend; river valleys were often plundered and unsafe. I told him this. He agreed.
Qiang people, especially the elderly, still prefer living in the mountains. There is no particular reason to move down. They are not used to it. Around Wenchuan, there are several ski resorts now; many young people from villages work there. Like many places, ageing in the villages is increasing, but some young people return. A Dong himself is like that: “I used to like going outside. Now (when not driving tourist cars), I mostly stay in Wenchuan. I prefer the rhythm of my hometown.”
We wandered through the village and soon lost our sense of direction. A Dong moved confidently, chatting with a mother and daughter sitting in the sun, cutting fingernails. They said the houses in the village are connected; during the earthquake, they supported each other, so none collapsed. Damage was just repaired. The stone houses are centuries old; stone masonry is their skill. The word “Kuapo” suggests collapse, but in reality, according to Professor Peng Wenbin of Sichuan Normal University’s School of History and Culture, it is a transliteration from the Qiang language meaning “something completely forgotten.”
The stone steps, polished by footsteps, were slippery. I stumbled often; when I touched the wall, A Dong warned me about nettles that cause rashes and pain. “But it’s also medicine, you know? Old people know how to use it. Boiled, it can dispel wind and dampness.”
Before the earthquake, A Dong also lived in a traditional stone house. In the old village, he said it felt like “childhood memories,” pointing to the kitchen: “It used to be like this, two or three meters high, for smoking meat.”
Kuapo Village also shows signs of tourism development; many households hang sheep skulls - sheep being a Qiang totem. A Dong leaned in and found they were replicas. In winter, there are no tourists; the village is ancient and quiet. I later found it was listed in 2022 as part of China’s sixth batch of traditional villages.
On the way back, the elderly people who had greeted us were still sitting in the sun. A Dong felt they would know what I wanted to ask about tradition and culture, so he told me to sit down: “Ask anything you want.”
I wanted to know what the relationship between the Qiang people and mountain gods really was, whether ritual specialists (shibi) still performed ceremonies in the village. I vaguely felt their connection to deities was different from that of city people. But the night before, I had prepared interview questions until very late, and then got up early to film pig slaughtering, sleeping only two hours. In the afternoon sun, I suddenly felt my mind freeze.
“Do you think there are gods in the mountains? Does the mountain have a spirit?” I heard A Dong ask. Not bad, I thought, I was hearing the same standard interview question I would have asked.
“No, no feeling of that,” an elder shook his head.
“Can you tell us about the past, some memories that stand out?”
“There used to be a big temple at the village committee site, but it was demolished… now there’s only a Jade Emperor temple… (in the past) there was also a village theatre stage, built in the Qing dynasty… the temples were also from the Qing dynasty.”
A Dong translated intermittently. Soon, another elder said, “No pigs, couldn’t afford pigs, you know? There were more sheep, so we used sheep for offerings…”
Then a stream of words I couldn’t understand. I held my camera steady and continued listening silently.
“Oh, so you still believe, still believe in mountain gods,” A Dong suddenly said, as if realising something. The elders nodded. He explained to me, “People living in these mountains still believe in mountain gods. When cattle go up the mountain, they inform the mountain gods.”
“Ask for protection,” an elder added.
“Heaven gods, earth gods, all exist,” they continued. “Tree gods, mountain gods, water gods.” Behind us stood a sacred tree.
“And the kitchen god, fire god.” A Dong and the elders counted on their fingers together.
“How do they communicate with mountain gods?” I asked, regaining focus.
“Duangong, those ritual masters perform ceremonies. Also, Shibi.” At the mention of “shibi,” A Dong glanced at me.
“There are shibi here?”
“Yes, yes. Our shibi has now moved outside the village. After the earthquake, many shibi moved away…”
“They cannot live in the village anymore; they moved to Chengdu and Qionglai. Relocated.” Some shibi now work in places that display Qiang culture to tourists.
“Do you believe in shibi?”
“Yes, yes.” The elders had all witnessed their power: fire coals that did not burn them, rice that could not be cooked after being cursed. Shibi inherit their skills through masters. The sheepskin drum has spirit and can fly. There was even a story: a shibi once locked the drum in a cabinet and left to teach outsiders some hidden knowledge. The drum flew out by itself to find him and killed his wife along the way. The shibi then realised he must not pass it on anymore, and stopped teaching.
They said these were stories they had heard. They had never seen a flying drum.
“What do you think is the difference between Tibetans and Qiang people?” A Dong suddenly asked as we continued northward, visiting more villages, where Tibetan influence was becoming stronger.
I was momentarily speechless. These days I have been with him, filmed pig slaughtering, and eaten many slaughter feasts. One night, I didn’t go and was even asked, “Why didn’t you come to the slaughter feast?” But suddenly I didn’t want to make any judgments at all. Whether what I saw was cultural resilience or something rooted in bloodlines, whether unique or common, no longer seemed important.
After hesitating, I brought up personality tests again. A Dong finally gave in and quickly completed one while we were at a gas station.
ENFJ, the “Protagonist” personality.
I was shocked. How could he possibly be an E (extrovert), and even a J (judging type, opposite of P)? It completely overturned my understanding of him. I looked at the details: oh, extroversion was only 54%. That actually made sense. I read the analysis to him and asked, “Do you think it’s accurate? Is that you?”
He didn’t really respond.
I suddenly realised it didn’t matter at all how he should be categorised. He was simply A Dong, the person I already knew and was still getting to know. He said he was “straightforward,” “trustworthy,” and I saw him as loyal, filial, considerate, generous, proud, sometimes hot-blooded, yet always soft-hearted.
Outside the car window, the mountains stretched endlessly. Now we passed through a tunnel, and I no longer thought, as I once did, that mist lay on the other side.
The conversation continued. He said:
“Look at those Tibetans, really, those kids, five or six years old, they can ride horses so well. That must be their natural talent, right? Why are there so many ethnic groups? Each has its own character, its own gift.”
“Then what do you think the character and talent of the Qiang people are?” I asked, then immediately felt it was rather pointless.
“The Qiang are a singing and dancing people too, I suppose-singing, dancing, drumming, that sort of thing. There’s quite a lot, really…”
I looked out at the mountains through the window, knowing villages on the stars were hidden within them. There, life was still not confined by concepts. A Dong belonged there, and I had already become a passerby.