Village Retreat in Jiaju 甲居
The driver drops us off at the entrance to the village. We are on foot from here on. The dust puffs out from under our steps as we walk towards the sloping hills, terrace upon terrace of fields descend steeply towards the deep canyon below. The Tibetan architecture pops out from the green background, little fortresses standing guard in what was voted as the most beautiful village in China by Chinese National Geographic in 2005. I have not been to enough villages in China to know if Jiaju 甲居 is the most beautiful one in the country, but the first impression puts up one tough competition. The afternoon clouds are hanging low over this vertiginous landscape and everything is tinged grey-blue, but in the effort of keeping up its reputation, the caramel burgundy paints of the brick walls still seem to be attempting a colour coordination with the maize stalks drying just outside.
We take the first fork right towards the lower half of the village and arrive at the home of the Bubucuo family. Three toddlers run out into the garden and grab our hands, squealing with joy at the sight of potential new playmates. It is an easy choice, who can refuse six grubby little hands pulling you through a multicoloured wooden door? We shall stay here tonight. The massive three storey “mini-castle” opens into a large open air courtyard, surrounded by several rooms, wooden panelling in vivid red, blue, green and orange flowers frame the windows and doors. A large open kitchen with an over-sized wok hints at future meals, ready to be consumed on simple wooden tables and stools. We go through the turquoise corridor leading to the second floor. Floorboards creek in a guest room with more painted blooms that burst into a living art gallery and Chairman Mao seems to be getting a bit too cozy with the Potala Palace.
On the outdoor terrace, piles of golden corn are drying, some with their husks still on, others with kernels desiccated and hardened by the sun. If they ever had to rename Jiaju, the “Corn Village” would not be an inappropriate name. From the rooftops looking down or up, every single terrace is rimmed with stacks of the same grain, some amber, some flaming orange, an integral part of the building itself.
Beyond the sea of honeyed corn, is the red heat of chillies. Spicy peppers which are the foundation of Sichuan cuisine, but largely missing from traditional Tibetan dishes, have been eagerly adopted in this eastern region of the Garzê Tibetan Autonomous prefecture. Bunches of ruby capsicum hang from doorways, brick walls, window sills, waiting to be chopped up and thrown into hot oil.
We settle in with the family for the evening and feast on a dinner of never-ending dishes, the wok churning out one plate after another – courgette with pork, spicy aubergine salad, fried eggs with tomatoes, potatoes with bacon, cabbage soup and of course, local crispy corn bread. Oh yes, we will be happy here.
The next morning, the clouds have been chased away by the wind and a blue sky has come to illuminate the colours of the village. Mrs. Bubucuo hands us a bundle of leftover corn bread and 饅頭 (steamed buns) for the road and we set off in search for the watchtower at the top of a distant hill. Weaving through the village fields, narrow paths lead from one home to another, every window and door more decorated than the previous one. Eruptions of colour through the thick trees. Trees so tall that you can only be sure of whether you are going up or down. In the now-empty maize fields, mounds of dry husks are left to fertilise the soil, ready to welcome next year’s crop. Groups of women and men past us on our climb up, their woven baskets filled with fresh soil for the terraced field down below.
We continue blindly, emerging from the forest onto an unfinished road, our only guide the tip of the watchtower further away. This area of Jiaju-Danba is well-known for its ancient towers, structures erected with stone slabs that have been around since 1700 BC. Legend has it that families used to begin building one when a son was born to protect it from the evil spirit. Every year of the boy’s life, a floor would be added to the tower until he became 18 years of age. The towers were then used to protect the villages, whenever under attack, the population would retreat to them and defend the village from above.
The road turns into a construction site and we desperately try to escape from the generators and tractors, relieved that we can experience Jiaju before it turns into another one of China’s Disneylands. At the base of the mountain there is a gap in the wired fence by the road and we slip through, following a cleared out route that could barely be described as a “path”. We find ourselves in a fruit plantation, the sharp slope covered in apple and pear trees. Pink and apricot yellow apples hang from heavy branches, the low-hanging fruit already picked, only the determined harvester will be rewarded. But my eye is on the snow pear 雪梨 , I jump and stretch till my hand barely brushes the rough skin of one and two of them tumble down at the same time. Success! Native to China, these pears are something special, crispy and succulent at the same time, biting into one is like taking in a big glass of cold nectar. In the harsh sunlight, somehow they still manage to be cold inside, the fresh juice running down our hands. Newly energised, we push on up through, the “path” getting narrower and tighter, the thorns tougher and nastier and soon our arms are bleeding, red scratches and blotches protesting in anger.
Should we go back? We can see the tower, once again, so close yet so far. This is definitely not the right way up, but the idea of going down through the thorn bushes only to have to go up again loses out against pushing through this last bunch. After a cluster of silver poplars, we emerge onto a rocky outcrop and there is our reward. Jiaju glistens below us, the remaining corn fields standing proud among the “mansions”. A glacier peaks out in the distance behind a line of gorges, white and icy.
The watchtower is crumbling, its roof collapsed and the remnants piled in the centre. A ladder stands alone at its entrance, the only way into the vertical construction in the past. On the other side of the valley is a whole other village, more terraces and fields border the family fortresses, their gardens overflowing with red chilli peppers, purple-leaf aubergines and melons the size of my thighs. Jiaju’s houses have turned with the autumn colours, some of them resembling old villas you would find in the hills of Tuscany or Provence.
We have reached our goal, but the stunning part of the hike begins now. Slowly making our way down towards Jiaju, we enter an autumn wonderland. We are alone as we quietly step through this living garden, not wanting to disturb the leaves. The chlorophyll has left with the summer and the overhanging leaves and branches have been dipped in the juice of blood oranges. Some look like deep red cherries ready to be eaten and others almost like flecks of white cotton. The sun rays squeeze through and we are floating.
The village is quiet except for a few grunting pigs chewing by the roadside, occasionally a villager emerges with a basket of grass or voices echo from behind the tall brick walls. It is a wonderful escape from the hustle and bustle of Chinese towns, a miracle that there are not more people roaming its paths.
Back at the Bubucuos’ home, the children are on a high, hyper with bags of seeds in their hands. It is family planting time. Grandma, Father, Mother, Son and Twin Cousins descend into their family plot.
Three generations nurture the land, straight lines are clearly demarcated and ploughed through the soil by Mother and Father as Grandma scatters the seeds behind. Each handful is counted precisely, years of experience being passed down.
I do not know if these children will stay and plant these same seeds as the years go by, but for now, the village of Jiaju is in capable hands, family roots still firmly in the soil.
The next morning we wish we could have stayed longer in this village retreat, but it was time to move on. We wave goodbye with heavy hearts to the shrieking children and lovely family with our gift bag of apples from Mr.Bubucuo, “for the road”.
We walk to the end of the village, hoping to catch a minibus down to Danba in time for our 10am bus to Kangding. The clock ticks closer and closer to half past nine as one 4×4 after another passes us by already laden with passengers. Just as I begin to pull at my backpack straps in nervousness, three policemen show up and one of them announces with a grin as wide as his round cheeks can handle, “Welcome to Jiaju, the most beeee-autiful village in China!”
We smile back and after the usual exchange of where are you from, where are you going, they invite us to hop on, no worries, they will make sure we get to Danba. Bags are thrown into the back of the police minivan and we squeeze into the second row of seats as an agent snaps a ‘selfie’ with us from his smartphone. As we bump along the rough rocks and narrow curves of the unfinished road, Jiaju becomes smaller and Danba gets closer as we look at each other and laugh. Jiaju has lived up to its reputation as the most beautiful village in China after all, inside and out.
