Freethought

"...Do not accept anything by mere tradition... Do not accept anything just because it accords with your scriptures... Do not accept anything merely because it agrees with your pre-conceived notions... But when you know for yourselves—these things are moral, these things are blameless, these things are praised by the wise, these things, when performed and undertaken, conduce to well-being and happiness—then do you live acting accordingly."

- Siddhārtha Gautama Buddha

Jianshui: The Slow Life

Along with my two new travel companions, I loaded up on barbequed tofu, apples, and nuts, and hopped on the supposedly 4-hour long bus to Jianshui. The bus departed the small mountainous town and began a steady descent through the winding roads that led back to the highway. This, however, turned out to be a mere tease. We quickly arrived at a line of buses, minivans, and rickshaws moving at a snail’s pace down the dirt road that should have been a half hour drive. We were shuffled between different buses and were overall confused about the situation for a full 3 hours until we finally made into, then out of, the new city at the foot of the mountain. Finally, we were on the real road to Jianshui.

The paved road to Jianshui was flanked by agricultural countryside. Around every bend, between every pair of hills was a new farm with some sort of crop flourishing in the constantly agreeable Yunnan climate. This brought me to thinking about another major question of my trip. One that, of course, can never really be answered, but is still quite addictive to consider. What is our purpose? As a carbon-based life form; as a species; as an individual; as a soul, or a spark? As a living, breathing, subparticle of the superconcious? The possible answer I arrived at was given to me by the very farms that I was speeding by.

Imagine, if you will, a completely self-sustainable farm. A farmer, with his wife and children perhaps, has a modest shanty, grows food for himself but not to sell, eats it with his family, and sleeps in a satisfactory bed. Day to day, this is his pattern. Wake up, eat, farm, eat, farm, eat, sleep. Certainly there is room for enjoyment of life: let’s say he can have an hour a day to spend time with his family, which they all mutually enjoy. BUT, and here’s the important part, even throughout the next generations, let’s assume that life doesn’t achieve progress. Our farmer’s son finds a new wife, and lives his life just like his father did. His methods are no more efficient; his vegetables and meat are no more delicious; his family is no happier, no sadder, rather all is perpetually just the same. And so it goes throughout generations of families who live on this farm, each of whom are forgotten once their grandsons, who knew them face-to-face, have perished.

What, I ask, is the purpose of such an existence in any realm greater than satisfying your own bodily urges? I couldn’t find any lasting legacy or enduring reason for that life, after it is expended. Rather, one that would have a legacy, have a purpose, and make a difference in the universe, is one that makes a contribution. One that improves the lives of others in the present and the future and extends the existence of life. It becomes rather circular, but still makes sense: the purpose of life is to contribute to life itself. The desire of life, and of the superconscious, is simply existence, so discovering information in all fields and passing that information on to future generations to be molded more carefully and researched more meticulously will never be a futile effort.

While these thoughts ran through my mind, I unconfidently began correspondence with the guesthouse owner I had been told about by sending him a text message in Chinese about my arrival. He quickly replied, reassuring me that he did indeed exist, and that I would have a place to sleep in the small town that I knew nothing about. He sent me an address and told me to call when we arrived and that he would come to meet us and walk us to the guesthouse. We hopped off the bus and into a cab and stopped in front of a hospital, confused as ever, less than 2 minutes later.

Out from an alley nearby saunters a friendly-looking old man with flecked gray hair and a slight, shy smile, who timidly assumes, “Aimei?” “Shi a,” I tell him he’s got the right girl. He carries my bags and leads us down an alley that looks much like one of Slim’s old dwellings in the USC neighborhood (for those of you who don’t get the South Central reference: think ghetto), and I become a bit uneasy. Myself, I am not very high-maintenance when it comes to sleeping conditions. Mice in my room (foreshadowing?), showers over toilets (done that one too), and other things which may be considered horrors to some are typically fine by me, but I began to feel guilty that I might be dragging my new travel buddies into something less than ideal. My heart racing for want of being a good travel hostess, Lao Li stops in front of an ancient-looking door and announces “Dao le,” as he takes out his key.

The door swings open to one of the most quaintly beautiful and serene houses I have ever seen, let alone had the pleasure of staying in. He shows us around in the front and rear courtyards, points out his family’s living quarters, and lets us have our choice of rooms to sleep in for the night. After we settle in, we sit down to chat with Lao Li (as far as my language skills allowed), drank tea, listened to Chinese guqin (I don’t know what the instrument is called in English—it’s a 7-stringed instrument that’s laid flat on a table), and soaked in the atmosphere of a traditional Chinese house that had been in our host’s family for four generations.

The sites of the small town (the second largest Confucian temple in China, for one) were pristine and interesting, but were much less important than the overwhelmingly comfortable vibe of Lao Li’s guesthouse. He proudly showed us his hand made pottery, paintings, and calligraphy. His daughter-in-law performed a few songs live on the guqin for us, and even taught me a few skills on the instrument. His wife, though unable to speak Putonghua (Beijing Dialect Mandarin, the only one I am able to speak or understand at all), happily drank tea and ate pipa (loquats) with us and cooked us a delicious dinner. I had never been made to feel so at home so quickly, and felt truly at ease and at peace during my stay in this tiny town that rarely hosts laowai (old outsiders: foreigners).

Regrettably, after a few short days in this town, I knew it was time to head on to the next leg of my journey, so walked to the bus station in order to head back to Kunming so I could catch a bus to Dali. After parting from my friends, I solitarily boarded a night bus to Dali (a story in and of itself, sigh), and woke up the next morning in a new town, with no plan except for the name of a nearby monastery in my pocket.