Travel Notes: Tanchang Village in Mentougou, West of Beijing
It had been a long time since I last went to Miaofeng Mountain. I am about to leave Beijing for school elsewhere, and before leaving I wanted to visit Miaofeng Mountain. So the day before yesterday I took some time off and went. I had only meant to go as far as Dingjiatan and Danli Village before turning back, but walking on and on I reached Xiaweidian. Going further, I saw a road sign for Shenquan Gorge, not far from Xiaweidian. I had never been to Shenquan Gorge before, and on a sudden impulse I headed toward it.
I did not expect that these ten-plus kilometers would all be winding mountain road. The mountain road bent endlessly, full of sharp turns, continuous switchbacks, and falling-rock warning signs. But since I had come, I settled in. The winding roads of Mentougou are well built with guardrails on both sides, and I occasionally saw one or two cyclists riding down from the mountain, which showed it was safe enough. I resolved that this time I must make it to Shenquan Gorge.
The scenery on the mountain was beautiful; the Mentougou area is a chain of rolling peaks. Stopping halfway up and looking around, I saw a vast, lush expanse of mountains, range upon range with no end. It was the turn of summer to autumn; the mountain was lush with green vegetation, an endless sea of undulating green. There was no one around, only the occasional car passing. Standing there halfway up the mountain, my heart felt broad and light.
Continuing upward, I reached Shangweidian Village. Had I not climbed this mountain, I would not have known that above Xiaweidian Village lies such an open Shangweidian Village. I reached Shangweidian around noon. By then the sun was blazing high; the August-September sun is still fierce. The villagers were all indoors escaping the heat. The signposts showed my destination was not far.
After a short while further on, I came to another village—Tanchang Village. Entering it, I was pleasantly surprised: it was like a Peach Blossom Spring. At the entrance of Tanchang Village lay a high mountain pool, fed by a mountain stream above. This summer Beijing had had abundant rain, and the mountain stream was full. The stream rushed down like small waterfalls, gathering in a ravine and flowing down along the gully into the green pool below. This entire system of mountains and waters, a large scenic area, is called Shenquan Gorge.
The water in the stream and the green pool was crystal clear; the stream bed and pool bottom were paved with stones worn smooth by the current. Aquatic plants thrived in the pool, and fish drifted lazily through the water; even fish on the bottom were clearly visible. Unlike ornamental fish farmed in city ponds, these were mostly wild crucian carp and small fish I could not name—fish with a wild charm.
At the village entrance stood a plaque explaining the origin of the name Tanchang Village. It turns out that in the Qing dynasty this place specifically burned charcoal for the imperial palace, hence the name "Charcoal Factory." Seeing this plaque, I could not help recalling Bai Juyi's beloved poem "The Charcoal Old Man":
"The charcoal old man, / chopping wood and burning charcoal on the South Mountain. / Dust upon his face, the hue of smoke and fire, / his temples streaked with gray, his fingers black with soot. / What does he make by selling charcoal?—clothes on his back and food in his mouth. Pity the thinness of his coat, yet he fears the charcoal's cheapness and wishes the weather colder. / At night a foot of snow fell outside the city; at dawn he drives his charcoal cart over the icy rut. The ox is tired, the man hungry, the sun already high; outside the south market gate he rests in the mud. Who are those two riders approaching so briskly?—the Yellow-robed Envoy and his white-clad lad. They hold a document and cry out the imperial order; turning the cart, they scold the ox and lead it north. A cart of charcoal, over a thousand catties—the palace men drive it off and he cannot protest. Half a bolt of red gauze, a length of damask, they tie to the ox's head as payment for the charcoal."
Today's Tanchang Village has become a tourist attraction in Mentougou, west of Beijing. But in the Qing dynasty this was where charcoal old men like Bai Juyi's chopped wood and burned charcoal. Once the charcoal was ready, they must have driven ox or mule carts down out of the mountains. They may not have met the misfortunes of Bai Juyi's old man, but the hardship of making a living must have been no less.
Although this is now a tourist area, there are pitifully few visitors, and most of the farmhouses and B&Bs on the mountain are closed. Climbing such a high mountain is exhausting; by the time I reached Tanchang Village I was really hungry. But I went to several farmhouses in a row and none had food. At last, near the Shenquan Gorge ticket booth, I found one farmhouse whose owner reluctantly agreed to make us a scallion pancake and a fried egg; I felt as though I had found a lifeline. It was not expensive—23 yuan per person for the meal, cheaper than KFC at the foot of the mountain.
Like most of rural China, Tanchang Village now has only left-behind elderly and children. But it has a village clinic; seeing such a village clinic felt very dear to me. Six years from now, when I graduate, I would very much like to find a village clinic like this, using both Chinese and Western medicine to treat common illnesses for local people.
I love this kind of living environment and this way of working. Everything here is like what I experienced in the countryside as a child: neighbors know one another, relations are warm, and life is simple. My childhood ideal was not to become a famous physician in a big city, but to be a barefoot doctor in a small village like this—between seeing patients, farming, reading, and writing, amusing myself.
Many ancient Chinese physicians lived such lives. The most famous is Tao Hongjing of the Northern and Southern dynasties, known as the "Mountainside Premier." Tao Hongjing wrote many famous pieces describing his mountain reclusion, such as his "Letter in Reply to Commander Xie": "The beauty of mountains and rivers has been admired since antiquity. High peaks pierce the clouds; clear streams show their beds. Stone cliffs on both banks shine in five colors; green forests and bamboos are present through every season. As dawn mist is about to lift, apes and birds cry in tumult; as the sun sets, fish dart in the deep pools. This is truly a fairyland of the human world. Since the time of Xie Lingyun, none have again captured its marvels." Living in a mountain village like Tanchang Village, that immortal life described in Tao Hongjing's letter is right before one's eyes.
Tao Hongjing also wrote a poem, "Composed in Response to the Edict Asking What Is in the Mountains," describing his reclusion: "What is there in the mountains? / On the ridges there are many white clouds. / I can delight in them myself, / but cannot give them to you." I love this poem of his very much. Tao Hongjing abandoned office to write in the mountains, completing the great pharmacological work Variorum of the Classic of the Materia Medica (Bencao Jing Jizhu). The joys he enjoyed while farming and reading in the mountains I can feel deeply. Perhaps one day I, too, will be like him, a village doctor in a clinic in some mountain village outside Beijing, keeping company with white clouds and taking joy in writing.