Shelter from the Wind and Rain

A Wind-and-Rain bridge in Xiajiang, Guizhou

By Beth Green

Our first problem was that the guidebook told us enough about the villages to make us want to go there—but neglected to include a map.

Our second problem was that it was Chinese New Year, and the whole city of Congjiang had literally shut down. Luckily, one hotel decided to let us stay in the room for the holiday, as long as we paid in advance and didn’t expect anyone to change the linens for a couple of days. But restaurants, shops, and—worst of all—bus companies had all joyfully locked up for the first three days of the festival.

Deprived of ways to spend our money, Dan and I started walking. We found the bus station (closed down). We found one open DVD store, and one open fireworks stall. We bought things in each. We found one shivering Uigyur man on a street corner trying to sell barbecued meat sticks to nonexistent pedestrians. He was Muslim, he told us, and didn’t celebrate Chinese New Year. Tired of eating instant noodles in our hotel room because all the restaurants were closed, we bought as many meat sticks as we could carry.

But mostly, we sat in our hotel room and pored over the guidebook, trying to plan the rest of our trip. I kept coming back to a section about the Dong minority villages near Congjiang. The Dong people traditionally build in wood, unlike in other parts of China which favor stone, tile, and brick homes. A not-to-be-missed feature of these nearby (or so the guidebook hinted) villages were their Wind-and-Rain bridges and their wooden drum towers.

By the third day of our sudden travel stoppage, we were determined to find those villages, despite the lack of buses. We went out to the deserted street, and, after more walking, found a lone taxi driver willing to drive us out of town—as long as we didn’t mind that his four-year-old daughter rode with us because he’d been tapped for baby-sitting duty. We didn’t mind.

A Wind-and-Rain bridge near Congjiang, Guizhou

After some guesswork on his part as to where we wanted to go (apparently “some Dong villages out of the city” is not specific enough instructions), we drove off over a bumpy, dirt road and into the terraced hills.

The Dong minority people live a rustic lifestyle in the hills of southern China and northern Vietnam. They cultivate glutinous rice and raise pigs, water buffalo, and fowl. Their food is famous for being spicy and sour, and they’re known for eating dog. But, within China at least, they’re most famous for their beautiful carpentry.

Every traditional Dong village has a series of towers—bell towers or drum towers—which prick the skyline of their slope-roofed villages. If the village is on a river, then they’re likely to also have a Wind-and-Rain bridge, a covered bridge that acts not only as a way to cross the river, but as shelter for farmers coming home for the fields, and—side benefit!—as a gallery for local artisans who carve and paint decorations into the bridge columns and eaves.

Colorful dragons dance around a drum tower near Congjiang

The tiny villages we managed to visit that day—we went to three—had great examples of the Dong artistry with wood. We were particularly pleased because they didn’t look like they’d been rebuilt recently. Fires and the Cultural Revolution had destroyed many of these structures. In one of the villages, while I was taking photos of a newer Wind-and-Rain bridge I had a chat with an old man coming back from fishing. He led us through the bridge, pointing at the paintings from the 70s and 80s. These paintings were like public service messages, showing what to do in case of a fire, and urging young people to fight for China in case of a war.

The older bridges, in contrast, featured paintings of mythical (or lucky) beasts to add luck to those who crossed into the village.

An approximate million photos later, Dan and I returned to the deserted hotel in silent Congjiang and ate our instant noodles, pleased with a day of exploring and happy that our unplanned stop in Congjiang had given us such an interesting side trip.

“The Fishermen Were Here First”

A Koli woman from India
(Photo: Meena Kadri)

By Supriya Savkoor

That famous line about India’s legendary city of Mumbai was written by one its most famous sons, author Salman Rushdie, in his Booker Prize-winning novel, Midnight’s Children. His book is fiction, of course, but he bases his rich story lines on the country's equally rich history, including in this reference about what is now India’s most populous city and the world’s fourth largest.

Before the colonists ever set foot in the area now known as Mumbai, it was made up of seven islands, each taking the name of families of the native tribe known as Kolis, its original residents. Even the present-day names of the city’s neighborhoods are mutations of those original names. And on one of those islands, Dongri, the Kolis still houses the temple dedicated to their goddess, Mumba Devi. Sound familiar? The city’s pre-colonial name, Mumbai, hails from this Koli goddess (devi means goddess, in fact).

The islands eventually came together, much of it through land reclamation, and formed the modern city that came to be known as Bombay in the 20th century and back to Mumbai in this one. As the city grew up, the natives were pushed out, to the fringes of the city, where they were marginalized into low-paying laborer jobs, mostly fishing. (Note, the word "Koli" is likely the derivative of the English word “coolie,” which refers to any sort of unskilled, menial laborer.)

In the 1960s, Bombay’s Kolis went to court to save what they could of their remaining settlements, mostly those at the edges of the city, along the sea and other waterways. They won, and today, those little communities, a small handful of them, are known as Koliwadas, as in “Koli neighborhoods.” The Koli fisherpeople, and the women folk, in particular, are a fixture of the Mumbai landscape. They squat at train exits and on the footpaths (sidewalks), with large baskets full of fresh catch in front of them. The women are dressed colorfully and wear tattoos, which have a religious significance. They’re lively, exuberant, and, well, known for their salty language but not for biting their tongues when annoyed. Koli folk music, mostly about the fishing way of life, has become popular among the mainstream, even sung by a few Bollywood singers of yesteryear. The Koli festival, Narali Punaw, commemorates the beginning of the wind’s changing strength and direction, in favor of their main livelihood of fishing.  

Numerous Kolis have carved successful careers outside of fishing, but here are a few surprises in their midst: before the Buddha sought enlightenment, and though he was previously a prince, his princess-wife was said to have hailed from the Koli community. The poet-saint Kabir (“Slowly slowly O mind, everything in its own pace happens/The gardener may water with a hundred buckets, fruit arrives only in its season”) may have been a Koli. The Mafatlal family of industrialists, presiding over the successful Indian textile empire, Mafatlal Industries Ltd., also hails from a Koli weaver family. And on and on.

But wait, back to Salman Rushdie, whose command of history and poetic prose in Midnight’s Children perhaps explains the Koli community’s legacy best.

“The fishermen were here first. Before the East India Company built its Fort...at the dawn of time, when Bombay was a dumbbell-shaped island tapering, at the center, to a narrow shining strand...when Mazgaon and Worli, Matunga and Mahim, Salsette and Colaba were islands, too—in short before reclamation...turned the Seven Isles into a long peninsula, like an outstretched, grasping hand, reaching westwards into the Arabian Sea; in this primeval world before clock towers, the fishermen—who were called Kolis—sailed in Arab dhows, spreading red sails against the setting sun. They caught pomfret and crabs, and made fish-lovers of us all...There were also coconuts and rice. And above it all, the benign presiding influence of the goddess Mumbadevi, whose name—Mumbadevi, Mumbabai, Mumbai—may well have become the city's. But then the Portugese named the place Bom Bahai for its harbour, and not for the goddess of the pomfret folk...the Portugese were the first invaders, using the harbour to shelter their merchant ships and their men-of-war; but then, one day...an East India Company Officer...saw a vision. This vision—a dream of a British Bombay, fortified, defending India's West against all comers—was a notion of such force that it set time in motion.”

The Many Faces of Iran

Khatam (marquetry) boxes from Isfahan

By Heidi Noroozy

Every year, Tehran hosts a folklore festival that celebrates Iran’s vast ethnic diversity. For seven days, the locals get to sample cuisines from every corner of their country, check out displays of colorful handicrafts, and experience a small slice of life in villages and nomadic communities from the Caspian Sea to the Persian Gulf, from the Afghan/Pakistani border to the Zagros Mountains.

By some stroke of luck, my latest trip to Iran coincided with that festival, and I spent a sunny afternoon with friends one day, wandering about the grounds of the Bahman Cultural Center, where we sampled Kurdish koloocheh (a kind of flat doughnut) and sipped tea in a nomad’s tent whose sides were draped with colorful carpets. We watched a Qashqa’i tribeswoman make butter by gently rocking a cream-filled sheepskin suspended from a makeshift wooden frame. When night fell and the dancing demonstrations began, the master of ceremonies kindly saved me a seat right in front of the “stage” (a clearing in the crowd), which not only gave me an unobstructed view of the dancers but also a deafening proximity to the Qashqa’i drummer.

Like any nation with a long history, Iran’s diverse population reflects the country’s geographic shifts, with borders expanding in one period and shrinking in another, with entire communities being relocated to suit a leader’s political ambitions.

There are too many ethnic groups to describe in one short post, but here are a few that I've encountered on past visits:

Azeri dancers at the Bahman Cultural Center
in Tehran

The Azeris, or Azerbaijanis, are the largest minority, accounting for 15 to 25 percent of the population. They occupy four provinces in the northwestern part of the country—Eastern Azerbaijan, Western Azerbaijan, Ardabil, and Zanjan—and speak a Turkic language. If you’ve been following the news of the Iran earthquake that took place last month, its epicenter lay near Tabriz, the capital of East Azerbaijan. Azeris refer to themselves colloquially as “Turks” (torki), and most are Shia Muslims. They are well integrated into society and play important roles in business and politics. Many merchants at the Grand Bazaar belong to this ethnic group, and their language can be heard throughout the marketplace. The Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, is half Azeri, with a father from Tabriz.

The Kurds are a Sunni Muslim minority whose territory spans four countries: Iran, Iraq, Syria, and Turkey. The Kurdish populations of all four countries have pushed for autonomy from their governments in a desire to form their own independent nation. But even non-separatist Kurds in Iran are fiercely proud of their heritage, as I discovered on a trip through the Zagros Mountains. Close to midnight, my companions decided to stop by the side of the road—to stretch their legs, they said. We drove up a short dirt track to wide plateau, where they cranked up the CD player. After piling out of the car, we formed a line and danced to the rhythm of a lively Kurdish folk tune—with me stumbling along to keep up with the fancy footwork. The leader took my scarf and twirled it through the air as the line wove back and forth under a bright moon. When headlights signaled an approaching vehicle, one man reached through the window and silenced the CD player. We stood motionless under the starry sky until the other car had passed.

Iran has several Christian minorities, the largest of which is the Armenian community. This ethnic group traces its history back to the 16^th century when its members got caught up in a war between the Persians, led by Shah Abbas of the Safavids, and their Ottoman neighbors. As part of a “scorched earth” policy to prevent the Ottomans from launching attacks from Armenian villages, Abbas depopulated the border region and resettled the people in his nation’s interior. Because the Armenians were known for their artistic skills, he used them to help build his new capital of Isfahan, and the city’s Jolfa neighborhood is still a center of Armenian life in Iran. It has an Armenian school, 12 churches, and the beautiful Vank Cathedral.

Making butter in a sheepskin

The Qashqa’is hail from a nomadic tribe that traditionally led a pastoral life, following their herds of sheep from summer pastures in the mountains near Shiraz to winter quarters along the Persian Gulf. Today, most of them have abandoned the nomadic life, but they are still known for their skill in weaving colorful textiles, using homespun wool and natural dyes. Gabbeh, a movie by the Iranian filmmaker, Mohsen Makhmalbaf, paints a lyrical (if fictionalized) picture of life in a Qashqa’i tribe.

My husband is an ethnic Persian, but his extended family includes Kurds and Azeris. Through their eyes, I’ve learned about different cultural practices, languages, and—best of all—cuisines, which together form the colorful patchwork of Iran’s multicultural society.