Craving Nature in the City, Air-Con on the Land: The Modern Condition

After graduating with my bachelor’s degree in 2025, I did not rush to secure a stable job. Instead, I spent time meandering in search of my own vision of a good life. Having grown up amidst cramped flats and concrete, I have come to realise that nature can both soothe and hold me. Stepping into nature brings a sense of release; yet the moment I leave it, I feel a heavy weight settle on me, as the anxiety that pervades human society instantly floods through my body.

Of all professions, agriculture remains the closest to nature. Consequently, I enrolled in Foodthink’s 2026 Ecological Agriculture Internship Programme, arriving at Baicaoyuan in Guigang, Guangxi in early March this year.

Does a “Peach Blossom Spring” truly exist?

Within the bounds of Baicaoyuan, a small ecological “Peach Blossom Spring” has taken shape: kitchen scraps and animal waste are turned into compost; plastic refuse is taken to town for disposal; all personal care products are eco-friendly, so they are simply rinsed away, flowing down the sloped brickwork and seeping into the soil runoff; no pesticides or chemical fertilisers are applied to the crops or fruit trees, leaving them to grow “untamed”.

Yet, at the boundary of Baicaoyuan’s mandarin orange groves, separated by a mere few metres, lies another orchard—and entirely another world.

◉Sign for the neighbouring orchard.

Branches are heavy with bright yellow fruit, while the soil around the trees is virtually barren, a stark expanse of yellow. In Baicaoyuan, a few unharvested fruits remain on the trees. Weeds crowd the base, some growing right up to the roots, their stems winding among the branches. This is the most striking visual contrast I have noticed between conventional and ecological farming. Yet an even more subtle difference lies in the taste. The sweetness of conventionally grown Wogan oranges sits heavy in the throat, cloying and sticky, never truly sinking in. The Wogan from Baicaoyuan, by contrast, are refreshingly sweet, seeping effortlessly into the body and leaving no heavy residue. Such a difference demands to be savoured slowly and pondered over, felt entirely by the body.

◉Fruit packing crates from the neighbouring orchard.

On another small hillside not far from Baicaoyuan, every tree and blade of grass was uprooted and completely cleared away. The end result was the same stark expanse of bare yellow. In April, fruit trees were planted on the land, with drip irrigation pipes sprawled across the ground in a criss-cross pattern, exposing the plastic waste buried in the soil.

One morning, while we were breaking ground on a newly rented plot belonging to Yan Ping, our very first task was clearing away refuse. The debris embedded in the soil consisted mainly of plastic sheeting, plastic bags, bottles, pesticide and fertiliser sacks, and woven sacks. Some of the waste had been buried so deep that it felt endless, with no discernible limit. Other pieces were hopelessly entangled; as we pulled them upwards, they slowly disintegrated, sending countless white fragments flying from the torn edges. Clearing this rubbish is a deeply saddening task for me. The plastic waste in agricultural land can never truly be eradicated, and I have jokingly dubbed myself Sisyphus, endlessly gathering litter.

◉Yan Ping at work. Photo credit: Chen Yujun

Sisyphus and the Slow Pace of Agriculture

When I first began farm work, I often felt rather like Sisyphus. At the outset, I found the labour repetitive, tedious, slow, and endless.

Weeding at Baicaoyuan marked my first time handling a hoe. Having no idea how to hold or carry it, I could only watch Yan Ping and Xiaona, silently observing their technique before attempting to copy them. I picked up the tool clumsily and hacked at the soil, feeling stiff and awkward all over. My uncoordinated swings sent the hoe swinging in awkward arcs, making it nearly impossible to dig deep. Before long, my body was weary, and a quiet sense of frustration began to creep in.

Agriculture is inherently a slow pursuit. My own slow pace stems from a lack of skill, whereas a seasoned planter can set out a seedling in mere seconds. Their apparent speed is, in truth, built upon years of patient, deliberate practice.

Yet not all slowness is the same.

There is a kind of slowness that is simply low quality. When the mind is elsewhere and one is not fully engaged, the work grows drawn-out and tedious. Time drags on without any depth accumulating, and without truly sinking into the task itself. Fundamentally, this slowness is merely drift and dissipation. Then there is another kind of slowness—a good kind. Pacing thoughtfully, allowing ideas to unfold gradually; or working at a steady, unhurried rhythm, with both body and attention fully present. This slowness gives time substance and weight. The real question, then, is not whether we move quickly or slowly, but whether we have truly stepped into time itself.

Later, as my body gradually fell into a comfortable rhythm with the farming tools, I occasionally felt a sense of ease. I would lift the hoe lightly, let it drop under its own weight, and a small indentation would open in the soil. A gentle pull back towards me would leave a little hole. A quiet sense of accomplishment followed.

◉An old, discarded hoe.

Yet the land will present other challenges, too. Sometimes your hoe strikes a stone buried in the soil. If it’s small, you can simply tilt the blade slightly and pry it loose. With a larger one, you must either yield, or step back slightly, clear away the soil clinging to it to expose the stone, and then shift it out by hand.

Brute force is of no use against stone. Nor is it of much use elsewhere.

After settling into the routine, working the land makes time feel drawn out, occasionally slipping into a calm state of flow. Focus isn’t constantly fractured while you’re working the soil, so farm labour becomes a form of mental relaxation.

At Baicaoyuan, I carried water with a pole for the first time. The curved bamboo pole rested on my right shoulder, its hooked ends each bearing a half-full bucket. I crouched in the middle, left hand steadying the front, right hand securing the back, then rose slowly, very slowly. A faint strain touched my right shoulder as I shifted my feet, advancing with careful, measured steps.

It was hard physical work, yet the moment I realised my body was not so frail after all—that it could still bear the weight of the water—I felt a quiet sense of satisfaction, along with a newfound trust in what my own frame could do.

The only piece of mechanical equipment at Baicaoyuan is a brush cutter. Using it means resting one end on your shoulder, holding the blade end at a steady height, and moving forward slowly.

The lawnmower feels heavy to me and lets out a deafening roar. It’s usually Yanpingjie who uses it to blaze a trail. When the mower is running, I have to wear earplugs or step back a fair distance to keep the noise at bay.

◉Yanpingjie discovered an anthill while mowing.

I even find mechanical farm tools like this lawnmower more physically taxing than traditional implements. It has to sit motionless against the body, with only the blades moving—a setup that places a heavy strain on the shoulders. After using it for several days in a row, Yanpingjie began to suffer from shoulder pain. I ended up steadying the handlebars of a three-wheeled motorbike while we rode into town to see a doctor.

Yet when using traditional implements such as a hoe, the body and the tool become an integrated whole. Force is continuously transmitted and coordinated between the body, the tool, and the soil. The person moves in rhythm with the tool, while the tool, guided by the operator, works more effectively with the earth. Once you learn to work without undue strain, physical exhaustion and aching muscles are far less likely; instead, you may even feel light and at ease.

Yielding to nature

At Baicaoyuan, I experienced a way of life utterly different from anything I had known before. When life draws so close to nature and the earth, the body inevitably yields——yielding to the beggar’s ticks that cling to shoes, socks and trouser hems, to the marks insect bites leave on my arms, to the sudden downpours whipped by fierce winds, to prolonged droughts, to the heavy weight of a shoulder pole laden with water, to steep, treacherous inclines, to the wild grasses blanketing the hills, to the rats scampering across the roof beams each day and the cockroaches darting through the rice jars, to the colonies that ferment and mould the food——yet I refuse to yield to the plastic mulch films laid across the soil, nor to the refuse piled beside the graves.

◉Beggar’s ticks.

Looking back now, the memory that remains most vivid is of that sudden downpour. This is the scene I wrote down that afternoon:

“After the thunder and lightning, the sky turned in an instant: it darkened, then greyed. The sound of wind and rain mingled as the vegetation bent and swayed in every direction. I hurried to bring inside the clothes I’d hung on the tree branches outside. Fine, scattered drops of rain blew through the doorway, leaving damp patches on the wooden floorboards. A dampness settled on my skin, carrying a faint chill that slowly spread through me.”

“Several women working at the neighbouring farm were taking shelter from the rain at the doorway, singing folk songs. Yanping warmly ushered them inside. They arranged the small wooden stools and sat down in a row. As the rain intensified, their movements grew more frantic: they hurried to gather the mulberries and coix stalks drying beneath the eaves, drew up the bamboo blinds, and retreated further inside to gather round the fire. The wind blew the flames to one side, and everyone quickly shifted away. The small room was suddenly packed. Folk songs rang out, conversation flowed, and the wind and rain howled outside. I began to struggle to process it all; my ears, my nerves and my mind felt on the verge of overload. I raised my camera to capture the scene, and it seemed to help. Watching the people, the plants, the wind, the rain and the fire through the viewfinder, I gradually began to calm down.”

◉The women taking shelter from the rain.

◉Heavy rain, warming by the fire indoors.

Later, another downpour struck late at night, equally sudden. The sound of rain instantly flooded the ear I had pressed against the pillow; I woke abruptly and could not fall back asleep. Climbing down the wooden ladder, I found the floorboards were already damp, along with the items left on the table. I hurriedly packed them away into a smaller, drier room.

Having lived through such a spell, one rediscovers a profound sense of reverence for nature.

Here, I also stepped into a role that felt much like that of a producer. I gather and cultivate my own food, or trade with fellow farmers. I prepare all three daily meals myself, sometimes starting right from lighting the fire. My journeys are confined to places reachable by an electric trike, whether that means heading into town to collect parcels or driving to the nearby city of Yulin to tend another plot. The essentials of life—food, clothing, shelter, and transport—shrink back to a modest scale.

Out in the remote countryside, people—whether willingly or by necessity—shoulder the labour of production. In the city, however, people’s time is carved up by employment, often leaving them to drift passively into the role of consumer.

◉A corner of Baicaoyuan.

The Day of Departure

After spending a month living and working on the farm, I decided to leave, unable to bear the sweltering heat.

On the day we left, Sister Yan Ping took me on her three-wheeled motorcycle to the high-speed rail station. The afternoon was stifling, the sunlight blinding. As we picked up speed, a breeze kicked up, driving off some of the heat. Halfway there, Yan Ping and I swapped seats, and I took the wheel. Glare from the road surface reflected straight into my eyes; I squinted and fixed my gaze on the path ahead. It is a completely different experience to be the driver rather than the passenger.

I recall my first time riding this three-wheeler, taking turns practising with Xiaona. We set off from the door of the wooden house, facing a narrow slope with bamboo frames erected beside it. The incline widened slightly further down. A left turn, followed by a short stretch, and we reached the flat ground of the village. The road was uneven, and I was trembling, fighting down my fear, managing the speed, inching forward slowly, slowly. As we reached the section of slope leading onto the flat ground, the vehicle jolted violently; I did my utmost to steady myself. Trusting in myself, and in the stability of this three-wheeler, I finally made it onto the flat ground.

◉On the right is Xiaona, examining the bean paste that has been fermenting for several days alongside Sister Yanping.

It was Xiao Na’s turn to take over. I stood by watching as she suddenly accelerated. Before I could even react, the tricycle had shot off. Just as she was about to turn onto the track, Yan Ping and I hurried to give chase. After turning into the fork, she still failed to rein in her speed. In a flash, the tricycle struck a tree by the side of the track. Xiao Na likely hadn’t come to terms with her fear; this nervousness left her movements flustered, which led to the accident. It seems, then, that slow truly has its merits.

◉The tricycle at Baicaoyuan. Photograph by Chen Yujun

Driving on the flat roads to the high-speed rail station, however, brought me back into my comfort zone. As long as there was no oncoming traffic, I would ease the car up to its top speed. If a vehicle did approach, I would slow down well in advance, pulling over whenever I could. That said, I do not fare well in the summer heat. For the final stretch, Sister Yan Ping took the wheel again, and I dozed off beside her.

By April, Guangxi had already turned into a steamer. Those final days at Baicaoyuan found the summer heat leaving my mind thick and muddled. My thoughts grew hazy, my body sluggish and heavy. It was thoroughly unbearable, akin to a bout of heat-induced brain fog. This was not the mental blankness that sometimes accompanies physical toil, but rather felt like a glob of hot paste churning inside my skull. I suppose my brain and nervous system truly require the right environment to function.

Postscript

Modern People Craving the Land

By the time I wrote this, I had already returned to the crowded, cramped confines of the city. The shift from nature to urban life was immediately apparent. At Baicaoyuan, there was no barrier between people and the natural world; in the city, however, one must seek out parks or artificial spaces to find nature that has been carefully curated. The city operates as a vast, top-down system to which we surrender our time. Cut off from raw nature and the places where things are actually grown or made, we gradually lose our sensitivity to the weather and the rhythms of the natural world.

Yet, during my time at the farm, I often felt quite lost. It seemed to me that, apart from the hours spent labouring, my days consisted merely of cooking, eating, and resting. I no longer had time set aside for reading, writing, or study; I could only squeeze in moments here and there, reading with a strenuous, almost desperate hunger. Occasionally, I would even fear that I was simply wasting my time.

◉A corner of the desk.

Farm work unfolds as a continuous, repetitive cycle, providing a form of immediate feedback—plant one, then plant the next. But crops require time to grow, and I found myself unfamiliar with this silent, patient progression. I often wondered how farmers find the patience to endure plant growth cycles spanning months, or even years.

I cannot draw any feedback or emotional response from the growth of the crops. For me, it simply holds no “meaning”.

I have not made the eco-farm my final destination; it is merely one possible fragment of the life I picture for myself. During my time on the farm, I am also attending to other work. Sister Yanping simply says, “Don’t try to do two things at once.” I cannot yet remain rooted in one place as she does. I too wish to work with single-minded focus, yet at this stage, I must reach out in different directions if I am to truly arrive at the life I want. I cannot yet remain rooted in one place as Sister Yanping does.

Looking back now on my time at Baicaoyuan, I think it allowed me to experience, directly and anew, both physically and spiritually, how people live and labour in nature, and to gain a deeper appreciation for how precious and hard-won food truly is. I have also come to realise that I remain a modern person rather than one of nature; I cannot do without air conditioning and urban life, nor can I truly live as a farmer does. But I will forge my own path, exploring a good way of living in the spaces between town and country, tradition and modernity, consumption and production.