The Story Behind Wayina | Can young people who left the fields and songs return to the countryside?
A Note from Foodthink
Foodthink’s logo is a microphone growing from the fields. How much energy the voices of the fields possess, how far they can travel, and what echoes they can awaken—the answer may require many more summers, and many more cycles of seasonal cultivation.
Today, let us revisit this podcast episode to articulate the parts they couldn’t fully explain on a variety show: how decades of agricultural reform and social change have transformed their hometown, and how one can sustain a life in the countryside today. This is not just about personal livelihood, but about discovering the inherent value of rural life.
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Guest / of / the / Episode
Banong
Chief creator and lead singer of the band Wayna. He has released albums such as the “Na Song Trilogy” and “The Nameless River”. In 2019, Guangxi Normal University Press published his collection of long poems, lyrics, paintings, and interviews, titled “Bowing to Farm, Looking Up to Sing”. In 2021, he became a partner in Foodthink’s “Lianhe Project”, establishing a community seed bank in his hometown.
Shibashi
A native of Guilin and a musician invited by Banong; lead singer of the band One.
Host / of / the / Episode
Tianle
Founding Editor of Foodthink and convenor of the Beijing Organic Farmers’ Market.
Wang Hao
Editor at Foodthink.
I. The Musician Who Returned to the Land
Banong: In the Zhuang language, “Wa” means flower, and “Na” means paddy field. “Wayna” refers to fields fragrant with rice blossoms.
Wang Hao: Could you introduce your other identity to our listeners?
Banong: I previously compiled my photographs and poems into a published collection called “Bowing to Farm, Looking Up to Sing”. It’s what you’d call a “half-farmer, half-X” lifestyle; currently, I’m in a state of farming and creating simultaneously.
Tianle: You lived in Guangzhou for a while before this, doing music?
Banong: Yes. In Guangzhou, I mainly worked in design for eight or nine years; music was just something I did occasionally. Eventually, I chose to return to a life of “half-farming, half-singing”. I started going back to farm in 2012, but at that time, I’d leave once the planting was done and only return for the harvest. In 2015, I decided to return for good.
Tianle: So it was “half-working, half-singing” at first, and then “half-farming, half-singing”. Why did you decide to go back to your hometown to farm?
Banong: I’d been in the city for eight or nine years and felt I’d learned everything I needed to. I’d visited all the exhibitions and places in Guangzhou, and it felt like there was nothing left that could help me grow. If I were to continue living on this earth, I felt there was nothing left for me to see in the city. I believed the only things still worth exploring were in the mountains and the countryside. Additionally, my parents were getting older, and I wanted to find a way to go back and care for them.
II. The Bubble Behind Urban Abundance
Banong: Back when I was still in Guangzhou, we often went to the suburbs for trips. At the time, I thought the city was great—it had everything—and I loved that urban abundance. Then, one time we visited an agritourism farm in the suburbs and walked through the vegetable plots; I noticed there wasn’t a single weed in sight.
I found it strange. It was so clean it looked like plastic. Because I know the countryside well, I felt there was a massive difference between those plots and real village gardens. I saw plenty of small plastic bags and bottles discarded in the rooms. It suddenly dawned on me: things like vegetable markets, which I previously thought were so bountiful, might be an illusion. After all, the vegetables in those markets are provided by the suburbs, where everything is sprayed with all sorts of chemicals, leaving not a single weed. This apparent prosperity might just be a bubble, masking something quite worrying beneath the surface. After that, I started gathering information and encountered ecological farming and heirloom varieties, which slowly opened up my perspective.
When I returned in 2012 to build my house and set up a recording studio, I went looking for our local heirloom varieties. My mother told me that heirloom rice had basically disappeared from our area.
Eventually, my drummer mentioned he had eaten a type of red rice at a relative’s house. It turned out that because that house was on a hilltop with a very specific climate, hybrid seeds didn’t grow well, so they could only plant heirloom varieties, which is why they were preserved. That was the first heirloom variety I found, and it was a struggle. Later, I got in touch with non-profit organisations and discovered there are so many varieties—now I’m exhausted just from planting them all! (Laughs)
Wang Hao: You must have quite a few heirloom varieties now.
Banong: I got many from fellow farmers; in the end, I’ve preserved about 20 types. I only grow four for consumption; the rest are for seed saving.
Tianle: Why did you decide to take on the work of seed saving?
Banong: Because it had been so difficult to find them myself. At one point, even my drummer wanted to give up, but I called him and said, “No, keep looking for me.” That’s why I cherish every heirloom variety I manage to get. If they are lost, they are truly hard to find. I’m very grateful to everyone at those non-profit organisations.
Tianle: So it was really the heirloom varieties that first connected you with these organisations.
Banong: Yes. They used to invite me to meetings, which I usually hate attending. But as soon as they mentioned an exchange of seed varieties, I was there immediately.
Tianle: Now that you’ve planted so many, what differences do you notice between heirloom and conventional varieties?
Banong: My friends all say the aroma of the cooked rice is much stronger. Of course, our heirloom varieties come in many types; some are fragrant, while others might not be. I mainly grow them for my own use. For example, I grow two special varieties: purple and red rice. The red rice is great for porridge, and the purple rice for sweet wine. White rice is the staple, so I plant more of the variety that has the right texture and quality, and I’ll see over time which one suits my land best. Since I can’t grow a huge amount, my varieties are mostly for a niche group of people.
III. How the World Changed with Pesticides and Chemical Fertilisers
Tianle: So your parents are back in your hometown in Guilin?
Shiba: The land is in the county, in a very remote village. I go back for a month or two every year. Whenever there’s work to be done at home, I head back.
Tianle: Which months is the farm work usually done in Guilin?
Shiba: There’s something to do almost every month. For example, I go back in March, around the Qingming Festival, to sow the seeds. By May, it’s time for transplanting the rice; once that’s done, there’s not much to do until the harvest around August or September.
Tianle: Do you have to weed the fields by hand?
Shiba: My father still uses conventional herbicides, and he uses chemical fertilisers and pesticides too. That’s why I want to go back and try to change their ways.
Tianle: Why do you feel the need to change it? He’s already working so hard.
Shiba: Because I’ve witnessed the environmental change. When I was little, the paddy fields were full of fish and leeches. I’ve seen discoveries of ancient fossils in Jiangsu, and my childhood fields were just like that—full of life.
Tianle: Did you have to work in the fields when you were a child too?
Shiba: I’ve worked since I was small. While the adults were harvesting the rice, we would sometimes stay home to cook.
When I was little, we raised oxen. Every evening, before the oxen returned, we had to carry dry straw into the pens and spread it out, making sure it was nice and dry for them to sleep on. By the next morning, the straw would be soaking wet, pressed down by the oxen’s dung and urine. Day after day, a thick layer of natural fertiliser would build up on the ground. In the spring, we would carry the straw to the fields in baskets; we called it “rice powder”, because it was individual straws wrapped in fermented ox manure.
We don’t raise oxen anymore. Now, after the grass is cut, a machine ploughs the land, and when it’s time to harvest, a professional combine harvester comes. Once the crop is harvested, it’s just turned into grain, and we simply lay it out to dry.
Tianle: So now that there are no oxen, there is no natural fertiliser.
Shiba: None. Just chemical fertilisers.
Tianle: So you feel there are fewer organisms in the fields now.
Shiba: Yes, very few. There used to be so many aquatic creatures; now there’s practically nothing in the water, though there might still be some insects on the surface.
Tianle: What do you think that means?
B Nong: Actually, ordinary people don’t think about it that much. From a purely intuitive perspective, I just feel that the fields have lost a lot of their joy. When we were children, we could catch oil grasshoppers to roast and eat while harvesting, not to mention all the other insects, frogs, and mantises. Now, when you harvest, you hardly encounter anything. It’s just very quiet.
Tianle: Isn’t that more efficient?
B Nong: Perhaps, but for a child, playing in the fields is no longer fun.
Wang Hao: Do the villagers feel that this is a bad thing?
Shiba: The young people aren’t farming, and the older generation just thinks it’s more efficient.
Tianle: Besides the loss of that joy, what does the loss of organisms in the farmland—what we call the loss of biodiversity—actually mean?
B Nong: I think if people aren’t specifically concerned or influenced by ecological education, they really don’t feel there’s any problem.
Wang Hao: Right, so there needs to be an external perspective or a concept of ecological education.
B Nong: Because I’ve always stayed in the village, they don’t think anything of it, but they perceive it from a practical standpoint when they actually need something. For example, the aunties in our village often come to my front yard to pick plantain for anti-inflammatory herbal medicine. They say that after the pesticides were used on their land, the plants vanished. The whole village is spraying, so they can only come to my place to pick them. They only experience the contrast when they have a use for it; otherwise, they still find herbicides very convenient.
Tianle: Shiba, you haven’t had formal ecological agriculture education, so what are your own thoughts?
Shiba: I was born into an ecological environment. Our paddy fields used to be full of fish. The fields were connected to the rivers, so when the water rose, the fish would swim into the paddies, and we would use fish traps. When we ploughed the land and the oxen rolled around, breaking up the mud, we could collect a whole basin of fish.
I remember the first time they used that red medicine—it came in small pellets. They broke up the soil so everything sank, then they spread the fertiliser. Once the chemicals hit the field, all sorts of fish and frogs floated to the surface; carcasses covered the entire field. I wasn’t very old then, maybe in junior high. That moment shocked me. I thought, our world has changed. It has truly changed.
Wang Hao: So, it was a very direct, visceral shock for you.
Tianle: But I feel that a person needs a certain level of sensitivity to realise it’s a problem, or to feel that something is wrong.
Shiba: Without even realising it, I felt that I had lost my hometown. My true hometown was a land of fish and rice, where the rivers were clear and we could swim in them. Now the mountains are planted with eucalyptus trees, and eventually, our rivers will simply dry up.
I’ve experienced losing my hometown twice. In 2010, after graduating from university, I went to a Tibetan area in Yunnan, to a very primitive village. There were only 15 households. Just like us, they cut all the grass to feed their pigs and cows. They lived on the second floor, while the ground floor served as pens for the cows, pigs, and chickens. That was over ten years ago. Later, some people came to plant grapes and started using pesticides. Then came mobile phones, and they were exposed to more of the world; I found that all the Tibetans were scrolling through TikTok. Before that, we used to dance every day while we worked.
Tianle: So it was a Tibetan settlement, a place you visited often.
Shiba: Yes, it was basically like one big family. After I started drifting, I stayed there to help raise pigs.
IV. The character for ‘farming’ (農) has ‘music’ (曲) on top
Wang Hao: Right, that really brought home the idea of singing and farm work going hand in hand.
Banong: Actually, when I chose the stage name Banong, I specifically used the traditional character for ‘farmer’ (農). The top part of that character is actually the word for ‘melody’ (曲). My approach is just like that of traditional mountain singers. If you go to a Dong village or further into the mountains to the Zhuang people, that’s how the village singers are. They’re called upon to sing at weddings and funerals, but otherwise, they just do their own work—some are carpenters, some are farmers. They just sing naturally while they work.
So, for farmers in ancient times, singing while working was simply a way of life. But the simplified character (农) just looks like a plough; it’s just about the labour.
Tianle: That’s true. I’ve noticed while attending events in the Southwest that the ethnic minority farmers who join in often have a particular talent or craft.
Banong: In the mountains, if you can’t sing, you probably won’t find a girlfriend. (Everyone laughs)
Wang Hao: But your music is different from traditional mountain songs, isn’t it?
Shiba: I think he still retains the characteristics of traditional mountain songs.
Wang Hao: Did you intentionally collect materials or use them as a reference?
Banong: Definitely. When I go to the countryside, I look at the layout of the old houses, ask if there are any heritage crop varieties, and ask what songs they know. That’s what I do when I visit.
Wang Hao: And how do the locals around you view your music?
Banong: I performed in Nandan County for the first time this year. I never used to go back like that. But since a classmate of mine is in the publicity department, I had to do him a favour and perform. The Director of the Cultural Centre and the Head of Publicity both absolutely loved it; they told me that the promotion of our county’s culture depends on people like us. There are many old instruments kept in the museum that no one knows how to play anymore, and they said it’s up to us to revive them.
Banong: When I perform at home, I use more of the local dialect.
V. Mountain singers on social media
Wang Hao: But do they still love singing and dancing?
Banong: Actually, I don’t think it’s all that bad. While I was at my grandmother’s, there was an auntie with her phone; she told me they had a group chat with friends, some of whom are in Shenzhen working as nannies, and they constantly duet mountain songs in the group. After all, they are elderly.
While scrolling through TikTok, I’ve noticed many young people want to sing mountain songs too; they’ve formed these young groups to perform them. Many young people form mountain song groups just for the traffic and views. I’ve found plenty of them on Kuaishou as well. I actually think it’s quite fun.
Without the income or the traffic, they probably wouldn’t do it. There’s so much pop music now, but because people actually enjoy it when they sing mountain songs, I think that’s a good thing. They’re all very handsome and pretty; in the past, you could never have imagined them singing something so rustic. So, I don’t know what the world will become, but I can see new perspectives emerging.
Tianle: Do you upload your own stuff?
Banong: Oh, I don’t think I can compete with them. (Everyone laughs.)
VI. Food, Clothing, Housing, and Transport in the Village
I prefer things that are natural and comfortable, which includes eating organic ingredients. When I left the village, I said I was vegetarian because I felt the meat available outside wasn’t good. In reality, I still eat meat at home—my own livestock and fish from the local river. But when I’m away, I say I’m vegetarian.
Tianle: You’re far too picky.
Banong: When I’m in the countryside, I love looking at the traditional rural layouts; they are so beautiful. There’s a front yard and a back yard, with a small vegetable plot behind, space to keep chickens, a place for composting, and even a shrine to the Earth God. It’s a complete system, but when new buildings are put up, all of that vanishes. The paths where ducks wander and the spots where chickens peck at grain disappear, the back yard is cut off, and a four or five-storey house is built instead. Many elements of the whole system are lost.
That’s why I now look for farmhouses that have preserved their traditional layout. You feel that living there allows you to connect with many things; you’re in tune with every season—the vegetable plot in the back, a few fruit trees nearby, a duck here, a rooster crowing. It’s a very rich life system.
VII. University Students Who Don’t ‘Escape the Farm’
Tianle: Right, but you’ve had what is called a ‘respectable job’ in the city. I know there’s this idea of ‘escaping the farm’—the desire to leave behind the hardships of rural life. How do your parents view you returning, or preparing to return and take over their fields?
Shiba: The first time I went back with long hair, the whole village was talking. They were saying, ‘Bozi has turned into a girl.’ Bozi is my childhood nickname; they said Bozi had become a young woman and everyone came to see. My father looked quite troubled; he said something that really hurt me: ‘If I’d known you’d end up like this, I wouldn’t have let you come back.’ Now, however, they’ve gotten used to it.
Tianle: Well, Banong, your hair is short, so that’s not an issue.
Banong: I prepared them better. I told them I had work to do outside, so they didn’t need to worry so much. They don’t really understand what I’m doing anyway; I just told them I’m still taking commissions to put their minds at ease. We say that the land shapes the people, and in our area, people might not be so direct. I just let everyone feel secure while I transitioned slowly.
But it’s quite good now; they see that I can be at home and that I’m doing fine in my daily life.
VIII. Young People Have Lost the Ability to Live in the Village
Banong: My lifestyle involved a certain amount of adjustment and preparation. For one, I’m only a ‘half-farmer’—I don’t rely solely on agriculture to support my life.
Agriculture as a means of survival is easy; for example, if you plant a chestnut tree, it matures in five years and you can eat from it for a hundred. So, in terms of survival, agriculture is the most stable return in the world. But if you want to exchange it for money, to make it your main pillar of income and social value, it’s miserable. You work in the fields for six months, and a kilo of rice is only 4 yuan. But if you go to a job, you might make two or three hundred a day; you could earn a year’s worth of rice in a single week.
But please don’t misunderstand; I do agriculture for survival. When I have nothing else to do, I can write songs or do some design work. It’s like the old craftsmen in the village—they farm for their own food, but if you need a carpenter, they do carpentry work.
Tianle: You mentioned you used to have a group of younger friends and that you were the leader. Does the leader returning have an influence on them?
Banong: They’re adults now; they aren’t going to just listen to me. I’m not ‘the leader’ anymore; everyone is their own leader. I once asked my cousin to join me at the farm, hoping he would stay. But after two months, he still wanted to go back to the factory. He said it was too quiet, with no entertainment or anything fun to do.
As I said before, we didn’t learn how to ‘sing and dance’ in school. This ‘singing and dancing’ is just a metaphor; it means we no longer know how to nourish our spiritual lives as we used to. Ideally, we should have returned after graduation with full spirits, but instead, we return and don’t know what to do. We need to learn how to coexist here, so that we don’t feel empty in the mountains or the village, without needing a BBQ stall or a KTV to feel like we’re actually living.
Tianle: But first, you need a rich inner world and the ability to create. If a young person lacks that cultural foundation, they might not be as resilient as you.
Banong: Exactly. That’s why many can’t settle—they don’t know what to do, so they have to go back to the city.
Wang Hao: In truth, their cultural roots are no longer fully adapted to the countryside.
Banong: That’s what I mean. We were originally rural people, but because we went to school, we left agriculture behind. We no longer know which herb is which, or what animal that is. If you can still gather herbs or observe wild bees, you’ll find it fascinating and be able to stay.
But because they left traditional agriculture to accept a new system at school, they had to abandon traditional rural education. Yet in that new education, they didn’t learn how to ‘sing and dance’—by which I mean how to entertain themselves. Self-entertainment is a way of enriching one’s spiritual life. In the end, they have no choice but to work in a factory.
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Images: Banong, Wu Jiao, Harvest Festival
Transcription / Editing: Wang Hao