The Story Behind Wayina | Can Young People Who Left Farming and Song Still Return to the Village?

III. How Pesticides and Chemical Fertilisers Changed the World

Tianle: So your parents are back home in Guilin.

Shiba: The land is in the county, out in the really remote countryside. I go back for about a month or two every year. Whenever there’s farm work to do at home, I head back.

Tianle: When is the farming season in Guilin?

Shiba: There’s work every month, really. For example, in March, around Qingming, you go back and sow the seeds. By May it’s rice transplanting. Once the transplanting’s done, there’s basically nothing much until harvest in August or September.

Tianle: Do you weed by hand?

Shiba: My dad still uses conventional herbicide – he uses chemical fertiliser and pesticide too. So when I go back, I need to try and change them.

Tianle: But why do you think it needs changing? He works so hard as it is.

Shiba: Because I’ve witnessed the environment changing. When I was small, there were loads of fish in the paddy fields, and leeches too. I saw in Jiangsu where they found those palaeontological organisms – those kinds of creatures used to be everywhere in the paddy fields when I was little.

Tianle: Did you have to work in the fields as a child too?

Shiba: I’ve been working since I was little. The grown-ups would harvest the rice, and we children would sometimes stay home and cook.

As a child I helped look after the cow. Every evening, before the cow came back, we had to carry dry straw on our backs into the byre and spread it out nice and dry so the cow could sleep on it. By the next morning the straw was all wet – the cow’s dung and urine just pressing down on it. Day after day, a thick layer of natural compost would build up underneath. Come spring, we’d carry the straw out to the fields in loads on a carrying pole. We call it “mifen”, because it’s individual strands of rice straw wrapped around fermented cow dung.

Now we don’t keep cows any more. Once the grass is cut, they plough the field once with a machine, and at harvest a professional combine harvester comes in. Once it’s reaped, it’s all become paddy grain, and we just take it out to dry.

Tianle: So without cows, there’s no natural fertiliser any more.

Shiba: There isn’t any left – just chemical fertiliser.

Tianle: So you feel there are far fewer living creatures in the fields now.

Shiba: Yes, very few. There used to be so many creatures in the water, but now there’s basically nothing living in it. You might still find some insects on the surface.

Tianle: And what do you think that means?

Banong: Ordinary people really don’t think about it that deeply. From the most immediate feeling, I just know there’s much less fun in the fields now. As children, when we were gathering the grain we could catch oil grasshoppers and roast them to eat, along with all sorts of insects, frogs, mantises. But now when you harvest, you don’t come across much at all – it’s just very quiet.

Tianle: Isn’t that more efficient, though?

Banong: But for children, there’s no fun playing in the fields any more.

Wang Hao: Do the villagers feel it’s a bad thing?

Shiba: The young people don’t farm any more, and the older generation just thinks it’s very efficient.

Tianle: So beyond losing that kind of joy – the loss of living creatures in the farmland, what we call loss of biodiversity – what does it actually mean?

Banong: I think unless someone has taken a particular interest, or been exposed to ecological education, they genuinely don’t feel anything’s wrong.

Wang Hao: Right, so it still takes that kind of awareness, that external ecological education.

Banong: Because I’ve always been living in the village. They don’t feel it’s a problem, but they’re practical people – they only notice something when they actually need it. For example, the aunties in our village often come to my front courtyard to cut plantain herb, because it’s an anti-inflammatory remedy. They say that after spraying their patches, there’s none left – the whole village is spraying, so they can only come all the way to my place to harvest some. They only make a comparison when they actually have a use for it. Otherwise, they still think herbicide is very convenient.

Tianle: Shiba, you haven’t had that kind of outside ecological agriculture education yourself – how do you see it?

Shiba: I grew up in an ecological environment to begin with. Our paddy fields used to be full of fish. The paddy fields connected to the river, so when the water rose, fish would swim right into the fields and we’d set fish traps in them. When it came to ploughing, the work ox would roll in the mud and break it all up, and you could scoop a whole basinful of fish.

I remember the first time they spread that red chemical – granule by granule. They’d break up the field, all the mud would sink, then they’d scatter fertiliser. After the chemical went in, fish and frogs would float up, and all manner of carcasses covered the entire field. I wasn’t that old at the time – probably still in junior high. That moment shook me to the core. I said, our world has changed – it truly has.

Wang Hao: So that was truly a very direct shock for you.

Tianle: But I do think you need someone with a certain sensitivity to recognise it as a problem, or to feel that something is amiss.

Shiba: Without quite realising it, I feel I’ve already lost my homeland. My true homeland was a land of fish and rice – the rivers were clear, and we could swim in them. Now eucalyptus is being planted on the hills too, and our rivers will just dry up.

I’ve experienced losing my homeland twice. In 2010, after I graduated from university, I went to the Tibetan areas in Yunnan, to a very pristine village. There were only fifteen families there. They were just like us – every scrap of grass had to be cut to feed the pigs and the cows. They lived on the upper floor; the ground floor was the cow byre, pigsty, and chicken coop. That was over ten years ago. Then someone came to grow grapes and started spraying chemicals. Later, when mobile phones arrived, they came into contact with a wider world, and I noticed every Tibetan there was scrolling through Douyin. We used to dance while working, every single day.

Tianle: So that was a Tibetan village, somewhere you visited often.

Shiba: Yes, they were basically like family. After I’d been wandering for a while, I stayed there and helped them raise pigs.

Wang Hao: Yesterday you said something really fascinating – when you’re harvesting the rice …Shiba: When cutting the rice gets tiring, you sing. When the singing gets tiring, you drink.

Wang Hao: Yes, and that’s when it struck me – how singing and farm work go hand in hand.

Banong: Actually, when I chose the stage name “Banong”, I deliberately went with the traditional character – 農. On top of that traditional 農 sits the character 曲 – song. My way of being is really just like a traditional mountain song singer. It’s the same in the Dong villages or among the Zhuang further up in the mountains – the mountain song singers in their villages all do the same thing. When there are weddings or funerals, they call the singers to perform; the rest of the time they do their own work. Carpentry – they can do that. Farming – they can do that too. Out in the fields, you just sing whenever you feel like it.

So for farmers in the old days, singing while working was simply a way of life. But the simplified 农 is shaped like nothing but a plough – it’s purely about toil.

Tianle: Yes, I’ve noticed the same thing when I attend events in the southwest – ethnic minority farmers turn up, and every single one has some particular skill.

Banong: If you can’t sing, you probably won’t find a girlfriend in the mountains. (Everyone laughs)

Wang Hao: But your music isn’t quite like traditional mountain songs, is it?

Shiba: I think his music still carries the hallmarks of traditional mountain songs.

Wang Hao: Have you deliberately collected material from them or drawn on their songs as a reference?

Banong: Absolutely. When I go to the countryside, I look at the layout of old houses, then ask whether they have any heirloom varieties, and whether they know any songs. Those are the things I do when I visit rural areas.

Wang Hao: And what do the local people around you think of your music?

Banong: This year I performed in Nandan County for the very first time – I would never have gone back to play like that before. But a schoolmate of mine works in the Publicity Department now, and I had to save his face, so I agreed to do a gig. The director of the Cultural Centre and the head of Publicity both took to me. They said, ‘The culture of our county – it’s up to you to promote it now.’ There are all sorts of old instruments sitting in the museum that nobody knows how to play, and he said it all falls to you lot.

Banong: At home, I perform in more of a local dialect.

V. Mountain Singers on Social Media

Tianle: Shiba mentioned scrolling through Douyin earlier. Nowadays, old or young, everyone seems to be on it. Has that changed anything about local culture? Banong: Since my mum learned how to scroll through Douyin, she’s stopped watching TV.

Wang Hao: But people still love singing and dancing, then?

Banong: Actually, I don’t think it’s quite as dire as all that. At my grandmother’s, there was this auntie sitting there with her phone, and she told me about a group chat they have – some of their friends are down in Shenzhen, having gone there to mind their grandchildren – and in the group they just keep singing mountain songs back and forth to each other. After all, they’re elderly, aren’t they?

When I scroll through Douyin, I notice loads of young people wanting to sing mountain songs too. They’ve formed all these young groups to sing that kind of music. A lot of young people put together mountain song outfits just for the clicks. I find plenty on Kuaishou as well – they’re all singing mountain songs. Ah, I actually find it quite fun.

If there weren’t the income, weren’t the traffic, they probably wouldn’t bother doing it. There are far too many people singing pop nowadays, but when someone sings a mountain song, people actually really enjoy it, so I think that’s a good thing. They’re all really handsome and good-looking – you’d never have imagined them singing something so old-fashioned and rural. So I don’t know what the world will become, but I can see new ideas taking root, at least.

Tianle: Do you upload?

Banong: Oh, I don’t think I can keep up with them anymore. (Everyone laughs.)

VI. Food, Clothing, Shelter and Travel in the Village

Tianle: People used to say the mountains were very isolated. You’ve been fully settled since 2015 – that’s six or seven years now. Do you feel the mountains or the village still bring you something fresh? What exactly have you learned? Banong: Because I studied fine art, I’m drawn to food, clothing, shelter and travel – all of it – and I really yearn for the things I can sense for myself. For instance, I once stayed in a hotel in town that cost over 500 yuan a night – marble floors everywhere – but the thing I needed most was missing: air. I’m very sensitive to air quality. If you give me good air, I’d rather live in a rough shelter. But I can’t eat marble and I can’t use it – what on earth is it good for?

For food, clothing, housing and travel, I prefer things natural and comfortable, and that includes eating organic produce. When I go out, I say I’m vegetarian, because I think the meat outside isn’t good. But when I’m home, I still eat meat – the kind we raise ourselves, and fish from our local river, I eat that too. But once I step out the door, I tell people I’m vegetarian.

Tianle: Too particular!

Banong: When I go to the countryside, I love to look at their traditional rural layouts – they’re wonderful, truly beautiful. There’s a front yard and a back yard, then a little kitchen garden behind that, where you can keep chickens and compost things, and there’s an Earth God shrine too. It’s a complete system, but once they put up the new blocks of flats, all of that disappears. The paths the ducks walk are gone, the spots where chickens peck at grain are gone, the back yard is cut off – they just build a four- or five-storey house, and so much of the whole system vanishes.

That’s why I now seek out farmhouses that still have the traditional layout. You feel that living in one, you’re connected to so many things. In every season you’re in touch with it – the kitchen garden in the back yard, a few fruit trees nearby, a duck wandering about, a rooster crowing. It’s a rich, whole way of living.

VII. University Graduates Who Won’t “Jump the Farm Gate”

Tianle: So how do your parents feel about you two going back to farming, seeing as you both went to university? Banong: I lasted six months and then I bolted.

Tianle: Right, but you did have what people call a “respectable job” in the city. I know there’s the old saying about “jumping the farm gate” – leaving behind the hardship of rural life. So how do your parents feel about you going back, or about preparing to take over their fields?

Shiba: The first time I went home with my hair grown long, the whole village was gossiping. People said things like, ‘Bozi’s turned into a girl!’ Bozi is my childhood nickname – they were saying, ‘Bozi has become a lass,’ and everyone came round to gawp. My father was deeply embarrassed, and he said something that really cut me: ‘If I’d known you’d end up like this, you should never have come back.’ These days, mind you, everyone’s got used to it.

Tianle: Well, Banong, your hair’s short, so that’s not an issue for you.

Banong: I was rather better prepared. I told them I’ve got work to do out here, so there’s no need for them to fret so much. They don’t really understand what I do anyway. I said I’m still taking on commissions, just to put their minds at ease. We have a saying back home: one patch of soil nourishes one’s people. Where I’m from, people don’t always speak so bluntly, so I reassured them first and then let things settle gradually.

But it’s all fine now. They see I’m back home, and life-wise there’s nothing to worry about.

VIII. Young People Have Already Lost the Ability to Live in the Village

Banong: Many people go back to the countryside and don’t know what to do, because they can’t farm either. They’ve all gone off to work in factories – nobody comes back. The next generation may not even have the ability to live happily in the village, if there aren’t even little insects or snakes for them to catch. Tianle: But you can farm – why can’t they?

Banong: My way of life has been adjusted and prepared for to a degree. For one thing, I’m only half a farmer – I don’t rely on agriculture to sustain my livelihood.

Farming as a means of survival is straightforward enough. Say you plant a chestnut tree – it matures in five years and you can eat from it for a hundred. So if we’re talking about sheer survival, agriculture offers the most dependable returns in the world. But if you want to sell what you grow, to make it the pillar of your life by converting it into social value, then it’s a sorry business. You work in the fields for six months, and half a kilo of rice fetches just four yuan. But go get a job and you’re making two or three hundred a day – maybe a week’s work earns back a whole year’s rice.

But let’s not misread this – I farm to sustain myself. If I’ve nothing else going on, I can write songs or do a bit of design. It’s like those old village craftspeople: they grow their own food, but if you need a carpenter, I’ll do a bit of joinery.

Tianle: You mentioned you used to have that younger crew and you were the ringleader. Does the ringleader going home affect them?

Banong: They’re grown-ups now – they won’t take direction from me. I’m not really the boss either; everyone’s their own boss. I once asked my cousin to come to the farm with me, hoping he’d stay on. But after two months he still wanted to go back to the factory. He said it was too desolate, no entertainment, nothing fun.

Like I said earlier, we never learned to sing and dance at school. Really, “singing and dancing” is just a metaphor – it means we’ve lost the old way of nurturing our inner lives. You’d think that when we graduate and come home, our spirits would be full, but instead we come back not knowing what to do. We need to learn how to be at ease here, not to feel empty just because we’re in the mountains or the village – not to need a barbecue stall or a karaoke bar to feel alive.

Tianle: But first you need a rich inner world and the ability to create. If young people don’t have that cultural foundation, they may not be as resilient as you.

Banong: Exactly. So a lot of people can’t settle – they don’t know what to do, and in the end they go back to town.

Wang Hao: In truth, their cultural roots are no longer entirely suited to rural life.

Banong: I’d put it like this: we’re country people by birth, but once we went off to study, we left agriculture behind. We can’t even tell which herb is which or name the animals around us. If you could still gather herbs, still watch wild bees, you’d find it delightful and be able to stay.

But they left traditional farming and had to go to school to pick up a whole new system, and in doing so they had to abandon the countryside’s traditional education. And in that new education, they never learned to sing and dance. When I say singing and dancing, I mean finding ways to entertain and fulfil ourselves – really, that self-entertainment is one way of enriching our inner lives. So in the end, all they can do is go work in a factory.

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Images: Banong, Wu Jiao, Harvest Festival

Transcript editing / Editor: Wang Hao