NIn the fall of 2020, a few months after moving to Dali, I finally set out to climb Cangshan, a high mountain that towers over this valley in southwestern China. Every morning, I looked up at the imposing 2,000-meter ridge peak of Yinqiao Village, north of Dali’s historic Old City, and for a while called it home. 18 glacial canyons separate the 19 mountains, each carved by flowing streams. Ever since I moved there, I’ve dreamed of standing on top of that mountain. Reaching that summit became an obsessive goal for me. I had convinced myself that scaling would be the cure.
I wasn’t the only one who held that view. What draws so many fugitives from Chinese cities to this rural valley is the quest for personal change. Cangshan (‘green mountain’) is a magnificent 44 km-long mountain massif covered with lush evergreen forests, hugging the western shore of a crystal-clear lake, and nestling in the foothills of the eastern Himalayas near the border with Myanmar. It stands tall. . Every evening, I would sit from my farmhouse and watch the sun set beyond them, its pink, yellow, and ocher light shining through the clouds rolling off the ridgeline.
There is a Chinese proverb: “The mountain is high and the emperor is far away.” It speaks of an escape from the bonds of urban power, of self-exile in the countryside. The Dali Valley in Yunnan province, far from Beijing, where I have lived for the past seven years, has a storied history as just such a haven. The ancestors of Dali’s indigenous Bai people are thought to have come here fleeing warring dynasties in the north. In modern times, this place has become an increasingly trendy destination for those who want to escape the city and return to nature. The ancient Old Town and surrounding villages are dotted with city dwellers renting cottages and farmhouses to escape it all. And I was one of them.
at that time When I moved to Dali, a new Chinese buzzword was starting to appear online: “revolution.” Chinese, Neijuan, literally means “to be caught inside.” When you work 12 hours a day, you get caught up in an overwork culture. If you were a student whose parents crammed in back-to-back classes over the weekend, you’ve probably gotten caught up in the education system. If he’s commuting two hours to pay off his shoebox apartment and buy a car to bring his partner, he’s at the mercy of social conventions.
1 blog post has been liked Neijuan The Prisoner’s Dilemma was depicted using an image from a concert where people in the front row stood up to get a better view. If we were all seated, we would have the same view, but since some people were standing, the people behind us had to sit as well. Evolution, not social evolution. A suggested solution is to lie down instead of standing or sitting. The words used for this are tamping, meant literally lying down, but indicated a deeper opt-out from the system. If the game is rigged and social mobility is impossible, why bother? Quit the rat race. Break the cycle. The most extreme form was to flee the city altogether. If material goals were not met, there may have been another mountain to climb.
Dali was already jokingly called the “lying capital.” Some people call this place “Dalifornia” because of the nice weather and cool atmosphere. This regressive trend was a direct reversal of all the upward mobility that the Chinese had once cherished. For decades, people born in the countryside wanted nothing more than to escape their poverty. But some of the generation born in China’s big cities wanted to return to the soil where their ancestors were born. After 40 years of urbanization, the tide was reversing.
Obviously, I’m not Chinese. I was a privileged white Englishman living in this village. Still, I found myself just as burnt out with life in Beijing as any other city dweller. Born and raised in Oxford, after graduating from university in 2007, I traveled to China to teach for a summer and fell in love with the country, where I stayed for the next 15 years. At that time, Beijing was one of the most exciting cities in the world. But something has changed since 2017. As the nation turned toward authoritarianism, China tightened its grip rather than opening up. The city no longer felt like the center of a dynamic nation, but the center of a police state.
Or maybe it was me who was getting worse. I was becoming a bitter expat cliché. An old friend left Beijing. I had problems in my relationship with my long-term partner, but I chose to ignore them. After publishing my first book, I felt sluggish with work, with no new projects. I was stuck in a rut. Then I heard a knock on the door. The building I lived in had to be demolished because it was an illegal structure. If you had asked me if I wanted to go, I would have said no. I needed a push to realize that something had to change. We broke off our engagement on the second day of 2020, and within two weeks I was on a train to Dali.
Here I met other urban migrants. Each was looking for their own Shangri-La to reinvent themselves. Hippies and yuppies, bohemians and bourgeois, environmentalists and survivalists, homeschoolers and retirees, Taoists and Buddhists, psychonauts and psychonauts, dissidents and digital nomads. Today’s refugees seek freedom in an unfree country, away from the honking skyscrapers of China and far from the centers of state power. Along the way, coffee shops and yoga studios have sprung up around the valley that cater to our needs, transforming the rural escape we were looking for.
A mountain towered above it. In October, I packed up my tent and set out in the early hours of the morning, winding my way up the donkey path. It took all day to climb the steep and difficult slope. The last section was more of a scramble than a hike, with difficult navigation through the dense bamboo forest surrounding the narrow trail. My legs were starting to get tired and I was worried about the light getting weaker. Then, out of nowhere, the road leveled out and a large pool of water lined with silver fir trees spread out in front of me. I had arrived at my destination. The mountain ridge was still 200 meters high, but I had camped overnight in a series of lakes just below it. The next morning we climbed the final climb before sunrise.
There was definitely a sense of satisfaction at the top. Physical task completed. But emotionally I was disappointed. I dreamed of the symbolism of this climb. But as I watched the sun rise over the valley, as beautiful as I had expected, I felt no revelation.
I was projecting a lot of importance onto Dali. It was on this mountain that I was healed and confident that I would be healed. The appeal remained isolated. To distance yourself from society, from the city, from your romantic and damaged self-image. But the isolation is internal. I realized that the answers I was looking for were not on this forested hilltop.
On the second night, when I descended the mountain and arrived home, dusk was approaching. Now, when I returned to the courtyard and looked up at the mountains, I saw them in a new light. What first attracted me to Dali was their mystery. A vision of their transformative power. But I knew that the work of finding spiritual tranquility, true tranquility, had to be done on earth.
I started cooking, fixing up the farmhouse I rented, growing vegetables, and spending time outdoors. My hobbies are music, running, archery, and tai chi. But new interests and idyllic locations weren’t enough to make me happy. I changed my location, but the physical change wasn’t enough, I needed to change my mindset. I started doing talk therapy on Zoom and learned tools and tricks to manage my emotions. Nature, spirituality, and meditation have replaced screens, scrolling, and constant comparison in my daily life. In fact, when I failed to quit my digital addiction on my own. I swallowed my pride and enrolled in a 12-step program.
I knew I wouldn’t stay with Dali forever. It was a false utopia. My goal was to make peace of mind accessible even in the midst of chaotic traffic or a major crisis. After three years in the valley, I left China. I’m currently living in New York and starting a new life all over again. But I try to keep the spirit of Dali and some of his lessons alive. From finding inner shelter wherever you can to remembering that you are not the center of the universe. Sometimes you might lie down for a while.
As told by Michael Segaloff
Mountains are high: 1 year of Escape to, discoveries in countryside of china, by alec Ash is On sale February 8th (Scribe, £16.99). Available at Guardianbookshop.com for £14.78