Along Nu Jiang (II)

Note: The historical information about the French missionary and churches in Yunnan was collected and combined from existing articles online. If you have any confusion or different findings, please leave your comment here or contact the author via kat.elephantroom@gmail.com.

It was hard to transition from luxury to simplicity. I began to regret scheduling a hiking trip for the last day of my journey. The morning started pleasantly enough: I woke up, headed to the terrace, and watched two Lisu sisters shoot a dancing video. The popularity of Douyin (TikTok’s Chinese counterpart) has fostered a love for sharing daily life across all ethnic groups. A social media platform has inadvertently helped the Chinese Communist Party achieve its aim of national unity through cultural integration.

The Lisu girls wearing ethnic costumes, the left girl in Tibetan costume (as she thought Tibetan clothing was prettier)

With only one day allocated to Bingzhong Luo, I missed an important site in the town: the Zhongding Catholic Church. Built by French missionary Annet Génestier in the early 20th century, it was destroyed during the Cultural Revolution and rebuilt in 1996. Though not the first Catholic church in the Tibetan-Yunnan region nor Génestier the first missionary to arrive, his efforts and the church’s establishment played a pivotal role in spreading Catholicism in the Nu Jiang basin. Domestic sources usually only reference his Chinese name, Ren Anshou, but with a bit of research, one can trace his full name across global archives.

Zhongding Church, photo provided by Mr. Yang

Interestingly, Bingzhong Luo wasn’t Génestier’s first stop in Yunnan. In 1888, he began his mission in the Nu Jiang Grand Canyon, having journeyed from Deqin, Yunnan, crossing the Lancang River and Biluo Snow Mountain.

Interestingly, I later found myself embarking on a journey opposite to the “Missionary’s Path.”

It was an online travelogue that introduced me to Dima Luo, a hidden paradise nestled between the Biluo and Gaoligong mountains. Calling Dima Luo a single village is a misnomer—it’s a cluster of over ten villages scattered across a valley. Among them is Baihanluo, home to the renowned Baihan Luo Catholic Church built in 1898, another of Génestier’s contributions predating Zhongding Church.

Inspired by the historical intrigue of the missionary’s route, I decided to end my Nu Jiang trip with an overnight stay at a small cabin run by Tashi (also called bKra shis), a local guide. I hiked along the Arulaka trail—“the place of tall bamboo”—which passed Baihan Luo Church.

Plans changed. Tashi informed me that additional guests had just joined, which meant we needed to make a route adjustment to Peacock Mountain the next day.

After bidding farewell to the warm staff at the hostel in Bingzhong Luo, I hopped into a car Tashi had arranged. The journey stopped abruptly at the junction between Gongshan and Bingzhong Luo—I had to wait for Tashi himself, a man who replied to messages at his own pace and seemed unbothered by sudden schedule shifts.

Fortunately, the gas station had a rest area where I could replenish food and water. Though it was January, Yunnan’s sunshine was delightfully warm. Perched lazily on a small stool, I was soon attracted by a plump, tail-wagging cat. Stroking its fur with one hand and braiding my hair with the other, I felt a moment of bliss that washed away the frustration of my disrupted itinerary.

As the glow deepened, a shadowy vehicle in military green rolled into view. Squinting, I read the words painted on its side: Tashi’s Cloud Cabin. It was him.

During the drive, we chatted easily, curious about each other’s stories. Tashi wondered how I discovered this hidden gem, while I marveled at how he built a wooden cabin in the depths of the mountains.

He played Tibetan songs unfamiliar to me, singing along as we drove. Whenever we encountered villagers, he would stop for a quick chat. At one point, we came across an elderly man carrying a guitar. After a brief exchange in Tibetan, they parted ways.

Tashi explained that he’d asked if the man needed a ride and then gestured to the distant mountains where small, low houses dotted the landscape.

“He’s lived alone up there for years, in a house far from the others. He gets by doing odd jobs for the villagers in exchange for food and often walks around with his guitar on his back.”

Tashi smiled. “Many people don’t understand his way of life, but I think he’s truly free.”

An alpine pasture in Dima Luo.

Tashi, a devout Catholic, told me that 99% of Dima Luo’s residents are Catholics. Yunnan’s unique ethnic and regional diversity has allowed Catholicism, Protestantism, Tibetan Buddhism, and indigenous religions like the Naxi people’s Dongba religion to coexist peacefully. Yet history tells a more turbulent story of Catholicism’s arrival in the region, when it faced fierce opposition from Tibetan Buddhism, which held both religious and political dominance. The late 19th and early 20th centuries saw several violent incidents, including church burnings and missionary killings.

One notable episode was the Baihan Luo Incident. Historical accounts in China are sparse, but I found a reasonably complete narrative pieced together by travel writer Wang Cheng, who combined archival research with local villagers’ oral histories.

In 1904, Annet Génestier built a church in Baihanluo for mass services. Earlier, in 1864, a church had been established in Qiunatong, 23 years before Génestier arrived in Nu Jiang. Yet, a year after its construction, the Qiunatong church was burned to the ground. French missionary Father Auguste Lyé was shot and killed by the local governors while fleeing across a rope bridge over the Nu Jiang. His body was found near Wuli Village 22 days later—he was just 30 years old.

A similar fate nearly befell Génestier. On the night of August 20, 1905, over 200 locals armed with crossbows, muskets, machetes, and spears attacked the Baihan Luo church, setting it ablaze. This became known as the Baihan Luo Incident. Génestier was spared only because he had traveled to Cizhong that day on other business.

In modern times, many have retraced the “missionary’s path” out of curiosity and reverence. Tashi’s uncle, Alo, was among the first locals to guide foreign visitors through the area. Alo’s guesthouse, Alo’s Inn, hosted countless travelers from far and wide. Though not his biological son, Tashi grew up under Alo’s wing, running through the mountains and learning outdoor survival skills.

When we arrived at Tashi’s cabin, he busied himself lighting a fire to warm us up. Apart from me, a man was traveling with his dog, Coffee, and a pair of women friends from Yunnan, one of whom was of Bai ethnicity. I didn’t have much knowledge about this community, except that they were universally acknowledged as heavy drinkers (or actually minorities are all good at it).

Coffee, a smart border collie (She went to heaven last year, miss her).

The main lodge served as both a cozy lounge and a social hub for guests. One side of the room featured large, transparent windows, allowing those seated on the plush sofas to sip tea while taking in the breathtaking view of snow-capped peaks. On the opposite wall stood a projector and a wine rack, brimming with glasses and empty bottles—a testament to the many nights of revelry that have taken place here. Tibetan songs floated from the speakers, while the projector silently played a basketball game, reflecting Tashi’s easygoing nature.

Inside Tashi’s cabin.

Outside, a small area was designated as a basketball court, and the rooftop was utilized as an open-air terrace. These elements, along with five guest rooms, made up Tashi’s remarkable creation—a project he had begun designing and building independently during his university years.

The little basketball court.

Outside the bedrooms.

Tashi led me to his "secret base," hidden beneath the main lodge. It’s a compact workshop where he retreated to recharge. Inside, a tent served as his makeshift resting place. The walls were adorned with photographs documenting his travels and group expeditions, while the desk was scattered with drone components and mysterious blueprints.

“Though I’m always on the road, I find an unshakable peace the moment I return here,” he confessed.

That evening, we gathered around a wooden table to enjoy a local hotpot delicacy. Tashi’s mother prepared a special egg-infused rice wine to warm us against the cold. A gentle, shy woman, she smiled quietly as she topped off our cups, urging us to eat more. Though she spoke little Mandarin, her presence radiated a calm that needed no words.

A hotpot dinner with rice wine.

After dinner, we returned to the main lodge to chat by the fire. Tashi spoke about his journey from being overly concerned with others’ opinions to finding contentment in his own world. His transformation came with the trials he faced—three brushes with death, to be exact.

The first was on a high-altitude pasture where he slipped and nearly plunged into an abyss. Miraculously, he grabbed hold of a slender root just in time and pulled himself to safety with upper-body strength.

The second was due to his mischief. As a child, Tashi tampered with a rifle (firearm regulations were laxer back then—my grandfather kept a shotgun behind the door). He tossed it into a fireplace and fanned the flames. The bullets exploded, one whizzing past his ear. What a reckless boy!

The third stemmed from his obsession with Bruce Lee films. Emulating his hero, he leaped onto a moving car but lacked the strength to hold on properly, ending up being dragged for minutes.

Despite his wild personality, Tashi is no ordinary adventurer. Being a national second-grade athlete (it’s a rating standard/certificate for Chinese athletes), he excelled in basketball, long-distance running, and horseback riding. Yet it was his academic performance that earned him a spot at Yunnan Minzu University, where he studied automation engineering.

During university, Tashi experienced a period of aimlessness. The coursework felt irrelevant and boring for him, so he began sketching designs for wooden cabins on the sly. Eventually, he discovered a passion for motorcycle travel, riding across much of China on his vehicle.

In his earlier years, Tashi encountered two pivotal figures who profoundly shaped his life. One was a Harvard professor who once offered to write him a recommendation letter for a scholarship. When I asked why he declined such a prestigious opportunity, Tashi smiled and said:

"What then? I couldn’t find a reason to stay there. Here is my home; I would still come back."

The other was someone who left an even deeper mark on Tashi’s life. This individual, with flowing, elegant long hair, is fondly nicknamed “Long-haired Brother.”

A graduate of Fudan University, Long-haired Bro shared Tashi’s disdain for the rigid structure of China’s university education. Instead, he devoted his time to pursuits he found meaningful.

The two first met at Tashi’s uncle’s Alo Lodge. At the time, Long-haired Bro also had a motorcycle and was planning to ride north to Xinjiang, where he intended to spend a few years reading and reflecting. Curious about Tashi’s cabin-building project, he followed Tashi into the mountains. That curiosity would alter the trajectory of both their lives.

The mountain path was rugged and perilous, with steep cliffs on one side. While Tashi led the way, a shout rang out behind him:

"My bike!"

Turning around, Tashi saw Long-haired Bro standing amidst the wreckage of his toppled motorcycle, his hair disheveled by the wind. His journey to Xinjiang was over before it began. Instead, Long-haired Bro decided to stay at the fledgling cabin project and read. Days turned into years, and he remained there for three.

During those years, Tashi learned a great deal from Long-haired Bro, who was a polymath. In official parlance, he might be described as a “multi-talented individual,” (复合型人才) but his lifestyle was a stark rejection of mainstream values. He would spend his days in the forest reading alone, return at dusk, and sometimes drum into the early hours of the morning. Though Tashi prided himself on his wrestling prowess, Long-haired Bro had a knack for disarming him.

To Tashi, Long-haired Bro became both mentor and friend, profoundly influencing his understanding of the world and himself. Three years passed in a blink. One day, while Tashi was out, Long-haired Brother left without a word, setting off for Canada to pursue a Ph.D.

In the spirit of an old Chinese saying, “A gentleman’s friendship is as light as water” (君子之交淡如水), they lost contact. That was, until 2023, when Tashi received a call from Canada. Instinctively, he knew it was the man who had left without saying goodbye. And he was right.

In our conversation, I noticed Tashi’s careful choice of words, a mutual tendency when discussing sensitive topics. Yet, the theme of “freedom” underscored everything he said. I was struck by his open-mindedness about Taiwan issue and his tolerance for diverse viewpoints.

Perhaps the footsteps of travelers from different continents had allowed Tashi to glimpse the world without leaving home. The saying “Read ten thousand books, travel ten thousand miles” (读万卷书, 行万里路) holds true; understanding the world is ultimately about forging connections with others.

After Airbnb exited the Chinese market, Tashi’s cabin saw fewer visitors. Yet, he remains unbothered.

“When guests choose my place, I’m also choosing them. There have been wealthy people who came without respect or courtesy. Guests like that—I’d rather not have them.”

Inside the bedroom.

The final day was both grueling and exhilarating. The previous night had slipped past midnight, lost in conversation and laughter, leaving our hike to Peacock Mountain to start perilously late—almost at noon.

Tashi’s dog waiting for us to get up.

Breakfast with mountain view.

Snow seeped into my boots, numbing my feet entirely. By the time we reached the summit, my legs felt like stone. Tashi, ever prepared, hauled a sled loaded with oranges, sweet potatoes, a thermos of hot water, and even coffee grounds. At the summit, we brewed a simple drip coffee, relishing its warmth in the otherwise harsh solitude of a landscape where “all traces of man disappear.”(万径人踪灭, a line from a Chinese poem)

The Peacock Mountain peak.

The hot water revived me, melting the frost within. We were leaping across the thick snow that blanketed a frozen lake, our carefree movements defying the stillness around us. A sudden gust of wind kicked up a flurry of snow, its icy grains stinging our faces. Tashi, unperturbed, dashed up a small slope with the exuberance of a boy, belly-flopped onto his sled, and slid down with a primal whoop of joy. Children of the mountains always carried an untamed vitality that city life can never replicate.

Brewing coffee in cold wind.

Tashi asked if I’d stay a few more days to attend a Tibetan friend’s wedding with him. I was tempted but regretfully declined—my travel plans for the next few days were already set and couldn’t be canceled.

The Bai sister in our group was equally reluctant to part ways. She warmly invited us to dinner with her brother in Bingzhong Luo, who was a minor police chief in the area, so she declared over dinner, “Tashi, if you ever run into trouble here, just let my brother know!” Network, after all, is always the most reliable currency in China.

I treasure every genuine connection I make on these journeys. When people ask, “Aren’t you scared to venture into these ‘remote wildernesses’ alone?” I used to respond by dismantling the preconceived notions. Now, I’d rather just play the Drinking Song (酒歌) by Tibetan Patient.

（This article is written by Kat and edited by Biyi. You can contact the author at kat.elephantroom@gmail.com）