part 3
One thing I loved about Kunming was the plants.
It had a very different vibe from Singapore's garden city, tropical feel. There were much more colours, flowers, less green than we have in the tropics where we make up for the (comparative) lack of flowers with every shade of green and yellow imaginable. I used to mourn the fact that we didn't have a garden full of flowers ready to be picked recklessly for any occasion, the way Enid Blyton's children somehow always had. The few flowers in our window balcony were either highly prized, or the shapeless mushroom-like flowers that the oldest cacti sometimes unexpectedly produced, and which didn't suit my (very English) idea of what garden flowers should look like.
In Kunming, I loved the buttery yellow gingko trees which left their pretty golden leaves, looking like some ancient civilization's money, scattered over the dull gray of the sidewalks.
One thing I loved about Kunming was the plants.
It had a very different vibe from Singapore's garden city, tropical feel. There were much more colours, flowers, less green than we have in the tropics where we make up for the (comparative) lack of flowers with every shade of green and yellow imaginable. I used to mourn the fact that we didn't have a garden full of flowers ready to be picked recklessly for any occasion, the way Enid Blyton's children somehow always had. The few flowers in our window balcony were either highly prized, or the shapeless mushroom-like flowers that the oldest cacti sometimes unexpectedly produced, and which didn't suit my (very English) idea of what garden flowers should look like.
In Kunming, I loved the buttery yellow gingko trees which left their pretty golden leaves, looking like some ancient civilization's money, scattered over the dull gray of the sidewalks.
And the roses. Enormous roses the size of my face, standing tall and nochalent by the roadsides, with hundreds of petals so they looked like peonies. Kunming is famous for their 鲜花饼, directly translated as fresh flower biscuit, or a soft flaky pastry with a filling made of cooked, sweetened rose petals. It's delicious, though the charm of eating roses itself is enough for me.
This pot of roses was sitting carelessly in the corner of a restaurant's window. A pot which would have easily cost around $20 in Singapore. You might see them on a social media influencer's feed, or in proposal photos; never in a small family restaurant simply for decoration. Well, I drank them in as much as I could.
English poets have their countrysides and picturesque meadows/forests/vales (I grew up with these words as my idea of exotic landscapes) but the Chinese have a deep-rooted appreciation for landscapes, the whole 山水树木 (mountains, water, trees) aesthetic that is such a distinctive part of the filming in any wuxia or historical drama, whether the natural lakes and clifts or the extremely man-made, cultivated scenery of palace gardens and bonsais. The ideal landscape has a large, clear, unruffled expanse of water, with trees that are dwarfed in comparison to towering rocks, and act as accessories to the landscape. There's a specific vibe that these landscapes give--a sense of magnitude, dignity, awe, closely intermingled with a massive sense of peace and tranquillity that is more like the majesty of a sleeping giant than the idyllic tranquillity associated with Arcadian shepherds. You wouldn't have a picnic there. If you were in the picture the artist would have painted you standing silently and respectfully soaking in the beauty of the scene, or blowing a flute on top of the clift like a mysteriously mournful siren, or paddling a lonely boat while meditating on the meaning of life. It's telling that if you watch enough Chinese dramas, this sort of landscapes never take place as the background for cutesy carefree scenes, the way Jane Austen's couples flirt while walking in the meadows and lanes (of course, that scene in the "prettyish bit of wilderness" aside.) It's always the background for some epic scene--a betrayal, a fight to the death, a tragic sacrifice, a love lost, a revelation; an impressive scene for the hero (or villain) practicing their martial arts. Or for a lonely mysterious figure like a bandit, sage, scholar, or wandering beauty to look cool in, carrying a fan, staff, or flute--choose your weapon. Or of course, the classic tragic death scene where someone falls off the cliff *cue slow motion falling scenes with fluttering sleeves and perfect hair*
The sense of peace here is a sort of acceptance of higher powers and forces, accepting how small and insignificant you are, and how little you understand of the mystery and beauty around you. The taller the mountains, the bigger the lake, the higher the view, the better. You submit to a sense of resignation that lets you transcend the pettiness of earthly concerns, monk-like...
I feel it's somewhat similar to the concept of the sublime, at least from what I remember studying, in which the beauty is specifically a sort of beauty that overpowers you and makes you feel small and insignificant. Except instead of producing the terror and sense of helplessness which Kant and Burke talked about, from a different cultural perspective it produces a sense of great peace and acceptance/resignation. Am I going out on a limb here? I suppose I should stick to Chinese dramas, but it's really a fascinating thought. If I were ever to do my thesis--and if my proficiency in Chinese ever improved enough--it would be cool to research and write a paper on this idea.
We visited the park built around Kunming's famous lake, Dianchi--where all the seagulls were.
The greenery was beautiful as well as very deliberate, giving me the same high-maintenance, almost man-made sophisticated nature vibes that palace gardens did in period dramas. Palace gardens were not so much to showcase the beauty of nature as to showcase the emperor's wealth and power and taste, in capturing/cultivating nature's beauty like this.
The slopes and bridges there were unforgiving; I found myself panting and incredulously eyeing the elderly grannies in knitted vests and woolly hats, who strode past me without missing a beat. But the view--when you weren't blinded by the sun--was like Van Gogh's colour palette in an Asian context.
The greenery was beautiful as well as very deliberate, giving me the same high-maintenance, almost man-made sophisticated nature vibes that palace gardens did in period dramas. Palace gardens were not so much to showcase the beauty of nature as to showcase the emperor's wealth and power and taste, in capturing/cultivating nature's beauty like this.
The slopes and bridges there were unforgiving; I found myself panting and incredulously eyeing the elderly grannies in knitted vests and woolly hats, who strode past me without missing a beat. But the view--when you weren't blinded by the sun--was like Van Gogh's colour palette in an Asian context.
But there, I should probably stop going on about scenery and mention food, that one topic of interest to practically everyone.
Of all the good food in Kunming, rose biscuits are but one small insignificant aspect....
One of the highlights of my trip was our short visit to the countryside, where I got to see my first ever walnut tree, and impossibly white beans looking like pearls hiding inside the dried brown pods.
In that mountainous terrain, farming was less of the endless walking across a flat, never-ending field that we usually associate with the concept of farming, and more of climbing up and down among shelves of land, a different product growing on each. Beautiful lettuces and little radishes looking breathtakingly delicate compared to the huge ones you always see on sale at the market.
We helped to harvest those beautiful white beans, squinting in the blindingly bright sun. Up at that level, sunlight has a whole different power; though we were from tropical Singapore with its fair share of brilliant sun, the sun there was something else. I was grateful for my hood, and wished (not for the first time) that it wasn't so troublesome for a glasses wearer to put on sunglasses.
After harvesting, the farmers thresh the brown pods, breaking them up using an ingenious contraption of two connected sticks, which worked in a way that reminded me of a nunchaka (and according to Wikipedia the nunchaka actually originated as an improvised weapon from rice threshing implements, so I guess I'm not wrong.)
We were not skilled enough to try helping with the threshing so we helped gather up the brown mass of broken pods and separate them from the growing pool of gleaming white beans, using a broom and our hands.
And then we had lunch. We crowded into the little kitchen and balanced on uneven wooden benches, which probably should be marketed as the best friendship seats, since you really had to work together to keep from toppling over. If one of you wanted to get up to throw your bones to the dogs or get more rice, you had to warn everyone else first and they would all shift their weight so that the bench wouldn't catapult you all over.
And boy, the food--freshly dished out from the smoky little stove in the corner and scraped out from a heavy iron pot--was good.
We feasted on spicy mountain mushrooms, some leathery and straggly, others thick and meaty. Pork belly slices from the pigs they had raised themselves, the meat so rich it didn't need other ingredients. Fresh vegetables from the land, full of sweetness even in a simple stir-fry. Potatoes fried with dried chillies.
It must have been the rickety bench. That was one of the best meals I remember having there, even though it was too dark inside that little electricity-less kitchen and I was too hungry to take any photos.
After harvesting, the farmers thresh the brown pods, breaking them up using an ingenious contraption of two connected sticks, which worked in a way that reminded me of a nunchaka (and according to Wikipedia the nunchaka actually originated as an improvised weapon from rice threshing implements, so I guess I'm not wrong.)
We were not skilled enough to try helping with the threshing so we helped gather up the brown mass of broken pods and separate them from the growing pool of gleaming white beans, using a broom and our hands.
And then we had lunch. We crowded into the little kitchen and balanced on uneven wooden benches, which probably should be marketed as the best friendship seats, since you really had to work together to keep from toppling over. If one of you wanted to get up to throw your bones to the dogs or get more rice, you had to warn everyone else first and they would all shift their weight so that the bench wouldn't catapult you all over.
And boy, the food--freshly dished out from the smoky little stove in the corner and scraped out from a heavy iron pot--was good.
We feasted on spicy mountain mushrooms, some leathery and straggly, others thick and meaty. Pork belly slices from the pigs they had raised themselves, the meat so rich it didn't need other ingredients. Fresh vegetables from the land, full of sweetness even in a simple stir-fry. Potatoes fried with dried chillies.
It must have been the rickety bench. That was one of the best meals I remember having there, even though it was too dark inside that little electricity-less kitchen and I was too hungry to take any photos.
Behold the reason for that sweet pork. Those pigs ate well; they fed on these melons, which back in Singapore we cook in soup and call "sharkfin melon" because its heart has a thread-like texture similar to the expensive shark's fin. And in the footsteps of its namesake, that melon is expensive.
However, apparently here these melons are known as pig food and not considered fit for human consumption....
Let's just say the aunties almost shed tears every time they saw a huge beautiful melon like the one in the photo, only to wistfully remember it was doomed to be pig food.
Well, not actually wasted, granted. That was some good meat.
Another close win was the late night supper a friend there took us impulsively for, at his favourite 羊肉米线 mutton noodle shop.
We jostled with hungry construction workers and night-shift workers, and a few couples on (it seemed) budget date night, crowded on uneven stools. I was in awe at the huge earthen bowls of mala, MSG, chilli, and cilantro on every table. There was a rather strong smell of mutton in the air, trapped inside the small shop with the far more unpleasant smell of cigarette smoke--a dubious smell, at first, when you came in from the freshness of the cold night air outside. I huddled on my stool, mastering the art of balancing on the three legs which were the same length, and listened to funny stories while I sniffed the unmistakable dough-in-hot-water smell of noodles. Every experienced noodle eater knows that wholesome smell which, if not exactly fragrant in itself, is the harbinger of good food.
But when the chipped bowls of noodles finally arrived--steaming hot, topped with cilantro and glistening with yellow oil, while pale delicate slices of mutton swam around swathes of paler noodles--it was a whole different story. Forget hot chocolate and cookies on a cold night. 羊肉米线 please, with plenty of cilantro. Even the oil, which health-conscious Singaporeans would normally turn their noses up at, somehow felt right here where the climate was so dry (compared to our humid tropical air.)
But there. Since you most likely won't have the chance to try that, here is a photo of a breathtakingly beautiful lettuce for you to enjoy instead.
And lastly--I snapped a photo of these in passing because my grandma had told me she ate these as treats when she was young. Though for the life of me I can't remember what they're called in Chinese now, and I'm afraid my Googling powers are limited.
They are a kind of cup-shaped steamed bun which you fill with a savoury stir-fried filling of choice--vegetables, meat, or both, whatever you have on hand just then. A kind of revisionist sandwich, I suppose.
Regretfully, I haven't seen them sold in Singapore; perhaps my grandma made them once, but that was it.
There is so, so much food across China and even in Kunming--which is famous for having the most number of China's ethnic minorities--we barely saw the tip of the iceberg. But since this isn't a food blog--I don't make any claims to be good at writing about food--I don't even want to get into that. However, this is a travel series, and no travel record is complete without some mention of food. Food is after all one of the greatest differences between cultures, but also--uniquely--one with the greatest power to bring people together.