In 2025, we returned once more to the Qingshui River.
In earlier years, we had watched dragon boats on the Bala, followed a Sisters’ Festival welcome procession, and spent long hours at Hewan’s tables, lanes, and courts. This time, we reached Xiaohe village and watched a dugout dragon boat emerge from its shelter. Our field also widened to the riverbank, a fish pond, a classroom, and the Shidong BA court we finally entered ourselves.
There is no single posture for fieldwork. Sometimes we stood quietly at the edge of a rite. Sometimes we sat with local peers to complete an experiment. Sometimes, after the whistle, we ran onto the court. No permanent line separated observation from participation.
A story of the dragon boat
Before travelling to Xiaohe, talks, interviews, and reading had given us an outline of the festival’s narratives and rites. But only when boats, villagers, offerings, and preparation appeared together beside the Qingshui River did culture on the page become something visible and audible.
A village elder told us a story known along the river. Long ago, a fisherman’s son was killed by a malevolent dragon. The father burned the dragon in revenge, but darkness fell across the world. Only when a child moved a laundry beater through the water did the sky clear again.
“The dragon came to us in a dream and told us to make boats and row, so that wind and rain would arrive in their proper seasons.”
The elder’s voice was low and weathered. We recorded this local account of dragon, river, disaster, and hope. Other villages may tell or perform it differently. In Xiaohe, the festival clearly exceeded a race: it carried memories of the natural world, ancestors, harvest, and collective life.
Entering Xiaohe
Xiaohe sits beside the Qingshui River. On ordinary days it can be quiet; on the festival morning, preparations began early. Crowds on the bank, smoke inside the boat shelter, constant conversation, and distant drums drew the whole village into a different rhythm.
We had never observed a Hmong dugout dragon boat from so close.
Its long body, carved head, clothing, drum patterns, and pre-launch rites created a sight and sound distinct from the dragon boats we knew elsewhere. Instead of waiting only for the race, we followed the crew changing clothes, arranging the vessel, and preparing offerings. Slowly, the boat entered the festival.
Near noon, more than thirty crew members put on purple homespun tops, glossy indigo trousers, and wide woven belts set with silver. Silver on their horsehair hats caught the sun. Matching clothing joined individual bodies into a crew and gave the village a collective presence on the riverbank.
Some of us framed the whole boat; others followed clothing and equipment; another camera rested on the ritual practitioner’s hands, the drummer’s expression, or a resident waiting nearby. The closer we looked, the clearer it became that the festival did not exist only at its loudest moment. Much of its cultural life lay in preparation, coordination, and details a camera could easily pass over.
The call: “Lift”
As the appointed time approached, the drummer’s household established a place for the dragon spirit beside the river.
Branches of Chinese sumac were tied to the table legs; liquor, raw meat, and other offerings were set above. Holding a white rooster, the ritual practitioner recited a local boat-offering chant. We could not understand it fully. We remained quiet and recorded its sequence, movements, and sounds.
The offering was completed. Blood from the rooster touched the dragon head.
A blast sounded.
“Lift!”
The crew moved together and pushed the boat into the river.
According to An Hong and people present that day, Xiaohe follows strict rules for this departure: once the boat begins to move, it must not stop or turn back, but continue along the set direction in a single effort.
As the boat entered the Qingshui, the report of firelocks, gongs, drums, shouting, and paddles arrived at once. Dozens of rowers moved to the drum; water opened in front of the boat; calls from the bank answered the rhythm on board.
Those who arranged clothing, prepared offerings, organised the rite, beat the drum, received the crew, passed water, and waited ashore all helped the festival happen. The force visible on the river belonged not to one rower but to a village’s long preparation and coordination.
The festival on shore
When the boat rested beside the bank, most eyes moved naturally towards the vessel, the crew, and the coming rite. Firecrackers cracked without warning. Calls, conversation, and laughter turned a quiet river edge into a festival.
Our cameras gradually turned towards the people ashore.
One of us noticed that women remained busy and present around the event but did not touch the boat itself. People we asked explained that, within the practice followed in Xiaohe that day, women were not permitted to touch the dragon boat.
Yet they were never absent. When the boat stopped, women on shore helped boys aboard straighten their clothing, carefully avoiding the hull. They called out with the rest of the crowd, encouraging children and crew.
“May not touch” and “always present” existed at the same time. We could not turn this detail into a universal rule for all Hmong dragon-boat festivals. It did show how, in this village and ritual setting, people occupied different positions and sustained a shared festival in different ways.
The float moved
The Qingshui carries more than dragon boats. It is also part of food, work, and everyday experience. After the loudest festival scenes, we picked up fishing rods and continued watching the river.
Our teammate Wang Zijun had prepared rods, bait, and safety equipment, and read about fish commonly found in the area. The point was not a large catch. A rod simply offered a more concrete way to meet the river before us.
We baited hooks, cast, and stared intently at the floats.
“Look—the float moved. A fish is testing it.”
Different fish prefer different currents. Their presence and size raised questions about water quality, habitat, and how people fish. A long wait might end with nothing, but waiting trained the eye on flow, wind, and the smallest movement of the float.
When a fish was too small to keep, we returned it to the Qingshui. A hand held its slippery, struggling body for a moment and then opened. Protection was no longer an abstract slogan. It was a simple decision that had to be made immediately.
The “wild practice” in the pond
If fishing by the river required patience, the rice-fish pond required us to abandon all concern for appearance.
An Hong led us to a pond stocked with rice-field fish. Local people described how the fish use foods available in the paddy and take part in its ecological cycle.
We rolled up our trousers. Some removed shoes and socks and stepped barefoot into the soft mud. The pond exploded into noise.
Fish moved between our legs, their slippery touch producing shrieks and a brief loss of all order.
“Quick! Something moved over there—surround it!”
“It’s too slippery. It went back into the mud!”
Three-person teams conducted “grid searches,” trying to drive fish towards a corner. Others forgot dignity entirely and launched themselves at any ripple. Mud reached our faces; laughter moved faster than we did.
“Got one!”
The shout travelled across the field.
The pleasure was immediate and physical. It was not a victory over nature, but a body remembering the connections among food, mud, and labour.
Sitting together at Shidong Middle School
That year we also went to Shidong Middle School and created a science-and-literature workshop with local peers.
It was not one side “teaching” the other. We brought experiments and stories we knew; their questions, reactions, and accounts continually changed our plan. We entered the same classroom as strangers and gradually found things we could do together.
One activity extracted DNA from fruit. Wu Yue chose familiar strawberries and bananas, kept the theory light, and gave most of the time to hands-on work. Groups crushed fruit, added a lysis mixture, filtered it, and poured in chilled alcohol.
As pale threads slowly appeared in the test tubes, surprise travelled around the room.
“Look—it’s there!”
Everyone crowded closer, comparing fruits and asking why detergent, salt, and alcohol were needed. DNA, previously visible only in a diagram, became a phenomenon made by many hands and observed with our own eyes.
Another activity moved from Harry Potter into English expression. Zhang Yahan, Yang Xinling, and Lü Wendi connected Hogwarts houses and character traits to self-introductions and a playful Sorting Ceremony. Words such as courage, intelligence, and friendship entered a game. Some chose Gryffindor; others identified with Ravenclaw. To complete the activity, people tried describing themselves in simple English and found words to praise their partners.
At first, the room was restrained. Later, talk moved from laboratory materials and fictional characters to Shidong rice noodles, school, family, and personal interests. Distances that had appeared large began to shrink while crushing a strawberry, reading an English line, or talking about a bowl of noodles.
What remained was not a tally of knowledge “taught.” It was the moment people on both sides relaxed enough to ask, share, and respond. Fieldwork did not occur only through observation and interviews. It could begin by doing one small thing together.
Finally stepping onto the Shidong BA court
If the daytime classroom offered a quiet meeting, Shidong BA after dark was a collision of force and delight.
Our relationship with Village BA had begun before the whistle. In 2024, we visited Taipan and watched the locally organised Shidong tournament from the edge of the court. In 2025, we no longer remained outside with notebooks and cameras. We entered as a visiting team to face Shidong Team Two.
Excitement and nerves mixed in the warm-up area.
“Don’t be nervous. Treat it as our home court!”
Gavin’s shout loosened everyone slightly. On the sideline, friends had formed a formidable supporters’ group. Phones waited for highlights; voices warmed up alongside Hmong neighbours; Jenny began livestreaming.
The referee’s whistle started the game.
Shidong Team Two punished us with stamina and rebounding. They attacked the offensive glass, created space with their bodies, and finished inside. Ma Zhixi, Yu Jinhong, Hu Yaqiao, Hua Siqi, and Zeng Yonghao absorbed the contact and drove back into the paint. The score stayed close.
“It’s in!”
Flags leapt on the sideline. Our supporters’ chant rose above dialect, gongs, and laughter.
After the break, the ball moved quickly into the front court. Wang Tonghuan caught it. A defender rushed towards her. She rose without hesitation, hung for a moment, and released.
Swish.
A three-pointer.
On the next possession, a screen opened the 45-degree angle. She pulled up again.
Another three.
The court erupted. The board changed to 24–20, and the run forced a timeout. Du Zhao’s diving steal, Wang Zijun’s set jumper, and Xu Haoze’s fast break kept us trading possessions with experienced local opponents.
The commentary was nearly as good as the game. A celebrated local talker worked in dialect and spared no one. When one of our shots missed, he called out:
“Ah, that was a very ‘polite’ shot. Are they worried they won’t be allowed to leave if they win?”
The whole court laughed.
On that thoroughly non-professional concrete court, basketball brought people from different places and backgrounds into the same moment. A pass, a basket, and a cheer were enough to establish an understanding that needed no explanation.
We had asked about Village BA’s future in Taipan and searched for its earliest form from the edge of the Shidong court. Only after running onto the concrete ourselves and hearing the roar at 24–20 did we understand that some local cultures cannot be approached only through a lens. They also exist in sweat, errors, jokes, and the instant strangers leap for the same ball.
The year’s waves and songs did not remain only on the water crossed by the dragon boat. They stayed with a small fish released into the river, pale strands gathering in a test tube, and the echo of a court that had still not quieted late at night.
