The love songs start at dusk, at first drifting across from the other side of the river. The bamboo groves on the mountain opposite are bathed in the gold of the lingering rays of the sun while this side of the river is already cloaked in night. Young women in groups of five or six come to the river-bank, some standing in a circle and others holding hands, and begin calling their lovers. Melodious singing rapidly fills the vast night. Young women are everywhere, still with their parasols up and also holding a handkerchief or a fan. There are also some thirteen- or fourteen year-old girls who are just becoming aware of boys.

In each group, one girl leads the singing and the other girls harmonize. I observe that the lead singer is invariably the prettiest of the group; I suppose choice by beauty is a fairly natural principle.

The voice of the lead singer rises in the air and I can’t help noticing her utter sincerity. The correct word perhaps is not ‘sing’, for the clear shrill sounds come from deep within so that the body and heart respond. The sound seems to travel from the soles of the feet then shoot up between the eyes and the forehead before they are produced – no wonder they are called ‘flying’ songs. It is totally instinctive, uncontrived, unrestrained and unembellished, and certainly devoid of what might be called embarrassment. Each woman exerts herself, body and heart, to draw her young man to her.

The young men are even less inhibited and come right up to the women to choose the one they like best, as if they are choosing a piece of fruit. At this point the women move their handkerchiefs and fans, and the more they are examined the more feeling they put into their singing. When a conversation starts, the young man takes the young woman’s hand and they walk off together. The marketplace with its stalls thronging with ten thousand heads during the daytime is now a vast singing stadium. I am surrounded by an expanse of passions and think that human search for love must originally have been like this. So-called civilization in later ages separated sexual impulse from love and created the concepts of status, wealth, religion, ethics and cultural responsibility. Such is the stupidity of human beings.

Night grows palpably thick, the sound of the drums ceases and the black surface of the river is dotted with the lights of the boats. I suddenly hear someone call out in Chinese, ‘older brother’, and the voice seems to be right near me. I turn and see four or five girls on the slope all singing to me. One again calls out in a clear voice ‘older brother’. At this point, I realize this is probably all the Chinese she knows but it would be enough to seek love. I see her expectant eyes in the darkness, unblinking and fixed on me. My hearts starts pounding and I seem to return to the long-lost trembling of my passionate youth. I am drawn to her, perhaps affected by the actions of the young men here, perhaps because of the darkness. I see her lips moving slightly, although she doesn’t speak again and just waits, and the singing of her companions grows soft. She is still a child; her face hasn’t lost that childish look – the high forehead, upturned nose, small mouth. If I give the slightest sign I know she will come away with me, snuggle up and, all excited, put up her parasol. But this tension is unbearable, I quickly smile, no doubt very awkwardly, resolutely shake my head, and then turn and walk away, not daring to look back.

I have never encountered this style of love. It’s what I dream about but when it actually happens I can’t cope.

I should confess that the low bridge and upturned nose, high forehead, small mouth and expectant bright eyes of the Miao girl revived painful, tender feelings which had long since become forgotten memories. But I am instantly aware that I can no longer return to those pure passions. I must face the fact that I have become old. It is not just age and various other intangible differences even if she is right here and I can just reach out and take her with me. It amounts to the fact that my heart is old and I can on longer ignore all else and fall in love, body and heart, with a young woman. My relationships with women changed long ago and lost this instinctive youthful love… only lust remains. I’m afraid of shouldering the responsibility of pursuing even momentary happiness. I’m not a wolf but I would like to be a wolf, to return to nature, to go on prowl. However, I can’t rid myself of this human mind. I am a monster with a human mind and can find no refuge.

Reed pipes sound. On the river-bank by clumps of bushes, lover embrace under parasols, no longer couples between heaven and earth but immersed in worlds of their own. But their worlds are remote from me, just like an ancient legend. Sadly, I walk away.

Pictures can somehow stand mute. While people walk by.

And yet pictures painted by words are a strange concoction. Of images and words. Neither mute, nor eastman colour..

Soul Mountain. Hope you find yours. :-)