Huangluo Yao Village & the Longji Rice Terraces.

Huangluo Yao Village & the Longji Rice Terraces.

Guangxi Autonomous Region, China.

May 2010.

Cover photo courtesy of xiquinhosilva.

After my cycling and cooking adventures in Yangshuo, I returned to Guilin by bus, where—reluctantly—I boarded a large coach for my day trip into the mountains. I had hoped to avoid a group tour, but with only a day to spare and an awkward local bus schedule to contend with, I swallowed my disdain and booked through China International Travel Service.

I remember thinking to myself: How bad could the group tour be? Unfortunately, not in my wildest imagination, could I have anticipated just how bad. The misjudged nature of the tour began at concept level. What I had not realised, is that the group was a mix of Chinese domestic tourists and foreigners: including a young Spanish family, an Australian couple and a handful of solo travellers like myself.

The drive from Guilin to our first stop, the ethno-village of Huangluo Yao, tucked deep in the Longsheng mountains, took just under two hours. Much to the frustration of many, the tour guide spent the entire journey blaring information through a loudspeaker. He barely paused for breath, rattling through the landscape, local history, cultural curiosities, weather conditions, and plenty more.

Photo courtesy of Chensiyuan.

For the most part he spoke in Chinese, though every so often he’d switch to English to summarise. His English was so poor I could barely follow a word of it. At one point, a Spanish woman stood up and asked if he could turn the loudspeaker down. But he just stared at her blankly, clearly having no idea what she was asking.

Huangluo Yao Village & the Longji Rice Terraces.

With a steadily worsening headache, I tried to focus on the unfolding landscape as the bus twisted along narrow mountain roads that felt ill-suited to a coach of this size.

By the time we began the approach to the village, the mood onboard had soured. Indeed my lasting image is of a young Swedish guy sat opposite me. He leaned forward, his head pressed against the seat in front, silently begging for the guide to shut up. As if in answer to his prayers, the bus ground to a halt and we stepped out into the chilly, misty air of Huangluo Yao.

As we spilled out onto the village’s main street, the rain began—light at first, then steady enough to send a few people fumbling for ponchos and hoods. Huangluo Yao revealed itself slowly through the drizzle: dark wooden houses on stilts, narrow walkways slick with rain, and the murmur of water already running off tiled roofs.

The guide, at least, had been prepared for this—within seconds he was pulling umbrellas from his shoulder bag and handing them out.

A Rainy Day in the Longsheng Mountains.

Set deep in the hills of Longsheng, the village is home to the Red Yao, a subgroup of the wider Yao ethnic minority. They are long known for unique traditions that feel both preserved and very carefully presented for curious visitors.

Better known internationally as China’s long-haired ladies, the women are famous for their hair. Grown and preserved over a lifetime, they coil and sometimes wrap their hair into elaborate styles that carry markers of age, marital status, and identity.

Photo courtesy of Gerd Eichmann.

As we stood listening to the guide, who was already back on his loudspeaker, a few women appeared beneath the eaves. They smiled warmly, their long black hair wound thick and heavy. One of them beckoned me over to her stall of handmade crafts. I smiled back and browsed for a moment out of politeness, before rejoining the group.

Ignoring the guide, who I still couldn’t understand, I turned to my guidebook and picked up a few details about the villagers and their traditions. Yao girls begin growing their hair at around twelve, with elders treating it using a mixture of rice-washed water and herbs.

Huangluo Yao Village & the Longji Rice Terraces.

Photo courtesy of Youlin Magazine.

For the Red Yao, hair represents a happy, healthy life—one of prosperity and good fortune. It can grow to as long as 1.8 metres and is cut only once in a lifetime, usually at around eighteen or just before marriage. Women with their hair covered are single, awaiting a suitor, while married women wear theirs in a flat, tray-like bundle atop their heads.

When the guide’s latest monologue finally ended, a pair of long-haired ladies led us inside one of the homes on the main street. It felt quite surreal as we all filed through the vast, creaking structure in near silence.

The rooms were spacious but sparsely decorated. In the living room, half a dozen children sat on a small rug, watching cartoons on a bulbous old 1990s-era TV. None of them looked up as we passed. I didn’t dare take out my camera—it just felt… wrong.

The main event of any visit to the village is the so-called Long-Haired Show, staged daily in a large theatre hall.  Another tour group had just arrived, so the hall was packed to the rafters as the lights dimmed.

The Long-haired Lady Show.

The performance leans heavily on the village’s traditions and customs. It opens with music and choreographed dancing, the women moving in bright traditional dress, their hair coiled, wrapped, and then dramatically unfurled to appreciative murmurs from the crowd.

As the performance progressed, more women appeared, some at the windows high above the stage, where they waved before letting their hair fall—Rapunzel-style—down the front of the façade.

From there, proceedings took a distinctly odd turn. One of the women stepped up to a microphone and invited three male audience members onto the stage. Within seconds, two Chinese men trotted up, along with a bemused Australian who’d been handpicked by our guide.

The compère then asked each man to choose a long-haired lady he liked the look of, which set in motion what I can only describe as a slapstick pantomime designed to explain the local courting process.

Huangluo Yao Village & the Longji Rice Terraces.

One of the Chinese men had to serenade his “beloved,” while the other endured a steady stream of ass pinches from his chosen partner.

But the real humiliation was reserved for the unfortunate Aussie. First, his partner climbed onto his back as the crowd gasped, hooted and hollered.

Then the compère instructed him to run a full loop around the hall with her still clinging on. He looked mortified, but went through with it, every part of him willing the ground to swallow him up. When he finally shambled back onto the stage, the compère crowned him with a ring of flowers.

Moderately entertained, but wondering if there might be a more dignified way for these ladies to present their traditions, I joined the throng spilling out of the theatre. Moreover, it suddenly struck me that I hadn’t seen a single adult male. I could only assume they were out working the rice fields.

From there it was back onto the bus, winding slowly ever upward. This was where the landscape was meant to shift from gorgeous to something else entirely, as this stretch of the mountains is home to one of China’s most arresting sights: the Longji Rice Terraces.

Photo courtesy of Anna Frodesiak.

Also known as The Dragon’s Backbone, the terraces have been shaped over centuries, first by the Zhuang people and later by the Yao. On a clear day, as pictured above and below, they are a wonder to behold.

The Longji Rice Terraces.

Photo courtesy of Dariusz Jemielniak.

But that afternoon they revealed themselves only in fragments, half-lost in the mist. Initially there were faint lines etched into the hillside, then the ghosts of several curves disappearing into cloud. Atmospheric, for sure—but not without its frustrations.

Gradually, we edged closer to Ping’an, the road narrowing further as the world beyond the windows seemed to dissolve. The guide was back on his loudspeaker, and with some effort I gathered that Ping’an is predominantly home to the Zhuang. And that without the long-hair tourism, their income comes mainly from the rice terraces, along with a growing number of family-owned guesthouses and restaurants.

In Ping’an we had over an hour to wander and grab some food. That was music to my ears, and off I went, soaking up the misty mountain atmosphere. Perched high on the mountainside, the village is little more than a tight cluster of dark wooden houses stacked along steep, narrow paths.

With clouds drifting quite literally through it, the place felt half-hidden, rooftops and balconies appearing and disappearing before me. Wooden walkways creaked underfoot, lined with small guesthouses, a convenience store, and quiet, lantern-hung doorways.

Huangluo Yao Village & the Longji Rice Terraces.

It quickly became apparent how hungry I was, and that in actual fact there was only one restaurant open. So in I went, only to find half the tour group already sat down and in various states of ordering and eating. The food was pricy but good; I had no complaints whatsoever about my fried beef dish, served swimming in greens and a rich, garlicky broth.

However, the star of the show was undoubtedly a portion of Sticky Bamboo Tube Rice (zhu tong fan / 竹筒饭). Mixed with mushrooms and beans, locals roast it slowly over a charcoal fire, the bamboo steaming the rice from within while infusing it with a faintly sweet, almost grassy aroma. Tinted green from the natural oils, it was delicious—especially dipped into the sauce of my beef and cabbage dish.

As I finished up my meal, I got word from the Spanish family that the guide had set a time for everyone to gather at the village’s main square. There, we would all walk down the hill together, alongside the terraces, down to the halfway point between Ping’an and Huangluo Yao, where the bus would be waiting for us.

Immediately, I decided that I would make a five-minute head start, so that I could enjoy the atmosphere away from the group and with the guide out of my ear.

The Dragon’s Backbone.

The walk only took around twenty minutes, but it felt good to be on my own for a while—making peace with the weather and taking the terraces as they came in fleeting, half-hidden glimpses. Then, in the final stretch, much to my surprise, the mist lifted altogether, and I finally got a taste of the scenery I’d been dreaming about.

On the journey back, the guide stayed quiet, and everyone drank in the peace. Between Guilin, Yangshuo, and the Longsheng mountains, Guangxi had delivered some fantastic adventures. My trip was drawing to a close, as indeed was my year of living in China. But I wasn’t quite done yet—the city of Hong Kong, I hoped, would provide one last hurrah.

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