From the United States to a Dong village in Guizhou: a Beijing girl’s career and life choices

From Beijing to the United States, and Then to Guizhou

I was born and raised in Beijing.

In my second year of secondary school, I was quite rebellious and really disliked my homeroom teacher; I always felt that he was constantly putting us down. One winter holiday, I told my mum I didn’t want to do homework any more; I wanted to go out and see the world. As it happened, I had come across a winter camp in the United States, so I signed up. I didn’t think too much about it at the time; I just felt that, no matter where it was, I might as well just go.

Later, I found another opportunity to go to the United States as an exchange student. After that, I stayed on there, studying, graduating, and working, for 11 years. The political climate then was different from what it is now; as a Chinese person, I was able to work in consulting inside the United States government after graduating, and I did so for five years. The celebration for our project was even held in the White House.

In 2018, I suffered a double blow in both work and life. I was caught up in serious company infighting, and I also developed health problems that required treatment. Right at that point, a chef and food writer I greatly admired, Anthony Bourdain, died by suicide. To me, it was as if a food dream I had longed for had shattered. So I began to think seriously about whether I should stop and rest.

Looking back over the previous thirty-odd years, I had in fact never truly rested, never truly lived. I had been chasing one goal after another, as if I were completing KPIs. When I decided to rest, the first thing I thought of was returning to China.

I left home at 17, and when I looked back, I realised I had already missed the period of China’s most rapid development, and had never really come to know this land. So after returning to China, I joined the public-interest organisation Wushui Xinxi Pingtai. By working on projects in rural areas, I hoped to understand the local context better. One of the project sites was in Yangdong Village in Qiandongnan, Guizhou. It was from here that the rest of my story really began.

In the winter of January 2019, I first came to Yangdong Village as a project mentor.

I had never been to Guizhou before, and the first thing I noticed was how long the journey was. At the time, the high-speed rail line to the village had not yet been built. Getting to the village required several changes of transport: first flying to Guizhou or Guilin, then taking the high-speed train to Rongjiang County, and finally catching a bus from Rongjiang into the village. The road had not yet been properly built, and the road into the village was muddy and bumpy. When I got out of the car, my suitcase had turned grey.

But what left the deepest impression on me from that trip was actually the rice. When I had my first mouthful of rice in Yangdong Village, I thought it was the best rice I had ever eaten. At the time, I still wondered whether it was because we were so tired and overworked that day. Later, we ate the same rice at every meal and still found it delicious; even the Guangxi students on the team felt the same way.

I grew up eating noodles and had little real understanding of rice. The rice we ate most at home was rice from the Northeast, and I knew even less about rice in Guizhou. So looking back now, my story with Guizhou began, in a way, with that mouthful of rice.

The following year, the pandemic came. I was working from home, and for the first time in over thirty years I was living with my parents again. Because I had been cooped up at home for so long, my mind felt overgrown with grass.

It was then that I received a parcel, sent by my current husband. The parcel was covered in mud, and when I opened it, it was a box of spring bamboo shoots sent from Qiandongnan. It was wonderfully fragrant, and I was deeply moved. It was also around that time that I felt strongly that I had to get out! I hadn’t left home for a long time. One morning, I climbed the Western Hills, but Beijing’s smog was very bad that day. As it happened, a friend sent me a WeChat message showing the morning mist over the hilltop in Yangdong Village.

On one side was Beijing’s smog, on the other the mist in the mountains of Qiandongnan.

Because of these two things, I flew to Guizhou and spent a particularly unforgettable summer there, which I call “the happiest summer holiday of my life”.

It was a feeling I hadn’t had for a long time, like really being on summer holiday in my school days. I spent each day exploring the mountains and waters, soaking in the water, and cooking and eating with local friends. My wooden cabin was also being built. I had originally thought that, once the pandemic ended, I might still go back to Beijing to work, and when I had time off, I would return to Guizhou.

But in the process of building the wooden cabin, my husband and I got together. We had met on the terraced fields. He was a young returnee, serving as plant manager at the cooperative’s rice mill. We got to know each other because of “Yanzhi Zi Mi”, and later people also joked that it was the purple rice of love.

In April 2021, the wooden cabin was completed, and we have lived here ever since, without ever leaving.

Building a Library with Yanzhi Zi Mi Purple Rice

During my summer in Yangdong Village, I got to know some of the children. I found that they had very few extracurricular activities to choose from. Their parents had gone out to work, and they were all living with elderly family members, spending much of their time watching short videos. So I wanted to build a library, hoping the children could come here during the winter and summer holidays to read and take part in activities, giving them another option.

But where would the money come from? I thought the local Yanzhi Zi Mi purple rice was of very good quality, but the farmers were not selling it well, so I wanted to raise funds by selling purple rice.

The whole fundraising process was completed over the winter. Many local high school students and villagers came to help us pack and dispatch the goods. This was also the first time I had really taken part in selling farm produce. It was also during this process that I truly came to understand Yanzhi Zi Mi purple rice. I looked into its history, shared its story, made videos, and showed people how to prepare it. After that, I received a lot of feedback, and some people wanted to keep buying the purple rice. Later, we grew rice ourselves, and that was in fact closely connected to this.

While fundraising, we looked for a site for the library. We found an abandoned granary by the Yangdong River. It was in a good location, close to the primary school. But because it was so run down, the locals thought it could never become a library. However, we loved the wooden structure and wanted to preserve it.

In June 2021, the library opened. It was the first public-interest library in Qiandongnan, and it gradually became a space serving the community. I have always been grateful for the role this library has played in my life.

I usually teach English and do yoga at the library. Many volunteers from different places also come here to teach courses, such as courses in children’s emotional growth, as well as flower arranging, nature education, and craft classes. The most popular is the poetry class. I have found that every child is a natural creator; they just need a space where they are accepted; like seeds, they will sprout.

To help the library continue, we compiled the children’s poems into a poetry anthology and took it to Shanghai, Beijing, and other places for sharing sessions and exhibitions. This also helped us raise some funds.

At the same time, I also began designing courses according to the village’s actual circumstances. For instance, content on sex education and waste management all arose from gaps I had noticed in everyday life; I then invited teachers from public-interest organisations to run targeted activities on these topics.

Because we are conserving heirloom seeds, we hope to start with children. The library is also preparing seed lessons so that children can learn about local plants and seeds.

Along the way, we have also encountered many problems. The biggest one recently is that the library needs to move.

This is because the landlord insists on keeping water buffalo here. I have also spoken with the government, but because the Dong people have a tradition of bullfighting, which is part of local culture, the government made clear that it cannot stop the landlord from keeping his water buffalo here. So the most important thing this year is to move the library to a new location.

There have also been some cultural frictions, particularly in matters of contractual commitment and efficiency, whether it was building a house or organising farmers to plant. At first, I expected there to be a contract or an agreement, oral or written, and for everyone to follow it. In practice, it proved very difficult. People might not turn up because of festivals, family matters, or bad weather. Over time, I came to understand that this was not personal; the rhythm of life itself was different. So now I have adjusted my expectations too. Later, I realised that efficiency does not have to come first. In agriculture and in nature, there is a great deal of unpredictability; unlike office output, it cannot be planned precisely. I began to accept that things would eventually happen, a month early, a month late, and stopped wrestling with myself.

The Old-Fashioned Rice-Growing Ways of Yangdong Village

Over the years I have lived in Yangdong, I have gradually moved from initial participation to a much deeper involvement in farming itself. On the one hand, my husband is interested in farming and farm tools; on the other hand, my focus has been on heirloom seeds. We have become more involved in cultivation, and, drawing on our observations of the local context, we have gradually developed our own philosophy — to carry on, as far as possible, the Dong people’s own farming practices.

Rice-growing in Yangdong relies mainly on a rice–fish–duck symbiotic system.

We raise “paddy fish” in every paddy field. In spring, during rice transplanting, we put the fingerlings in; by the time of the autumn harvest, we can harvest both the rice and the fish. We also have our own festivals connected to this process: “Guanyang Jie” — celebrating rice transplanting; and “Chixin Jie” — celebrating the rice harvest. Before that, we first open the fields to let the water out and catch the fish, and then invite relatives and friends to eat together.

Fish have many roles in the rice paddy. Fish waste can act as fertiliser; as they move through the water, they stir it up, reducing weed growth. At the same time, in the paddy there are not only the fingerlings we put in, but also wild freshwater mussels, small shrimp, small fish, and river snails. Interestingly, in the Dong language, every tiny creature has its own name, and they distinguish between farmed fingerlings and wild fish. This also reflects the local people’s love for these creatures and the aquatic environment. For example, when my husband is ploughing, his 10-year-old nephew starts catching fish in the muddy water; the fish he catches are boiled and eaten at lunch, very fresh and delicious.

The division of labour in the field is equally natural: men plough, while women scoop out fish while the water is being stirred up. Most of what they scoop up is small wild fish, such as carp and crucian carp, as well as some fish that have only Dong-language names and whose Chinese names I do not know.

We also use compost made from our own cattle manure and plant ash instead of chemical fertiliser. The approach to weeding is also natural: cattle eat the grass on the field ridges, and ducks and fish eat the weeds in the water. Where the grass on the field ridges may hinder the growth of the rice beside it, hand weeding is needed.

In Yangdong Village, cultivation takes place on terraced fields at altitudes of 500 to 1,200 metres. Rice is grown once a year, with a growth period of over 150 days, and is irrigated throughout the year with fresh mountain spring water.

Thanks to the natural conditions here, there are a great many local heirloom varieties of rice. At present, we preserve about nine heirloom varieties of rice and a dozen or so coarse grains, with the total kept stable at around twenty each year. The heirloom varieties of rice currently sold by Zhao Xi She are basically all from self-saved seed, including: Lüxiangzhu Mi, Yanzhi Zi Mi purple rice, Xiao Ma Hong Mi, Wucai Yan Mi, Jingshui Xiang, Xiang Nuo, Mangling Jing Mi, and others.

Because the Dong people have no written script, only a spoken language, most of the historical records we can find date from county gazetteers after the Ming dynasty. So we usually say that these seeds are at least 400 years old.

Every kind of rice has its own characteristics. For example, Yanzhi Zi Mi purple rice is used in winter to make ciba, wrap zongzi, and brew wine. Lüxiangzhu Mi has a very low yield of less than 300 jin per mu; it is our most precious kind of rice, and it is also one that Michelin chefs tend to favour. Wucai Yan Mi is a mixture of five kinds of rice, originating from the Dong tradition of banquets for weddings and funerals—each household brings a handful of rice, which is mixed together and cooked, and all kinds of colours appear. Mangling Jing Mi is a variety we found in Mangling Village. Xianghe Nuo, by contrast, behaves very differently from the other varieties: it prefers shade and cold water and needs to be planted where there is little light and close to a water source.

From Heirloom Varieties to New Roles

Through conserving local heirloom varieties, I have also become part of the ecological agriculture network. Since last year, I have started to go out more. In October, I went to Thailand with partners from Foodthink to visit local farming communities, and I also took part in farmers’ markets and events in Beijing and Guangzhou. In January this year, I went to Germany to attend the agriculture and food forum there.

In fact, a lot of people ask us: “Why don’t you live stream? You are very well suited to it, and you have a very good venue.” But we do not see it that way.

From what I have observed and what I know, some farms, although they are practising ecological and organic farming, have become highly corporate in their operations, pursuing yield, sales, and growth. The founders are extremely anxious, constantly live streaming, telling stories, and answering questions, and it is very exhausting.

And “Zhao Xi She” as a brand has always been my original intention; it should be part of our lives. That is the tacit understanding between my husband and me. Once we start live streaming, we would move away from the ecological life we are trying to live. I would fall back into my old work habits — constantly checking data, caught up in data anxiety — and my original intentions would be affected as well.

So, although we have received many invitations, such as to expand the area under cultivation, take on larger orders, or obtain certification, we are currently quite cautious. Once we make commitments, it becomes difficult to maintain our current way of farming; that would mean changing varieties or finding other ways to meet production and order requirements.

In my sixth year in Guizhou, I have realised that the countryside has truly borne some of the consequences of the rapid development of this era. For example, in recent years transport has become more convenient, and all kinds of snacks have found their way into the village more readily, along with packaging, plastic and foam waste. When I first arrived in Yangdong Village, this hardly existed. Now the amount of litter in the mountains is increasing year on year, and we have had no choice but to pick it up once a week. By picking up litter ourselves and taking the children to do the same, we are making a small difference.

The promotion of chemical fertiliser has also begun to reach the village. Now, mobile sales vehicles with loudspeakers drive into the village to sell chemical fertiliser, which was unheard of before.

The ageing of the labour force is also very evident. Most of the people now farming in the village are over 60.

In recent years, we have tried to get more young people in the village involved in farming. At present, my husband’s older brother has come back from Guangdong to join us, but I am not sure how long he will stay. He seems to find it hard to see the value that I see in the land, seeds and natural resources here. I have also asked many people who have gone out to work. Their wages sound decent, but living costs in the city are high. Farming is not something people see as glamorous, and it is always harder to tell a story about farming than about going out to seek your fortune. But often, people go out to work for the sake of face. They think they will earn a lot of money, but in the end not much money actually comes home.

The gender ratio is also a problem. There are many single men in the village and few women. When problems arise in families, the women leave, the children are raised by their fathers, and if the fathers have to go out to work, the children can only live with the elderly.

Nowadays, many primary schools in towns and villages are being merged, and some are disappearing. Many people ask me how long the library can last. Actually, I don’t know. As long as Yangdong Primary School still exists, I hope the library will remain. If Yangdong Primary School disappears, the library will lose its reason for existing. Fortunately, Yangdong is a relatively large village, and after some primary schools in nearby Miao villages close, children are brought together here to attend school, which actually makes our “pool of pupils” larger.

In 2025, I took on a new identity—becoming a mother.

Some friends ask me whether I feel anxious about my child’s future education. Now that I have a child, I do think about it more, but I don’t feel anxious because of it.

I believe there will certainly be a way of educating him that suits him. I don’t know what it is yet, but by the time we reach that stage, I will naturally have the answer.

Thinking back, my decision to go to the United States was also a very accidental one. In fact, it has something in common with my later move to Guizhou—I did not choose a place after rationally comparing options and selecting the one that best fit my own values, but rather pursued a wild idea of mine, to see whether it could be made real. Even if it did not work out, I would still be content simply for having fought for it.

So I have never seen myself as someone who fled the city for the countryside. The countryside is now very well suited to my nine-month-old baby and me. In the mountains, he goes to rest at sunset and sleeps more soundly. Although everyone faces different difficulties and overcomes them in different ways, what matters is that, wherever you live, you can stay true to your own heart.

Editor: Kairui