Trail of Ants

My mother always said vegetables were good for me, so for 21 years I munched my way through her gloomy carrots, astringent runner beans and even the odd heap of pungent spinach. Then I cut the apron strings, and phoned her weekly, for 4 years, to ask her how to recreate the sloppy, lifeless clumps of sentiment. It was with a combination of this deep-rooted craving and my slow retreat from Chinese flesh-based sustenance that I found myself sitting in a Jinghong vegetarian restaurant, across from Reb, my recurring itch of an accomplice. Along with a feast of imitation crispy duck, sweet and sour meatballs, chinese cabbage and seaweed in flour came a vibrant 33 year old, called Joe the Bridge.

I’d met Joe a few days previous in the popular backpacker haunt, Mei Mei Cafe. He was charming, confident and outgoing - a diamteric opposite to the Chinese I’d met to date. He spoke English so fluently, he flicked on a London accent - or so he believed - whenever he saw fit ‘Hull’oh, m’yi ni’aim iiiis Ja-oh, wud yow li’k m’ey to ow’der yow a be’ya?‘. I accepted and over dinner Reb and I explained a jungle based fantasy. We wanted to experience life in the wood-hut villages that speckled the dense hillsides of this Xishuangbanna region. There are 56 ethnic minority groups in China, and here in the south west Yunnan province, 26 of the most colourful groups have pinned themselves defiantly to the hills with chopsticks. The only sticking point, was Joe’s reluctance to take up the challenge. From what I could gather, his “I’m a tour guide” claims were merely to earn a fast-buck from his smooth talking talent. He’d given me the sales patter earlier that week. ‘We go here, lunch here, say hi to these people here, sleep here, next day visit here then get bus back from here, via here’ he recited monotonously over my morning coffee, his eyes flicking round like the greedy tongue of a frog out for prey.

We stood our ground, we wanted to stay in a family’s house and we knew the colour of our yuan would forge a path through the jungle. ‘Many mosquitoes’ Joe exclaimed, we swiftly replied ‘we’ve got deet’. He persevered ‘we stay in guesthouse, nice, clean!’, we grinned ‘it’s only one night, we’ll ignore the dirt’. The game continued for 10 minutes, each excuse was devoured with our zealous chopsticks. The next morning, we met Joe as arranged, and set out to the bus station. The previous nights sleep was broken numerous times, tidbits of news from home had sparked my mind into overdrive and by 4am I’d re-enacted a hectic week of home-life. I washed my mind clean with blobs of sticky rice and a splash of ice-tea while I gained energy from Joe’s enthusiasm, pinned back by an aura of disquiet. It wasn’t until our arrival in the small town of Menghun, that I realised just how out-of-depth we’d put him. ‘It’s challenging, Joe likes a challenge’ he announced in transparent tone.

He decided we should head to the government building. We stumbled through the main street, passed mangy cats and natives choking on their breakfast noodles at the sight of marching “foreign devils”. It was a humid Saturday, but luckily we found one of the numerous offices occupied by a friendly faced man who conversed with Joe about our ambition. He was pleased, tourism was a powerful tool for local government and we were encouraged by his helpful attitude to head to Mangang, an Aini village 10km up from Menghun along a mountain path. Joe the Bridge - so-called because he claims to be “the bridge between English and Mandarin speakers” - had impressed us with his ingenuity. Had I been in the same situation back home, the last place I would turn is the pompous town hall. Within moments of leaving the office - with water bottles eagerly filled by the government official cum tourist information clerk - we struck upon our second pot of luck. Joe’s neighbourly approach had secured us a ride in the trailer of a Mengang resident’s tractor. The tractor would fail to impress the John Deere devotees amongst you, it was more a glorified sit on lawn-mower with enough grunt to scare the claims of local, wild elephants back into the fading tourist brochures. Nonetheless, we bounded up the hill clutching our night bags and cameras while Joe declared the cheerful soul revving the Harley-esq handlebars had agreed for us to stay with he and his family.

With the warm air deflecting off my shades, I looked down at the peasant Hells Angel as he transformed into Mei You, husband to Liu Xing and father to the pearl-eyed Zhing Hai Yuan, 17 months old and as we soon discovered, cherished by an entire village. The journey to Mengang was fluent and mesmerising, the rumpled stomping grounds of local farmers slipped effortlessly into verdant sheaves of rice and tea crop. Bamboo shoots sprayed out towards the azure, it’s swooping mass clothed itself in a luscious green coat, and equally glorious crown. Sugar cane spontaneously sprouted upon the vibrant mounds, swaying serenely in the tractors wake it waved us by, aboard our rice-laden chariot. A short while later, we descended along the path to the village, larger than I’d envisaged. A concrete blotch of a building seemed to pin it’s more traditional wooden counterparts to the rugged, chicken infested terrain. As we were paraded through the village - standing tall upon our rusting chariot - there was a sense of pride emanating from the drivers perch. He’d gone to market to convert his rice crop into the grains we’re more familiar with, yet returned with a twain of English folk and their friendly Jinghong chaperon.

Hospitality is a Chinese specialty, and this was fulfilled to the heart-warming letter. Relieved of our bags, we were perched on the wooden terrace overlooking the village, our weary spirit was revived with Chinese tea and, through Joe the Bridge we talked about life up here, in the tropical forests of Xishuangbanna. Mei You explained his fathers occupation, a black bee farmer. His soul job was to discover the underground 7-tier hives of a fierce bee the size of his thumb, the larvae (biabu in local Aini dialect) of which is considered a delicacy and fetches upwards of €80 for a honeycomb pallet in the more affluent city. Following a lunch of chinese cabbage, white carrot, fish head stew, the ubiquitous rice and a couple of bottles of the local spirit, baiju, we wobbled up the weathered pathways to view the now infamous bees in flight. From the ground they appeared like slick apache helicopters commanding their terraced territory. The traipse up the hill also granted us consistent, dazzling views of the divine lands that bound the hut village into a thriving amphitheatre.

Money is never expected in return for their selfless attitude, though small offerings are gratefully received. We duly paid the village shack a visit, and boxed up 5 bottles of baiju, 2 bottles of lemonade, 4 bottles of beer, a few packets of cigarettes and some treats for little Zhing. At less than £5, we still felt naturally indebted but the unwritten rule, wherever in the world, is not to ruin the harmony of the village by stockpiling them with outlandish offerings which they couldn’t ordinarily achieve. Throughout the day, word spread as to our arrival, and the sizeable wooden hut (maybe twice as big as my single-storey-residence in England) filled with friendly faced neighbours. Quite who was a relative, and who was a friend was lost in the tracks of time. We sat in the living room-cum-foreigners bedroom while Pearl Harbor - that epic of Japanese suffering - jabbered quietly on the television set, over-powered by our enthusiasm to communicate.

A short time later, the glass-topped coffee table played stage to a pallet of the pale, squirming delicacy. Black. Bee. Larvae. Within moments I was offered a free sampling, which I politely declined as much out of ignorance of the ritual as my distaste. The locals, seemingly not as squeamish tucked in, popping the small pill-like grubs into their mouths, smiling over their chew before picking bee excrement from their teeth. Just like that. The red-blooded male within me, eager not to let the side down, came through. I plunged my hesitant fingers into one of the delicate brown paper-like segments and withdrew my prey. My only proviso was that the bumble-poo was removed beforehand. Nevertheless I lowered the blob into my mouth, and chewed and grimaced and chomped and smirked and finally swallowed. My realisation of the moment was shrouded behind applause. I gasped. I’d just eaten black bee larvae.

An hour passed before we were ushered through to dine, a feast of fish head stew and white carrot was joined by bamboo root (pale potato like chunks) which Mai You had dug while on our earlier jaunt. The table was also host to the alcohol we’d gifted earlier, the entire consignment, meaning my drinking bowl (or jiba homar in the local Aini dialect) rarely suffered drought. Our chopsticks (or chida) gathered mouthfuls of generosity from the bowls (homar) of food Liu Xing had prepared. With our bellies full, and memories filled to the brink, the baiju was opened and friendships cemented with cries of ji bador (Aini), gambei (Mandarin) and cheers! As if using the raucous atmosphere to disguise the appearance, the biabu, bee larvae, reappeared. This time steamed, as if to justify it’s now silent presence.

The stages of the larvae’s development soon became apparent as I stared at the board of white specks. The inner-sanctum contained the shit-lined infants, a swift pinch would reveal their intestinal cord, it was easily removed. It’s sibling neighbours appeared more like white-chocolate bee-brides, wearing a thin scale over their head like virginal wedding veils. The further towards the outer-suburbs of this pallet of honeycomb, the more bee-like their appearance became. Eyes formed. Legs appeared. Their bodies segmented. In the very outer rings, lived a gang of juveniles, perfectly formed, and taking on their namesake black body. Much smaller than their apache parents, but nonetheless terrifying in demeanor. Whether it was the baiju, or the spirit of the moment, I found myself munching my way through the stricken community as if they were a bowl of pub peanuts. Though only once, did I brave the outer reaches and crunch the bitter black jacket, wings’n'all. This time the round of applause was more sincere, I had earned my place within the Aini if only for a fleeting moment. Reb, fuelled by peer-pressure finally followed suit, perhaps intrigued by my incessant pickings but equally, deservedly applauded.

With midnight drifting off into the star-spangled night sky, and mindful not to outstay their welcome the assembly gradually dispersed, though worryingly some relied on motorbikes to ride them home to neighbouring villages. Our makeshift three-in-a-bed was embraced whole-heartedly by Reb, Joe and I and dreams of utopia soon followed. Wiping the sleep from my eyes in the morning, I pictured the 7 empty baiju bottles clinking around with the empty beers. It was a blissful period, broken only by my memory of popping bee larvae habitually into my mouth, ignorant of it’s obscurity. We breakfasted on wheat noodles with Chinese onion, and a welcome mug of lobo do (tea) before using Joe the Bridge to communicate our thanks. We returned to Menghun - once again by tractor - to find the Sunday market in full bloom. Stalls selling intestine, pigs penis and buffalo stomach as well as more usual offerings of white carrot, chinese cabbage and the like. I didn’t see any biabu, though Reb gladly reminded me of the occasion when I complained of a gurgling gut. Suddenly, I craved my mothers cooking; al dente carrots, savory runner beans and heaps and heaps of glorious emerald spinach.

Bzzzz bzzzz.