Green Hillsides and "bright wings"

In my home state of Montana, and more specifically the mountains of western Montana, two things have been the primary cause of deforestation over the decades: forest fires, and logging. While the practice of clear-cutting as been alleviated, leaving only the remembrance of such damaging practices, the annual forest fires remind us of one thing, in two parts: the immense power nature has to destroy and the immense power nature has to rejuvenate. From morel mushrooms, mountain maples, and huckleberry bushes, to large stands of new pines, many large burn areas begin the recovery process within a year or two of the original holocaust. I will not kid myself; these fires leave quiet a scar on the land. However, they also cleanse the land and replenish the soil for new growth. Even our foresters take part by going out and planting seedlings, in an effort to maintain a strong renewable resource. This cycle constantly finds itself under fire (pun intended) from both sides of the "green" debate, but for generations, it has worked, for better or for worse.

When I traveled to HeKou to meet Suli's other family members, I did not realize I would be facing a similar sort of circle. A few generations ago, China stripped the mountains surrounding HeKou of all trees and plants; the goal was to create a new renewable resource for the area. Suli told me of growing up in an area where she wondered sometimes why certain hills had nothing on them. However, as an adult, she sees how the plan has come full circle, and how China's neighbors to the south, Vietnam, are just now starting their own cycle.
When we drove into HeKou on 26 December, the sun had already set some time before our arrival. So all we saw were shadows of China, and Vietnam lurking on the other side of the HongHe (Red River). Therefore, it was not until two days later, when Suli, her family, Candy (another teacher from KIA) and I ventured into the surrounding hills that I saw the two sides of the cycle--as well as the border. As we traveled in our Conestoga-style, three-wheeled motorcycle to Suli's mother's home, I caught my first glimpses of the Vietnamese hills on the other side of the river: bare, except for some grass and a few stands of green trees, with terraces built into the hillsides. On our side of the border, our vehicle moved in and out of the shade of a variety of different trees growing on similar terraces. The above photo shows rubber trees (the upper portion of the photo) and banana trees (in the middle with the blue bags protecting the bunches of fruit from the "cold" temperatures). While the bananas (xiangjiao and bajiao--a smaller, denser version of what we get in our supermarkets) have been in China for some time, the rubber trees originally found their way to China from Brazil. Both provide the country with a renewable resource from which to support her population. So while the ground in Vietnam prays for the day it will once again find shade beneath the branches of trees (Vietnam has begun planting rubber trees), China's terraces have once again created an environment in which other life flourishes.

One of my favorite pieces of flora, just up the hill from Suli's mother's house is this giant poinsettia. Suli actually has one growing outside her apartment in Kunming, but this one, growing in the shade of the rubber trees and butted up against this wood shack looked like red bursts of fireworks against a green background, not unlike the night sky during the celebrations of ChunJie (Chinese New Year). Before I came to China, I had assumed that the poinsettia was just a potted plant. This one stands nearly ten feet tall and supports nearly twenty red blossoms.

This closeup of a rubber tree shows a little bit how the tree is used as a resource. Each "harvest" season, a strip of bark (bark only; one must not mar the "bone" of the tree) is cut away from the trunk, causing the rubber sap to run down the spiraling cut. A cup at the end of the cut catches the sap and is collected. During the winter, the black plastic piece is placed above the cut to protect it from moisture and cold weather. Because the cuts are only made on one side of the tree, when the harvesting finally reaches the base of the tree trunk, the collection can begin on the opposite side, while the first side renews itself. I am sure Suli could give your more information, but that is my understanding of the rubber "farming" business in one slice. You may also notice in the photo, down in the ravine directly behind the rubber tree, a patch of small shrub-like plants with some power-lines going through them. These are actually pineapple plants. Suli's mother manages a stand of these in the hills behind her home. When Suli asked her mother how many she though she would harvest this year, she replied, about a thousand. For those of you who have never witnessed a pineapple garden, these are nasty plants with serrated leaves that will rip you or your clothes to shreds.
Another tree that grows rather abundantly in the hills surrounding HeKou is that which provides cinnamon. Above, Suli snaps off a small branch from this cinnamon tree. She peeled back the bark and separated it from the "bone" and gave me the bark to eat. It reminded me of the cinnamon spiced toothpicks the boys in my junior high sold to chew on, because we were not allowed to chew gum. The tree actually bears cinnamon "fruit", but we settled for the bark on this day.
Our actual reason for venturing into the hills this day was to gather a wild vegetable that grows on the terraces supporting the rubber trees. I fail to remember the Chinese name for the vegetable, and Suli did not know the English name, however, like many of the vegetables I have eaten here in China, it is probably not something that would ever find its way to a dinner table in the States, simply because we would view it as a weed. However, when we boiled it up in our evening "hot pot" (a chicken based soup in which one cooks any variety of other meats, vegetables, fungi, and potatoes and other tubers), I could not get enough of these delicious morsels. Based on what I could see, a person could spend all day, every day, on the hillsides gathering this vegetable and never run out. In fact, Suli said, while there was never a time in her childhood when her family lacked for rice, there were times when this vegetable is what they subsisted on for weeks at a time. It makes my complaint of eggs, eggs, eggs, from my own childhood seem rather hollow (by the way, I love eggs). In the above photo, a seventh-grade girl who lives down the street from Suli's sister helped us pick the plant. She spent a fair amount of time with us, which gave her an opportunity to practice her English, while the entirety of Suli's family gave Candy and I a great opportunity to try out our Putonghua.

As we returned from the terraced hills, on our way to cook up all we had found that day, I looked back across the HongHe at the bare hills on the Vietnam side. They looked so lonely. However, like the Chinese hills and the burned mountains of western Montana, nature will work rapidly to replenish growth on those hills. Hopefully, the people of Vietnam, like the people of China and the people of the United States, will do their part to help nature restore itself. In a way it reminds me of Gerard Manley Hopkins poem "God's Grandeur". Writing during the height of the Industrial Revolution in England, Hopkins describes a land destroyed by man, but renewed by the Holy Spirit. In his poem, he argues lyrically for better stewardship of the land, so that, when that when day breaks, the earth, renewed from its night's slumber, rises on "Ah, bright wings!"