Strolling in Xishuangbanna: When the Scenery from Childhood TV Dramas Suddenly Awakens
By the Lancang River at dusk, the wind carries the moisture and the sweet scent of Burmese osmanthus.
I walk slowly along the riverbank, watching the sunset dye the river surface golden-red, as a ferry boat lazily paddles to the opposite shore. From afar comes the tune of the hulusi, intermittent and fragmented, like someone talking to themselves in the twilight.
At a certain moment, that melody suddenly caught my steps—
I remembered a song.
"Beautiful Xishuangbanna, my father cannot be kept here..."
When I was a child, every night at eight o'clock, the Panda TV in the living room would play this melody. It was from the TV drama "Debts of Sin," about several children of Shanghai educated youth who traveled thousands of miles to Xishuangbanna to find their parents who abandoned them when returning to the city. I was only seven or eight then, not understanding what "debts of sin" meant, only thinking that Xishuangbanna on TV was so strange—the trees so tall, the water so green, the aunts in tube skirts so beautiful, but why were those children always crying?
More than twenty years later, here I am, actually standing on this land.
The river breeze blows, and I suddenly feel time folding. As a child, Xishuangbanna was a distant, somewhat sad symbol on a black-and-white TV; now, it is the soft soil beneath my feet, the smell of barbecue drifting past my nose, the silver-bell laughter of Dai children nearby.
I keep walking and pass a bamboo stilt house where several children are chasing and playing in the yard. They are barefoot, their skin sun-kissed to a healthy honey color, their laughter loud and free like splashing water. I watch them for a while—if those children in the TV dramas had not returned to Shanghai, they would probably be the fathers and mothers here now, right? And their children would probably be laughing just like this.
This thought softens my heart.
Continuing on, I pass a Buddhist temple. The golden pagoda glows in the sunset, little novice monks are sweeping the courtyard, their orange robes especially bright in the twilight. Standing at the temple gate, I suddenly recall a scene from "Debts of Sin": a boy kneeling before Buddha, crying and begging to find his father. Back then, I thought the boy was foolish—how could Buddha answer him?
But now, I suddenly understand. It wasn’t foolishness; it was childhood, when we all believed there was no problem in the world that couldn’t be solved. Growing up, we realize some questions even Buddha cannot answer.
Nearby, an elderly Dai woman is weaving flower garlands for tourists. I bought a string of Burmese osmanthus garlands, hung it on my wrist, and smelled it—pure and fragrant, like a kind of untainted emotion from childhood.
The sky darkens, and lights come on across the river. I walk back, my slippers clicking on the stone path. No music plays in my earphones, but that melody keeps turning in my mind: "Shanghai is so big, is there a home for me..."
But beneath my feet is Xishuangbanna, with its home. Its rainforests, pagodas, Lancang River, countless barefoot running children, and little novice monks sweeping leaves in the sunset.
The stories from those TV dramas have long ended, the actors have aged, the Panda TV is broken, and no one even mentions the word "Debts of Sin" anymore. But Xishuangbanna remains, more vivid, more tangible, and warmer than the images on TV.
I think everyone has a childhood TV drama in their heart. When you finally step into that scene—not in front of a TV, but in a real dusk, with real floral scents—you realize you are not there to find the ending, but to get a ticket to enter.
And today, I got mine.