During our recent scouting trip to Dali, we decided to skip the packed tourist trails entirely. Instead, we followed our intuition and wandered into an unpretentious, quiet old courtyard tucked away in Heqing.

The yard was delightfully messy, covered in a thick carpet of freshly shaved bamboo splints. The air carried a warm, comforting aroma—the master craftsman had just cooked up a fresh batch of paste made from organic wheat flour, still steaming slightly with a faint, grain-like sweetness.

When we arrived, the old master was sitting on a low wooden stool, deftly splitting raw bamboo. We squatted down beside him, our fingers tracing the newly cut splints. They were incredibly thin—almost like paper—and he measured every slice entirely by the feeling of his calloused fingertips. In Bai traditions, the brilliant paper horses, mythical dragons, and lotus lanterns used for local village festivals are all carved and tied stroke by stroke with simple cotton threads. Without a single drop of industrial glue, the interlocking bamboo skeletons felt remarkably sturdy in the mountain wind.

In a quiet corner of the yard lay a few freshly structured dragon heads, their intricate bamboo ribs outlining a fierce, majestic shape without their paper skins yet. The master looked up and smiled, mentioning that the village happened to be hosting a traditional Dragon Dance ceremony that very evening.

As night fell, the quiet village was instantly ignited by a thumping crescendo of gongs and drums. We naturally drifted with the crowd of villagers toward the open square. There were no fancy stage lights—only torches and the bouncing beams of flashlights. The very bamboo skeletons and mulberry paper we had touched that afternoon had now been transformed into a massive, shimmering dragon stretching over ten meters long in the hands of the local youth.

The moment the dragon lanterns were lifted and swung into the night sky, the sheer raw vitality of the scene gave us goosebumps. The long dragon surged and coiled through firelight and smoke, its heavy movements slicing through the air with a distinct whoosh. Bai grandmothers laughed and prayed loudly around us, while children darted playfully under the dragon’s body. Those creations made of the lightest paper and bamboo truly seemed to breathe and possess a soul at that moment, carrying the collective hope of an entire village as they charged through the dark.

It was in that thunderous, vibrant crowd that we suddenly understood what the old master had said casually earlier that afternoon: “We use bamboo and paper because they grow right out of the earth. When the ritual ends, we burn them, returning everything cleanly back to the universe. We don’t leave any trash behind for the gods or our ancestors.”

As the frenzy faded and the exquisite paper lanterns dissolved into a final wisp of smoke floating toward Mount Cangshan, there was no sadness or attachment on the villagers’ faces—only absolute peace. That calm, accepting relationship with life and nature felt beautifully, hopelessly romantic.

For those of us who have spent too long in the rushing currents of modern cities, staying in a place where time slows down to the pace of drying wheat paste changes you. From watching paper gracefully form over bamboo ribs under the afternoon sun to witnessing the great dragon take flight and burn away in the midnight fire, we felt ourselves completely settling down, aligning with the patient rhythm of Dali’s sunlight and flames.