I’ve been talking to this man for half an hour and still don’t know his name.  “The name is not important,” he says, with a smile that flickers like a half-remembered melody. “What’s worth remembering is the story, the alcohol, and the music.” So, I’ll call him Mr. Stray. After all, he’s a stray singer, running a little music bar by the shores of Earhai. It’s the third day of my journey through Dali. My footsteps slow as I wander beside the moon-lit lake and hear mingling voi

The afternoon sun in Yangliu village draped everything in gold — the tiled rooftops, the drying chili strings, the hands of Grandma Yang...

The Bai people, one of the 55 minority ethnic groups in China,  inhabit the village.  As we stepped inside the town, the villagers...

“ What didn’t I teach? Chinese, Math, Music and Art, everything when the bell rang for them. ”  Principal Bi was the pioneer of an era of...

“Life is like embroidery; you have to do it stitch by stitch, no rushing.” Grandma Qiaoming Li said with a smile, the wrinkles at the...