It was 7 a.m. and I was in Mudanjiang, China.
Not Shanghai or Beijing or any other city the typical American tourist would visit. But instead, I was in Mudanjiang, a lesser-known city in northeastern China. The day before, my friends and I had left Shanghai, traveling three hours by plane and five hours by train to reach our final destination. And we were lucky, because we had arrived just in time for the annual Dragon Boat Festival.
Downstairs in the hotel, we ate a quick breakfast of zongzi, a sticky rice dumpling with red bean filling. Then we left for the Dragon Boat festival, which was taking place on the streets outside of our hotel. I walked slowly, documenting the experience with my camera and buying bracelets as souvenirs to later give to my friends. The streets were packed with people, from street vendors selling jewelry and food to parents and children with colorful balloons and flamboyant costumes.
The purpose of the Dragon Boat festival was to commemorate a famous Chinese poet, who died after jumping into the river for his devotion to his country. Every year, festival attendees gather to watch Dragon Boat racing, a popular activity in which groups of people race boats shaped with a dragon’s head at one end and a dragon’s tail at the other. I was given a colorful piece of woven cloth, which represented the team I was cheering for in the festival. I looked around and tied the cloth around my head, just as the locals did with theirs.
As we walked down the street, we finally reached the edge of the river. Hundreds of other locals stood cheering for their teams, holding beautifully decorated umbrellas to shade themselves from the sun. Twelve men paddled in each boat, racing the wooden dragons through the water and towards the finish line. Happily observing the scene, I took in the people, the sounds, and the colors of the festival, committing them to memory. I watched the elderly women, who wore matching pink and green outfits and had performed earlier in the opening acts. I watched the policemen, who stood in front of a rope that separated the government officials from the rest of the crowd. I watched the vendors, who sold food and jewelry and balloons on the streets.
And at that moment, it hit me: I had the unique opportunity to experience this tradition. Every year, the locals in Mudanjiang came to this same river and celebrated this same festival, with the same colors and sounds and elderly women and boats shaped like dragons. They had been celebrating it for years, probably generations. Nobody noticed me, nor did they care about the random tourist celebrating the festival with a piece of cloth tied around her head. But there I was, standing in the middle of a tradition that will go on and on, for years and years to come.
Article written by Nikki Somani.
