Yunnan Province, China
I remember arriving in Xishuangbanna after a long and winding journey, travelling further and further south into Yunnan Province until the landscape began to change. The air softened, the vegetation thickened, and everything slowly shifted into something more humid, more alive. It felt as though I had crossed into another world.
Menglun, the small village where I stayed, is modest in size but rich in character. Life unfolds slowly here, yet with a quiet energy that reveals itself in the details. At its heart flows the Luosuo River, a wide, gentle presence that shapes both the land and the rhythm of daily life. In the early mornings, a soft mist rises from the surface of the water, wrapping the riverbanks in a pale, moving veil. It is a moment of stillness—almost suspended in time.
Along the river, each morning, elderly residents gather to practise tai chi. Their movements are slow and deliberate, echoing the quiet flow of the water beside them. Not far away, fishermen cast their lines into the river, their silhouettes barely visible through the mist. These simple, repeated rituals give a strong sense of continuity—a feeling of belonging that is deeply rooted in this place.
The village itself has a remarkable sense of community. In the evenings, people gather in open spaces—playing volleyball, dancing, laughing together. What is most striking is how naturally all generations come together; there is no separation, only participation. It is a shared rhythm of life that feels both grounding and generous.
At the edge of this village lies the Xishuangbanna Tropical Botanic Garden, set on what feels like a semi-island, embraced by the curves of the river. Entering the garden is like stepping into another dimension. Outside, there is movement, sound, and life in its full expression. Inside, there is calm.
The garden is shaped with quiet intention—Chinese-style ponds, small lakes, winding paths, and carefully framed views. Water is everywhere, reflecting the sky, the foliage, and the shifting light. It is a place designed not only for scientific research but also for contemplation. The transition from the liveliness of the village into the stillness of the garden is immediate and profound.
I stayed within the garden itself, in simple houses surrounded by dense vegetation. Living there allowed me to experience the place in a different way—waking with the sounds of insects and birds, feeling the humidity settle in the early hours, and watching the light filter through layers of green. I will never forget walking through the garden at night, when the darkness would quietly come alive with countless fireflies, their soft lights flickering endlessly through the air as if the landscape itself was breathing. Nor will I forget encountering a beautiful white pheasant deep within the forest—an unexpected and almost unreal moment. This region is part of a subtropical rainforest, though much of the original forest has been cleared over time for rubber plantations. Yet within the garden, a remarkable area of wild forest has been preserved—offering a rare glimpse of what this landscape once was, and still can be.
One of the most remarkable aspects of the garden is its people. It is an international community in the truest sense. Scientists, students, artists, and researchers from across the world come together here, each bringing their own knowledge, culture, and perspective. I remember one dinner in particular—we counted, almost in disbelief, that there were people from twenty-four different countries sitting around the same table.
This diversity creates a unique atmosphere. Conversations move easily between science and daily life, between research and shared experience. It is both intellectually stimulating and deeply human.
And then there is the food.
Xishuangbanna is famous for its barbecue, and for good reason. Evenings often end around a table filled with grilled vegetables, meats, and spices—simple, generous, and full of flavour. Meals are never rushed. They are an extension of the day, a continuation of conversation, and another way of being together.
Looking back, what stays with me most is the contrast.
It is a place where science and life coexist effortlessly, where nature is both studied and lived, and where, for a moment, everything feels deeply connected.
