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    Bai Tie-Dye

    Far from the rush of KPIs and deadlines, Dali, Yunnan, is home to a Bai art that refuses to be hurried. For over a thousand years, Bai tie-dye, known colloquially as 疙瘩画布 (gēda huàbù), has moved in harmony with the patient, seasonal rhythms of nature. 

    A Legacy Woven by Women

    Traditionally, tie-dye was a matrilineal skill, as essential for a Bai woman as cooking or farming. Girls began learning from mothers and grandmothers around age five, and a bride’s trousseau was incomplete without her own hand-tied bedding, tablecloths, and scarves. Nowadays, though no longer obligatory, the tradition endures, not only within families but also in spaces where heritage meets hospitality. At 对月楼扎染体验店 (Yuelou Tie-Dye Experience Shop) in Kunming, a Bai artisan from Dali invites visitors into this living legacy, creating custom tie-dye pieces on the spot and offering pre-made works that carry the same centuries-old spirit.

    The Alchemy of the Vat

    The process begins with the dye. The most common source is the humble indigo plant, known in Chinese as 板蓝根 (bǎnlángēn). The connection here is deeply intertwined: the very plant that creates the blue also has anti-inflammatory effects, whether brewed into a tea or stir-fried. (A word to the wise: don’t spill it on your clothes—it’s color fast and dark as ink.) Foraged from the mountains in July and August, the leaves are gathered and left to ferment for months. The resulting yellow-green liquid is a living soup, its fermentation and maintenance a delicate dialogue between the artisan and the elements.

    Next comes the 扎 (zā), or “tying.” The fabric is pinched, folded, and stitched along the design, then bound so tightly with thread that it will resist the dye. This meticulous work demands over 30 distinct needle techniques, each one a stitch in a map of future white lines.

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    Ding Ding Tang

    Ding ding tang. That sound belongs to Kunming.

    When I was little, I lived there. I don’t remember much of those early years. But there’s one sound I remember. Waking up from an afternoon nap, still half asleep, hearing it from the street below: ding ding tang. That was the ding-ding candy man coming. He sold maltose candy that you had to strike off with a little hammer and a metal chisel. He would walk through the alleys, tapping as he went, singing: Ding ding tang, ding ding tang… 

    The children would run out when they heard him. He didn’t come every day. When he did, I was happy, even if I didn’t get to buy any.

    The other day, by Green Lake, I heard that sound again.

    I ran up to the man and said, “I haven’t heard that in decades! Could you play it for me so I can record it?” 

    He smiled good-naturedly and stopped his walk. “Sure.” 

    He raised the little hammer and struck it against the bell—ding, ding—

    He hadn’t even finished two notes before he stopped himself. “Wait,” he said. “Let me do it again. I want to make it good. It sounds real nice when played slowly.”

    He played it again. Carefully, earnestly, as if he were a musician with an instrument. His face was humble, but he cared about this sound. All his life, this was the sound that made so many little children happy.

    I noticed his backpack. Stitched and re-stitched, layers of thick thread holding it together. Yet he stood in the sun in his little hat, chest held high. 

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    Bookstores as a Way of Life

    Deep-dive with me at Kunming’s top 3 bookstores while discussing philosophy, art, aesthetics, food, and books.

    Which painter liked to paint nude, muscular men?
    Who said that books must be written in blood?
    What is Kunming’s most delicious wild mushroom?
    Are INFJs natural authors?
    What does a magical traveling fairy’s hut look like?

    Find out in the video!

  • Beauty in the Non-Transactional

    Have you ever been told to stop pouring your energy into something just because it doesn’t offer a guaranteed return?

    In this episode of I’ve Been Thinking, we explore why the most beautiful things in life—like love, true friendship, authenticity, and inspiration—cannot be measured by transactions or reciprocity. They are priceless precisely because they cannot be bought, earned, or coerced. If you’ve ever been criticized for staying true to what you love, this is your reminder to keep going!

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    The Tea Man

    A short story that took place in Kunming, China. About tea, about people, about an afternoon. Written and read aloud by the author.

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    The Taste of Home

    Cross-Bridge rice noodles are arguably the most representative noodles of Yunnan province. Restaurants serving it have appeared across the globe, but it is usually made incorrectly elsewhere due to the lack of certain region-specific ingredients.

    What makes a proper Cross-Bridge rice noodle? Watch to find out.