巫医\与鬼神对话的生计

After two hours of chuntering past jaw-dropping mountain vistas, ramshackle homes and assorted farmyard animals, our local government-issue Volkswagen pulls into the parking lot of a village school and our team of assorted officials, police and cultural experts steps into the sweltering midday heat.

Above us waits the rocky redoubt of Nuoxi practitioner and performer Zhang Yuefu, and as we climb the final few meters, I push to the back of my mind any latent fears I have over my imminent meeting with this modern-day “witch doctor.” My doubts are quickly dispelled as, before we can even sit down, the diminutive 59-year-old is jamming a cigarette into my hand, a beaming smile creasing his sun-scarred face. Chinese hospitality gently demands that the host offers and the guest accepts, so I duly oblige, unable to stash the proffered cigarette before Zhang,

eyes twinkling, ignites a flame just inches away from my lips.

Pulling up a small stool, he rolls up the legs of his tattered slacks to mid-calf and begins a heartfelt explanation of the nuances of speaking to demons, mixing charm water and spending two days and nights dancing with spirits. Such is the life of a Nuoxi practitioner.

Nuoxi (傩戏), as it is referred to in the local Guizhou dialect, is more commonly known throughout China and Asia as Nuo Opera, and its roots in China’s ancient folk traditions, dating as far back as the Zhou (1046 BC-256 BC) and even Shang (1600 BC-1046 BC) dynasties, have earned the art form the epithet “living fossil” (活化石 hu5hu3sh!).

Unlike Peking Opera, with its gaudy colors and extravagant sounds, Nuo Opera features performers wearing wooden masks carved into distorted or comical expressions, many of which verge on the horrific. Though singing and dancing form the basis of the performance, Zhang earnestly stresses that Nuoxi is not opera in the performance sense of the word, and is better understood as an activity.

Many people are familiar with Nuoxi from Chinese television broadcasts and performances delivered at festivals and cultural fairs, but these are merely what Zhang describes as a “remedy,” the “healing” portion of a longer and more involved religious rite. While Zhang and his team are happy to perform these abridged versions for tourist groups and media, the essence of a Nuoxi performance lies not with a desire to entertain, but with the much more serious business of expelling or appeasing the spirits and ghosts of the village. These rituals, often enacted in order to protect a dwelling, banish bad luck or assist an unlucky soul, are rooted in the customs of Zhang’s native Tujia people (土家族), a Chinese ethnic group that practices a polytheistic religion with heavy emphasis on ancestor and spirit worship, as well as the power of portents and symbols. Their beliefs and practices also share similarities with Daoism, though Zhang is careful to make the distinction that his art has greater power over the spirits than the spells of Daoist monks.

Zhang is one of a long line of Nuoxi exponents, and though his father passed away when he was only one year old, he was able to learn at the feet of his grandfather, before moving on to serve as an apprentice under a different master. He explains that part of his teaching involved learning how to fulfill the role of “barefoot doctor”―rural medical workers without professional training ―servicing both the physical and spiritual needs of the villagers by asking the spirits for their advice on an appropriate remedy.

Then, as the interpreter struggles to finish translating the local dialect to English, old Zhang looks me right in the eyes, smiles and quickly gets up and leaves. I scan the room, perplexed and a bit uneasy. I’m not afraid exactly; in addition to being surrounded by people―some government officials, my translator and a small crowd of locals―I am also bigger and stronger than the old man. Still, when I throw a glance at the policeman who has apparently been assigned “for my own protection,” I’m surprised to catch a slightly worried smile flashing across his face. My initial anxiety over what the “witch doctor” might have in store for me resurfaces, and images from the cult voodoo movie “The Serpent and the Rainbow” begin racing through my mind.

Zhang soon remerges clasping a two-foot long bamboo pipe and pulls a baggie of what I hope is homegrown tobacco out of his pocket. He lights up and offers the pipe to me.

After a brief moment of consideration, I join the medicine man for a puff or two…or three…or four. It’s pretty good stuff, so I’m a bit surprised when my entourage of chain smokers refuses to follow my lead, and laughingly congratulates me on being able to function after finishing off a large pinch of the local foliage. I’m not really sure if this impromptu break from the interview is some kind of test or merely a form of local hospitality, but old Zhang seems satisfied and continues with his autobiography.

Despite living pretty far off the beaten track, the Cultural Revolution interrupted Zhang’s apprenticeship, forcing him to toil in the fields as a simple farmer. As ethnic minority performances were banned, he relied on reciting Nuoxi songs from memory as he worked, trying to keep in mind the intricate dance steps as he kneeled amid the crops. The masks, costumes and accompanying regalia he would normally have worn were stashed away along with his grandfather’s personal collection of painted scripts and scrolls depicting the order of movements, spells and chants. Without these precautions, these artifacts would almost certainly have been reduced to ashes. Fortunately, in addition to “barefoot doctor,” his master also held the role of political cadre, and his position as the owner of a small shop in town specializing in medicinal herbs allowed him the freedom to continue training Zhang.

After emerging from those difficult times, and getting a few more years of strict instruction under his belt, Zhang participated in his first activity at the age of 29. In a nearby village, a man was stricken with a terrible spiritual burden as a result of committing several wrongdoings against his master. Though this man had rectified the problem in the physical world, spiritually he was so tormented that it was affecting his health and ability to work. Zhang’s master had determined that the man had offended a powerful spirit, and the group performed for two days to appease him. The process managed to free the man from his burdens and enabled him to become, in Zhang’s words, “a good village helper.” It also firmly convinced old Zhang of the efficacy of Nuoxi and fully converted him to the practice.

In the front room of old Zhang’s house sits not only an altarpiece but several large crates of various objects and ephemera required for his work. The altarpiece is the focal point for communicating with the spirits, demons and gods. When called upon to heal or “police demons” as Zhang says, the first step is to don several pieces of protective regalia. Swathes of colorful robes and coverings are worn, along with a headdress bedecked with symbols. Then a collection of sashes, each of which is embroidered with the name of former Nuoxi masters by the hands of spiritually pure “women who have not yet married,” is at tached to a short staff and clipped to his back. Old Zhang then sets out two small wooden headpieces, called “grandmother” and “grandfather,” the original ancestors of men and women, before blowing on a large oxen horn to complete the preparations.

Afterwards, Zhang burns incense and other paper offerings before the altar, and casts carved bones to interpret the instructions from the spirit world. Depending on the circumstances, these will prompt Zhang to mix up traditional herbal remedies, infuse water with charms, compose incantations or prescribe a combination of these treatments. Some incantations, or charms, can be written on a person’s skin, while others are written on paper and ceremonially burned. The ashes are then dissolved in water and served to the patient for consumption.

The ritual also allows Zhang to determine which performance he should arrange to appease offended spirits. On average, a full performance will last a minimum of two full nights, while week-long rites are not uncommon in praise ceremonies.

Zhang proceeds to summon his apprentices for a demonstration of a more entertainment-oriented version of Nuo Opera. Each member of the troupe selects a wooden mask from a collection of at least a hundred and ties it around his faces with long scarves of white linen. These masks are more jovial than the ones I was shown earlier, and the team embarks on a fittingly comic routine. One of Zhang’s apprentices crouches down, still holding onto his staff, and fanning himself like an old man. He laughs as Zhang and the others play instruments while singing and dancing to the rhythm.

Before I leave, I can’t help asking Zhang if he’s ever fallen foul of a presence from the other side. Laughing, he explains that his experience and history of helping resolve the spirits’ issues ensure his protection. In short, he has racked up enough credits from benevolent forces that he need not worry. When I press him further on this, not knowing what answer I am hoping for, he neatly sidesteps the question by explaining that if a ceremony fails it is generally the fault of the apprentices and their lack of skill.

Moving to more secular concerns, Zhang boasts that while he is also a farmer his status ensures that he always receives “the best seat at the table, the best food and best wine”when he stays with the families who have hired him. Sometimes he and his team travel as far away as 120 kilometers to perform, and can earn between 100-200 RMB a day, much more than they’d ever earn working the “hot, sweaty, ordinary life” of a farmer. Still, Zhang says, the perks aren’t enough for some; the meager prospects of fortune and glory still make it difficult to find recruits to carry on the Nuoxi tradition.

We wind up for the day by tucking into a chicken Zhang has just killed and powering down some of his homemade corn booze. I sit there, desperately trying to focus as he pours glass after glass of liquid fire. The experience has left me wondering how Zhang can seem so relaxed and calm, a smile never far from his lips, when he is daily engaged in spiritual warfare? I can’t help but ask, is he a true charm man, or am I being charmed?

Bobby Brill is an American writer and photographer who recently toured Guizhou Province gathering research material for his forthcoming book, “The People of Guizhou,” which is being published by the Foreign Languages Press in Beijing.