The Water Maze: Another Dimension of Time in Xinghua

On Jiangsu's geographical map, Xinghua is but a tiny dot, fragmented by crisscrossing waterways. People casually call it a "water town," unaware of the geographical cipher hidden behind this name. From above, Xinghua's terrain reveals a peculiar texture—land carved into countless irregular fragments by water, like an aged rice paper soaked and dried, its creases concealing countless secret passages.

I arrived in Xinghua on a misty morning. This wasn't the thin, gauzy kind of mist but a thick, almost tangible milky medium that submerged the entire water town. Old Zhou the boatman's oar sounded unusually clear through the fog, the wooden paddle breaking the water's surface like some ancient cipher. "This fog is good," Old Zhou's voice emerged from the mist's depths. "Real Xinghua should be like this—unclear, unfathomable."

The Thousand-Lobed Rapeseed Fields form Xinghua's most famous spectacle. Each spring, rapeseed flowers bloom with astonishing density on these water-divided plots, turning the waterways golden. Tourists flock with cameras seeking perfect angles. But I discovered the real Xinghua lies in those neglected narrow channels. While tour boats queued in main waterways, I rented a small boat and slipped into tributaries less than two meters wide.

The waterways suddenly narrowed, reeds on both banks nearly brushing the boat. Sunlight filtered through reed gaps, casting dancing reflections. Here, no tour guide's loudspeaker intruded—only occasional birdsong and the sound of oars stirring water. Time took on a different quality here—not linear but winding like these waterways, circling back upon itself.

I met an old woman washing vegetables by the bank. Her movements were slow yet precise, each leaf tracing graceful arcs in the water. "This was all fishermen's territory before," she told me. "Every family had boats; children grew up more stable on water than on land." Her dialect brimmed with water-related words, some untranslatable to Mandarin. Here, language too followed water's rules—circuitous, polysemous, elusive.

Xinghua's architecture chronicles humanity's ongoing negotiation with water. Old houses stand on foundations above water level, their steps descending directly into canals. Some homes moor boats at back doors as naturally as city dwellers park bicycles. In a waterside teahouse, I noticed removable floorboards revealing the river beneath. "Used to keep melons cool," the owner explained. "Now just kept for memory's sake."

At nightfall, the water town transforms. Lights stretch long reflections on the water as tour boats give way to shrimp catchers' skiffs. Their headlamps glow like fireflies skimming the surface. Sitting on my inn's terrace, I listened to distant water sounds and muffled voices—sound waves distorted mysteriously across liquid surfaces.

On my last day, I got lost. Or rather, I willingly lost myself in that aqueous labyrinth. Without map or navigation, I simply chose whichever waterway seemed quieter. Eventually, I reached a stretch almost entirely enclosed by reeds, my boat motionless at the center with only wind rustling through plants. In that moment, I understood Xinghua's essence—not a collection of scenic spots for tourists, but a self-contained parallel universe where time flows by water's rhythm and space is redefined by waterways.

At departure, Old Zhou saw me off. "You've seen Xinghua," he said, "but Xinghua hasn't seen enough of you." His wrinkles held countless water secrets, and I knew this aquatic maze would always guard its core cipher—those unspoken stories hidden where countless branching waterways end.

Post by William Hill Mason | Aug 10, 2025