A short drive north of Dali brought me to Xizhou — and once again, it felt like stepping into a different world.

This is the heartland of the Bai people, one of China’s recognised ethnic minorities, with a culture, architecture, and identity distinct from the Han majority.

And you see that difference immediately as the architecture here is deeply rooted in tradition.

Many of the homes are constructed using a mixture of earth, straw, and other local materials — a form of rammed earth or adobe — designed to regulate temperature and withstand the elements. 

In one wall, you could clearly see fragments of old pottery embedded within it — broken pieces reused as part of the structure. Whether for reinforcement, drainage, or simply practicality, it gives the sense that nothing was wasted. Materials were recycled long before it became a modern concept.

Over the top of these walls sits the defining finish: a white lime or chalk wash. This isn’t just for appearance — it acts as a protective layer, helping to seal the surface and reflect heat, preserving the structure beneath.

The result is the signature look of Bai villages — clean white walls, often contrasted with darker timber frames and intricate decorative details.

The Bai are also known for their indigo-dyed textiles — a tradition that goes back centuries.

Historically, natural indigo dye was extracted from local plants and used to colour fabrics in deep, rich blues. Traditional techniques often included resist-dyeing methods — where parts of the fabric were bound, stitched, or pressed before dyeing to create patterns.

What we commonly see today as “tie-dye” is actually a continuation and evolution of these traditional resist-dyeing techniques. While modern versions may be adapted for tourism and contemporary tastes, the roots are very much authentic.

So yes — while the patterns you see today might feel stylised, the underlying method and cultural significance go back generations.

What made Xizhou stand out most was the atmosphere.

Compared to Dali’s ancient city, it was noticeably quieter. Fewer crowds, fewer distractions — just narrow laneways lined with whitewashed walls, leading past doorways and into glimpses of everyday life.

Looking into the courtyards, you could see the care people put into their homes. Plants, decorations, well-maintained spaces — a sense of pride that’s hard to fake.

Some of the houses were genuinely beautiful — not in a polished, tourist-ready way, but in a lived-in, authentic sense.

Woven through the village are small lakes and waterways, softened by lotus flowers and crossed by elegantly constructed stone bridges.

These aren’t grand landmarks — they’re subtle, almost quiet features that add to the overall feel of the place. Reflections in the water, soft movement, the contrast between stone, wood, and greenery — it all contributes to a sense of calm.

It’s the kind of place where you naturally slow your pace.

On the outskirts of the village, the picture becomes more complex.

Some homes have been restored — carefully maintained, structurally sound, and still in use. Others are in various stages of decay or renovation.

And in those buildings, you can see the layers.

Older construction methods exposed beneath newer repairs. Different materials from different periods. Evidence of change, adaptation, and survival.

Xizhou doesn’t overwhelm you with scale or spectacle.

It draws you in with detail.

With texture. With quiet moments. With the feeling that culture here isn’t something being displayed — it’s something still being lived.

And after the busier stops along the journey, that made it stand out all the more.

After Yangshuo, the pace picked up again.

It was an early start getting back to Guilin, but once on the high-speed train, everything settled into that now-familiar rhythm — smooth, fast, and effortless. Hours passed as we cut across vast stretches of countryside, through mountains and valleys, a reminder of just how much China has invested in connecting even its more remote regions.

Rail lines, motorways, tunnels carved through mountains — it’s impossible not to be impressed by the scale of it all.

And then, we arrived in Dali — a place that immediately felt different again.

Dali isn’t just another stop — it carries a history that sets it apart from much of China.

For several centuries, this region was the centre of the Kingdom of Dali, an independent state that ruled much of Yunnan. While much of China was governed by powerful dynasties like the Song, Dali remained culturally and politically distinct, influenced heavily by the Bai people and with strong Buddhist traditions.

Its relative isolation, surrounded by mountains and far from the imperial centres of power, allowed it to maintain that independence — at least until it was eventually absorbed into the Mongol Empire under Kublai Khan in the 13th century.

Even today, that sense of being slightly separate still lingers.

The Dali Ancient City is vast — far larger than expected — and remarkably intact.

The old city walls still stand, complete with imposing gates and watchtowers that once guarded the kingdom. Walking through them, you get a real sense of scale — this wasn’t just a town, it was a significant regional centre with both strategic and cultural importance.

Inside, the streets stretch out in a grid, lined with traditional Bai-style buildings, various shops, and a steady flow of visitors.

It’s busy — very much on the domestic tourist trail — but it doesn’t take much to step away from the main streets and find something quieter.

Turn a corner, wander down a side alley, and suddenly the noise fades. You’re back to slower moments — locals going about their day, small courtyards, glimpses of everyday life tucked just behind the busier facades.

Near the centre of the old town stands the Wuhua Tower.

At first glance, it feels like it should be part of the city’s defensive system — but it wasn’t.

Historically, Wuhua Tower dates back to the Nanzhao Kingdom (which preceded the Kingdom of Dali) and served more as a ceremonial and cultural structure than a military one. It was used as a place for gatherings, receptions, and entertainment — a symbol of prestige rather than protection.

What stands today is a reconstruction, but it still reflects that original purpose — positioned prominently, not for defence, but to be seen.

It’s a small detail, but it says a lot about the city: not everything here was built for war. Some of it was built simply for life, culture, and display.

Dali is full of contrasts.

Modern shops sit beside traditional homes. Tourist-heavy streets give way to quiet, almost untouched corners. Old stonework meets neon signs.

At times, it feels curated. At others, completely genuine.

But that blend is part of what makes it interesting.

It’s not frozen in time — it’s evolving — yet still holding onto enough of its past to remind you where it came from.

And like much of this journey, the more you wander, the more those layers begin to reveal themselves.