How China’s rural Guizhou province is revitalizing ancient traditions for the 21st century

One by one, villagers young and old trickle into the entrance of Langde, a centuries-old Miao settlement tucked into the green hills southeastern Leishan County, in China’s Guizhou province. Women in embroidered garments and silver headdresses thread through the crowd, ornaments jingling with every step. The melody of bamboo flutes rise over golden rice fields at 11am, signaling the start of the welcome ceremony.

Villagers ladle rice wine from bowls and water buffalo horns into visitors’ waiting mouths, laughter spilling as freely as the drink. Only after this raucous ritual are outsiders permitted to cross the threshold, where the main square fills with dancers whirling in unison against a backdrop of lush peaks.

For the Miao people of Langde, one of China’s largest ethnic minority groups from the southern mountains, known for their intricate silver jewelry, vibrant embroidery, and animist beliefs, this daily performance is both cultural preservation and livelihood. Tourism brings up to 200 visitors a day, each one paying 60 yuan (USD$8), according to our guide, who says the revenue is distributed across the community. Sure, it’s a spectacle for the cameras and drones—but it’s also helping many of China’s ethnic minorities keep their traditions alive in a fast-changing China.

Long impoverished and isolated, Guizhou is shaped by mountainous terrain and remote villages. Mist-shrouded karst cliffs, terraced rice fields, limestone caves, waterfalls, and river-carved valleys define its dramatic landscape. Guizhou is also one of China’s most ethnically diverse provinces, home to 48 groups, including the Miao, Buyi, Dong, and Tujia, whose languages and customs have survived for centuries.

Over the past two decades, the province has seen dramatic development, fueled by government investment and a surge in domestic tourism. New highways, bridges, and power lines now connect once-isolated villages. In late November, the opening of the Panzhou–Xingyi high-speed line stitched the last major gap in Guizhou’s rail network. It marked the moment the historically hard-to-reach province achieved full high-speed rail coverage across all its prefectural capitals—a milestone officials say signals a new phase of opening-up and higher-quality development.

Alongside this, Guizhou has adopted what officials call an “ecological civilization” approach, a guiding principle for development that seeks to protect both its green mountains and centuries-old cultural traditions. Investments in cultural village tourism, heritage preservation and smart tourism platforms—including AI-guided itinerary apps and digital art museums powered by holographic imaging—bring that philosophy to life across the province.

“A lot of people in the city come here to slow down. They find city life stressful; here they relax and take their time.”

- Yang Zheng Ying, ethnic and folk craft master

Digital campaigns such as the ‘Guizhou is Worth It’ partnership with Douyin, a popular short-form video sharing platform, have harnessed influencers to bring the province into the national spotlight. It seems to have worked: In 2024, Guizhou welcomed 1.42 billion visits—a 10.4 percent year-on-year increase generating 1.8 trillion yuan (USD$246 billion) in tourism revenue, up 13.3 percent.

High-level visits have also underscored the priority given to preserving culture alongside development. On a trip in March, President Xi Jinping called for areas with large ethnic minority populations to let their distinctive culture shine through the integration of tourism and heritage. Praising stilt houses, the grand song of the Dong ethnic group (a folk chorus inscribed on UNESCO’s Intangible Cultural Heritage list) and traditional weaving and dyeing, Xi described them as “deeply traditional and remarkably stylish.” That said, this approach isn’t universal: In remote northern Xinjiang, for example, the Uyghur Muslim minority faces a very different reality, with much of their cultural expression heavily restricted.

My guide, Yang Yong, who goes by the English name Nicholas, embodies Guizhou’s rise from hardship. The 42-year-old grew up in a remote mountain village where poverty was a constant. His family, like many others, were subsistence farmers, growing corn, soy, and potatoes for food while living in sparsely furnished homes.

School meant a grueling three- to six-hour trek along mountain paths, in hand-me-downs and little money for fees. In his spare time, he tended water buffalo and goats, chopped firewood, and foraged wild herbs, mushrooms, rabbits, and wild pigs to sell. Winters were bitter. One memory stands out: An epic showdown with a snake that coiled around him until he fought off. Selling it for four yuan bought him school supplies, sweets, and shoes that would last years. One day, Yang saw his father staggering home, drenched in sweat and grime, laboriously carrying sacks of rice. The image saddened him, and he made a vow to excel in his studies.

Against the odds, Yang became the first in his village to attend university, studying tourism and mastering English. Driven by a desire to connect with the wider world, he has led numerous groups of foreign visitors, assisted with charity projects—from agricultural skills exchanges to medical missions providing free cataract surgeries in remote areas—and interpreted for government delegations. Over time, the shy boy transformed into a confident storyteller for guests around the globe, even serenading us with folk songs over a hotpot dinner.

Today, Yang’s village now has paved roads, streetlights, and concrete houses. Besides leading tours, he also runs a 20-room guesthouse near Fanjing Mountain in east Guizhou, alongside his new cave glamping business, eager to tap into the emerging frontier of cave eco-tourism. He describes how the glass tents look out on glow-worm constellations, bats and flying squirrels, while electricity, water, and a cave restaurant make underground life comfortable. On my trip, I stay at a unique cave hotel and tried paddleboarding through Shilong Cave, an hour from Guiyang, Guizhou’s capital. As I scramble across water-slick rocks and glided across glassy turquoise waters, It was like stepping into another realm—a tantalizing glimpse of Guizhou’s otherworldly cave landscapes waiting to be explored.

For Yang, tourism has become more than a livelihood—it also shows that Guizhou’s green mountains are worth as much as gold or silver, a refrain often invoked in China’s environmental and cultural campaigns. As we trek through Guizhou’s lush waterfalls and karst landscapes in the Daqikong and Xiaoqikong scenic areas of Libo County, south Guizhoum, which remind me of Croatia’s Plitvice Lakes, Yang lights up. “Being a guide is great,” he says. “I get to let my guests explore nature and have fun at the same time.”

As our car speeds along, I drink in the green vistas. Yang reflects on the challenge ahead. “The volume of visitors is still OK,” he says. “We welcome growth, but we must protect our culture. Over-commercialization can be a double-edged sword. We need to remain authentic. Visitors must also be conscious of responsible tourism.”

In Matang Village, 11 miles (18 kilometers) from Kaili city in southeast Guizhou, we visit the home of the Gejia people, officially classified as a subgroup of the Miao and known for their distinct batik and embroidery traditions.

Our hosts, Wu Shi Zhen and her 61-year-old mother-in-law Yang Zheng Ying—one of Guizhou’s first recognized ethnic and folk craft masters—guide us through a batik workshop. Because the Gejia traditionally had no written language, much of their history and beliefs are expressed through textile arts, including patterned motifs on fabric: Birds, fish, butterflies. Batik patterns depict rivers and mountains, embroidery maps migration routes, and silver and shells reflect wealth, beliefs, and identity. Festival, wedding, and ceremonial garments serve as a visual record of their traditions.

For Yang, tourism has become more than a livelihood—it also shows that Guizhou’s green mountains are worth as much as gold or silver.

Using slightly heated beeswax, we trace butterfly and phoenix patterns onto cloth with bamboo blades. Our attempts are clumsy—wax drips, lines waver, and we grit our teeth in frustration—while Wu’s strokes are precise, honed from childhood practice. “You have to still your heart and mind,” the 35-year-old tells us, tracing each line.

As the number of Gejia artisans dwindles, Wu and her mother-in-law have kept the tradition alive by running workshops for tourists since 2010. It means she can earn a small income and take care of her three children, aged 10 to 16. “A lot of people in the city come here to slow down,” Yang says. “They find city life stressful; here they relax and take their time.”

Around our table, a young woman from Beijing is deep in thought as she designs her own original pattern. Finally, we dip the cloth three times into a vat of natural indigo, watching it deepen from white to rich blue, then melt away the beeswax in a giant wok of boiling water before our patterns emerge.

From the vibrant textures of Gejia batik, we travel deeper into Guizhou’s mountains to Kong Bai Village in Leishan County, once a hub of Miao silversmiths. Silver jewelry has long been central to Miao culture, a symbol of beauty, status, and protection, worn at weddings and festivals in dazzling layers. But after the 1990s, many craftsmen left for the big cities.

Here we meet Long Taiyang—whose name translates to ‘Dragon Sun’—one of the last keepers of this tradition. Born into a family of silversmiths, he learned the craft from his father. After years away, he returned to the village in 2007 to revive a tradition that had fallen silent, determined to show others that it was possible to grow fields, care for family, and still make a good life from silver.

Since 2013, his workshop has welcomed visitors and art students from across China and Europe. More than 40,000 people have been under his tutelage; he has appeared on national television; and over 300 apprentices now carry forward his skills, with his son poised to become the family’s 10th-generation silversmith.

Now aged 50, Long is known for meticulous workmanship that blends intricate engraving with motifs drawn from his own life. He gestures to a custom dragonfly design, inspired by how the insect once startled his daughter and now serves as her reminder to be brave. “We need to modernize so people can wear it every day,” he explains. “It’s not just an accessory; it carries our values and is a record of our lives.”

When it’s my turn, tweezers in hand, I coax a strip of silver into the shape of a four-leaf clover. The workshop is dim, the light catching each delicate curve as I struggle to bend it into place. The air smells faintly metallic, tinged with wax. After several more steps of filing, soldering and polishing, the piece is finished—a necklace that I happily clasp around my neck.

After the intimacy and tranquility of quiet mountain villages, arriving in the grand Xijiang Qianhu Miao Village, feels like stepping onto a stage set. Billed as the world’s largest Miao village, it’s home to some 6,000 people (1,400 households) and a sea of well-preserved bamboo stilt houses set among rolling terraced rice fields and fish ponds, evoking the enchanted world of Hayao Miyazaki’s 2001 film Spirited Away.

Today it’s also a tourism powerhouse, with ticketed entry, trams whisking visitors between panoramic viewpoints, and night-time illuminations rippling across the valley. In Leishan County, where Xijiang sits, the tourism sector now generates over 60 percent of local GDP.

Having seen other Chinese destinations like Yunnan’s UNESCO Lijiang Old Town and the mountains which inspired the film ‘Avatar’ in Zhangjiajie national park, mobbed with tourists, it is clear how fragile that balance can be.

Beyond the spectacle, Xijiang exemplifies Guizhou’s cultural tourism model combining government support, private investment, local cooperatives, and community participation. It can feel a little disorienting too: One moment, you’re watching locals harvest golden paddy fields, the next you’re sipping bubble tea cups decorated with silver jewelry while tourists pose and preen in embroidered Miao attire, thick makeup in place, and professional photographer in tow —typical of China’s ‘daka’  travel culture of visiting trendy spots, snapping photos, and sharing them online.

But beneath the gloss, the bones of tradition hold strong. Festivals like the Miao New Year draw hundreds of visitors to stone-paved lanes, where epic long-table banquets bring entire villages together. Age-old customs—water buffalo contests, folk music, rooster fights—still pull in crowds. Covered ‘wind-and-rain’ bridges remain gathering places for gossip, shelter, and chess, just as they have for centuries.

And yet, I leave with a sense of incompleteness. I know I’ve only barely scratched the depth of practices still alive across Guizhou. In Kala Village, every resident, from child to elder, can craft bamboo birdcages. In Shiqiao, artisans continue a 1,500-year-old tradition of handmade paper, using bark, pine roots, and pure spring water—a craft that dates back to the Tang dynasty. Across the province, basket weaving, embroidery, and elaborate ethnic dress remain not relics, but vibrant practices—sometimes even making their way onto the runways of China Fashion Week.

Rural revitalization programs are central to this balance of preservation and progress. Young people are encouraged to return from the cities with fresh ideas; loans and support go to those who can generate sustainable income for their communities. Villages experiment with a careful mix of homestays, private investment, and cooperative enterprises, ensuring tourism benefits both residents and heritage—and often employing, or even run by, the very ethnic groups whose traditions are on display.

Having seen other Chinese destinations like Yunnan’s UNESCO Lijiang Old Town and the mountains which inspired the film Avatar in Zhangjiajie national park, mobbed with tourists, it is clear how fragile that balance can be. Guizhou, by contrast, still feels like a space where you can breathe easy and travel unhurried. In a world where so much of travel risks becoming performance, the genuine feels increasingly rare—and all the more worth safeguarding.

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The writer self-funded her trip and traveled with Singapore-based boutique travel operator Shan China Tours.

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