Kunming’s Unique Relationship with China

Yunnan has long been a distant outpost, far away from China’s numerous historical capitals. Bordering on Myanmar, Laos, Vietnam and Tibet, it has traditionally been a sleepy after-thought to the country’s bustling cities in the East. A frequent final destination for exiles, some considered it too remote for even this purpose, like Tang Dynasty poet Du Fu who ended up in Chengdu, hundreds of miles to the north.

The character and uniqueness of Yunnan flow out if its distance from Chinese rulers in Nanjing, Xi’an, and Beijing. Beyond its historical image as an untamed outback, it has been home for nearly half of the country’s 55 ethnic minority groups, making the province particularly unfamiliar to its faraway emperors. Dai from the south, Tibetans from the West, and Hui and Hmong (Miao) from the north poured into the region over the years, leaving it one of the most ethnically varied places in China. Out of this immense diversity emerged one of the country’s most famous sons.

Just alongside the vibrant Flower and Bird Market stands the home of Nie Er (聂耳), a musician who, while virtually unknown among foreigners, has left a significant mark on modern China. Born in 1912 to parents from nearby Yuxi, the famous composer spent most of his short life in the province’s mini-metropolis. Nie Er’s mother, an ethnic Dai, raised him from the age of four on her own following the death of his father, a doctor of traditional Chinese medicine. Despite his enormous national fame, Nie Er’s home sits virtually forgotten among dozens of other traditional houses.

One may wonder how this musician could leave such a lasting impression on modern China while being virtually unknown outside of his own country. You may not be familiar with his name, but you would almost certainly recognize his music, whether wafting out of a local elementary school’s courtyard in the morning, or booming from the speakers when Chinese Olympians receive their medals.

Nie Er briefly served as a soldier in Henan Province before returning to his mother’s home next to the Flower and Bird Market. Back in his native Kunming he began composing the music that would become his legacy. After penning a number of famous works, in the tumultuous 1930s he began working covertly for the Communists, a highly dangerous endeavour. He drowned in Japan at the tender age of 25 while fleeing from Chinese Nationalists to the Soviet Union, already a well known musician, movie star, and a bit of a lady’s man. Twelve years after his death, Nie Er’s most famous work, the music to Tian Han’s March of the Volunteers (义勇军进行曲), found immortality as the PRC’s national anthem.

As Nie Er’s birthplace and childhood home, the Flower and Bird Market symbolises Kunming’s unique place in Chinese history. Yet for a long time it also appeared to be an auspicious marker along the road to China’s future. In the midst of the country’s rush to modernize, destroy, and rebuild, local officials had the foresight to designate nearly 40,000 square meters of prime real-estate a wenming (cultural) protection area. Some generic modern concrete expanses lingered in the background, but inside the zone, designed around the market itself, buildings rarely reach more than three stories. Traditional tiled roofs still sit atop many of the wooden houses that line the lanes. At street-level, these shops, stylized as they were in Nie Er’s day, until recently filled not only with the plants and animals that gave the market its name, but also paintings, cultural oddities, tea pots and, of course, the obligatory mahjong sets.

For years critics gave credit to officials for establishing, and subsequently expanding the wenming protection area. This designation gave hope that Yunnan’s traditional ambiance would continue to set it apart from the rest of China, as its relative isolation did for so long. As hutongs, the twisting alleyways that have housed Chinese communities for generations, disappeared to make room for high-rises, it was particularly unusual that entire areas of Kunming, not simply singular sites of historical interest, were preserved. However, hope has given way to reality, and recently walls cropped up foretelling the market’s imminent demise.

The great irony is that for so long the iconic symbol of the city, Yunnan’s only metropolis, was a street dedicated to natural, rather than urban, beauty. Nearly two-thirds of China’s 30,000 species of plants can be found elsewhere in the province, and many of the flowers at the Kunming market originate from Xishuangbanna in the far southwest corner of the nation. In some ways the old street let us forget that the city is simply a marketplace where farmers import their goods.

Thus, the probable end to the Flower and Bird Market, while a major disappointment for tourists, and another indication of China’s disappearing past, hardly spells doom for the flower industry in Yunnan. On the contrary, it reflects an increasing formalization of the sector as a major cog in the area’s economy. While the street market is evaporating, exports to the rest of China, and indeed the world, are booming like never before. Entrepreneurs have had remarkable success capitalizing on the outstanding local conditions for flower growing.

Xishuangbanna’s tropical climate is a virtual testing ground for nature, and a magnet for botanists. Wild pandas still live there, making it one of the few remaining places in the world that can make such a claim. While separated from Kunming by only a few hundred miles, buses still typically take up to 15 hours to traverse the difficult roads, relegating its relative proximity to a theoretical. Farmers in the region increasingly bring their flowers to the formal Kunming marketplace where they make a nifty profit.

Indeed, 2006 saw an 85% increase in flower industry trade over the previous year. There are clear reasons for this trend. By weight, flowers bring in three times as much money as vegetables, and more than ten times as much as tobacco, the province’s biggest cash crop. The walling off of the traditional market street demonstrates that some viewed it as an anachronism unreflective of modern trade realities.

The story of how Yunnan became one of the largest producers of flowers in the world—with a trade market second only Amsterdam’s—begins, like so much of China’s economic success, in 1979. The government gave farmers increasing flexibility to choose what they wanted to produce under the ‘household responsibility system.’ Instead of growing sugar and rice as required in the past, they began focusing on vegetables. While this was a good idea in theory, the limited regional population (Kunming had a population of only 1 million at the time) and a mass conversion to the crops resulted in a precipitous price drop.

As the rush to grow vegetables swept through the region, some decided to go a different route, and were rewarded handsomely. Beginning in 1983 farmers in the city of Dounan moved toward flowers after seeing the success of a local man named Hua Zhongyi, who got the idea on a trip to Guangzhou. The results were tremendous and the industry rocketed, quickly making the city the richest in the region.

For all of the success of growing cut flowers in Yunnan, as late as 1994 Shanghai was still the country’s top city for the industry. To understate the point, things have changed somewhat since. Now, more than half of China’s flowers come from Yunnan, with 80% of those passing through Dounan’s market. More than 3 billion stems a year go through the once poor city. In fact, estimates indicate that flowers have lifted at least 20,000 farmers out of poverty.

The development of the cut flower industry as an engine for local economic growth has proven to be miraculous. Even Holland’s famed Aalsmeer Flower Auction (VBA) took notice and helped locals establish the Kunming International Flora Auction Trading Co Ltd (KIFA) to capitalize fully on market potential.

Clearly this boom was in mind when the Flower and Bird Market suddenly found itself surrounded by walls, presumably a precursor to demolition. It had come to be seen as a sleepy street with a few stalls, in contrast to the regional business that brings in hundreds of millions a dollars. Yet for those of us who do not have the time or patience to make the trek down to Xishuangbanna—a trip that is well worth it if you can afford those two luxuries—the market let us glimpse the beauty that flourishes outside of Kunming’s urban trappings. It also gave us the chance to see the traditional and modern—flowers and trinkets—together on one beautiful street. As tourists peered into stalls they passed by the city’s history, and a house of a national treasure. Now it seems to be history’s turn to pass us by.

No one knows what will happen to Nie Er’s house, but it seems clear that it will transition from mostly, to completely, forgotten and possibly demolished. For years this lively street reminded us not only of what lies in Yunnan’s great outdoors, but also of Kunming’s indelible legacy in Chinese history, and its potential to continue to link us to its past. Yet big business made it expendable—an obsolete relic. As the market disappears we will have to find other ways to connect with China’s culture and natural beauty. If it forces more people to take the 15 hour bus ride down to Xishuangbanna, or go to one of Kunming’s excellent museums to learn about Nie Er, one could almost argue that the destruction was worth it. Yet for those of us who were lucky enough to stroll down the boisterous alleys of this creaky old market, almost is not enough.