My City: A Chongqing Story
Toward the Yangtze
Let's Go See the Flood
"Let's go see the flood!"
The shout, tinged with a local twang, struck like a match, igniting the entire alley. Weather-beaten wooden doors and gleaming security gates swung open one after another; even the chained dog wrenched against its leash. Streams of people spilt out from every side street, all converging toward the Yangtze River. In this mountain city cradled by two rivers, flood-watching wasn't just a spectacle; it was a ritual ingrained in the culture. The elders said that every Chongqing soul carried a few grams of Yangtze silt within; when the waters rose, those souls awoke.
From late June to mid-July, the river surged to 179.4 meters. On one side of the warning line, orange-vested workers stood with tense expressions; on the other, a carnival unfolded: women in pajamas snapped selfies while shirtless men plunged into the water. An old fisherman sat on a folding chair, his line taut as if locked in a tug-of-war with the river itself.
Near the shallows, the current gentled. A young man in red sneakers crouched to rinse his motorcycle, while children in sandals chased each other through the water. Women on picnic mats chatted about daily trivial matters, their eyes occasionally flickering toward a group of kids huddled around a phone—until a sudden surge of waves drew their gazes back to the river.
Further off on the grassy bank, a little girl swung her legs on a folding stool. Her father stood motionless by the water, watching the fishermen, his silhouette as still as a wooden stake driven into the mud.
A delivery rider in yellow leaned his motorcycle against the roadside, its engine still trembling. He propped himself over the handlebars, staring at the churning water beyond the railing. The murky current swallowed flakes of paint and rust, swirling them away as if they had always belonged there.
In Ciqikou, floodwaters had already breached the shop thresholds. The owners moved their goods with practised ease, as if performing a familiar rite. "An old friend," muttered a teahouse owner as he carried a mahjong table upstairs. Bamboo chairs bobbed gently on the water, almost like a deliberate decorative element. Neighbours in rain boots joked and snapped photos of floating plastic basins—to them, the flood was an annual visitor, troublesome yet oddly comforting.
Near Chaotianmen, car horns blared in a cacophony of noise. Vehicles lined up for miles, turning a half-hour drive into an hour-long ordeal. The scene was absurd: people rushing to see the river, only to be stuck on the way. When traffic ground to a halt, passengers spilt out, trekking through alleys and climbing fences like explorers—only to find an unfamiliar riverbank, the familiar landmarks devoured by the muddy torrent.
The Shanhuba Outside My Window
From my window, the river had swallowed the entire Shanhuba. Murky waves rolled over the sandbar, one after another.
In the dry season, Shanhuba was a different sight—a two-kilometre expanse of exposed sand stretching east to west, like a beached yellow-grey fish. In the 1940s, fighter planes took off here; by the 1980s, it had become a horseback-riding spot. Now, only reeds and generations of waterbirds remained. The river remembered everything, yet forgot everything.
A gap-toothed boy in green suddenly broke the calm, holding up a rock like a trophy. "Look! A dinosaur egg!" The old fishermen played along, feigning awe, though they'd seen this act yearly. One even pretended to trade his fish basket—inside, two scrawny crucian carp languished.
Tents dotted the grass like mushrooms after rain. Women fiddled with grills; men argued over tangled kite strings. An old man in neon green stood alone, his carp kite twitching in the wind. Nearby, a middle-aged man played the saxophone, sweating profusely, pausing whenever passersby neared.
Tripods lined up, lenses trained on the river. The photographers didn't care for the sunset; they waited for digital hearts on their screens. Tourists snapped selfies with the glittering Nanjimen Bridge in the background, its gold lights postcard-perfect yet surreal.
The new plastic walkway glared red, a wound stitched into the sandbar. A few old women insisted on walking the original mud path, their cloth shoes caked in last year's dirt. They tread carefully, as if stepping on something fragile.
When the Waters Recede
The riverbank after the flood held a peculiar exhaustion. Cargo ships dragged their wakes lazily; their horns wheezed like a sick old man's cough, struggling through the muggy air. Workers in straw hats scrubbed the amusement park's foam mats, the water sluicing away mud but not the stench of decay. The golden Buddha statue reappeared, its lacquer peeling, feet caked in dried sludge. Above it, in a stone niche, the water god Yang Si brandished an axe from his boat, glaring at the river—a guardian of vessels for centuries. Nearby, a faded football lay in the mud, its seams packed with yellow muck.
On a bench, a shirtless man slept deeply, one hand clutching a bulging backpack as if ready to flee. Behind him, a mural depicted distant hills, houses, a stone bridge, and a tiny boat—was it an old dock from decades past, or an artist's memory of home?
Across the river, a light rail train flashed by, its reflected sunlight stinging my eyes. Countless trees swayed in the water like a storyteller's tattered fan, on the verge of falling apart. Near a rusted freighter, an excavator gnawed at the debris, its metallic groans like those of a creature chewing on something indigestible.
"Dad, watch me!"
A girl in pink plunged into the river like a wave. Her father followed, steady as a ferry untying its ropes. His sunburned face reminded me of a temple guardian—same furrowed brows, same stubbornly set mouth. The orange lifebuoy around his waist flickered in the murk, resembling a deity's faded sash.
In the shade of the embankment, art students sketched. Sweat dripped from their temples, smudging pigments into odd shapes. They'd meant to paint the distant lighthouse, but it slumped on their canvases, as if melting in the heat.
The river receded, leaving driftwood strewn on the bank. The bark was scarred, as if the logs had endured horrors during their journey upstream. Someone might burn them, or the next flood might carry them away—who could say?
The old fisherman who came every year was no longer there. In his spot sat a young man in new sun-protective gear, gripping a cheap rod. Waves slapped at a freshly erected sign, its red characters shimmering underwater like urgent whispers. But once the water fully retreated, the words would blur, as if no one had ever bothered to read them.
Flood
After the flood
