In 1989, Sanjiang was a dusty hill town in the southwest Chinese province of Guangxi. It was known for its covered wooden bridges but didn’t have many visitors. When my 23-year-old self stretched his legs after a bumpy five-hour bus ride, it felt like high noon at a Wild West outpost—with horse carts, Dong minority women wearing embroidered outfits, and rough-looking characters slung with knives and muskets.

I found the nearest noodle shop and ordered by pointing. As I slurped my bowl on the cracked wooden table, the door swung open and, silhouetted against the white sun, a guy with a gun over his shoulder entered. He sat down beside me. Before digging into his noodles, he thumped something up on