We are walking on a small road winding it’s way along the mountain face. The sun has been drenched by the evening mists that shroud the peaks, and the heat of the day is beginning to dissipate. The mountain rises steeply upward to my left, rows upon rows of tea bushes covering the mountainside in a pattern of dark green stripes and waves. To my right, the slope is covered by bamboo trees, the thin, straight reeds creating a surprisingly sparse forest. It occurs to me that we are walking between fields of two quintessentially Asian plants, as if walking into a painting of a typical east Asian landscape. It’s almost like a parody, a path of stereotypes if you will, but somehow it feels more real, more honest. This is not a parody, it is the original.