On my first visit to Zhujiajiao, I thought I was coming for the bridges and canals. I left realizing I’d stumbled into something far more alive—a place where 300-year-old traditions aren’t museum pieces but daily rhythms.

The Rhythm of the Water: Boat Racing (摇快船)

On my second afternoon, I heard it before I saw it. A drumbeat, low and insistent, echoing off the ancient stone walls. Then shouts. Then the splash of oars cutting water in unison.

This is Yaokuai Chuan—”Fast Rowing Boats”—a tradition that began in the 1650s when farmers, returning from temple pilgrimages on Dianshan Lake, started racing each other for fun. Three hundred years later, the boats still fly. Each one carries 23 people: five on the big oar, four on the smaller oar, four drummers, and a flag-bearer. The boats are decorated with colorful lanterns, pearl lions, and flags painted with the Eight Immortals.

The most spectacular move is called chuqiao (“leaping out”). Crew members jump in unison on suspended boards, using the rebound to propel the boat forward at incredible speed. When I saw it, the boat seemed to lift out of the water. The crowd on the canal banks—locals and tourists alike—roared.

I asked a man beside me if this happens every weekend. He laughed. “Only on festivals now,” he said. “But if you’re lucky, you’ll catch a practice run. The old men still come out to row.”

Martial Arts on Water: Boat Boxing (船拳)

Here’s something I never expected to see: elementary schoolchildren, in their PE uniforms, throwing punches on a boat.

At Zhujiajiao Primary School, every Tuesday and Thursday after morning exercises, students practice a martial art that originated on the cramped decks of fishing boats.

Chuanquan (“Boat Boxing”) was developed centuries ago by fishermen defending themselves against water bandits. The challenge: you’re standing on a rocking, narrow deck. You can’t plant your feet firmly. You can’t throw wide punches or sweeping kicks. Every move had to be small, compact, and adaptable.

“The space on a boat is narrow. You can’t open your arms wide,” explains He Lei, the school’s PE teacher and a recognized inheritor of this intangible cultural heritage. “The boat is rocking, the water conditions are unpredictable—one wave hits and you have to adjust instantly to keep your balance”.

Today, He Lei has simplified the ancient form into a “boat boxing exercise” for children. Watching them punch and push with serious faces—then break into giggles and start playfully shoving each other—I realized this is how traditions survive. Not in museums. In schoolyards. In children’s laughter.

He Lei’s story is personal too. He moved to Zhujiajiao over a decade ago and brought his parents to settle here. “The water is cleaner now than when I first came,” he told me, pointing to the canal. “You can see fish clearly in the shallows”.

The Sound of the Water: Tian Mountain Songs (田山歌)

On my third evening, a sound I couldn’t place drifted across the water. It wasn’t music, exactly—more like a call, answered by another voice, then another, weaving together in a rhythm that felt as old as the canals themselves.

This is Tian Shange—”Field Mountain Songs”—a form of folk singing with roots in rice-farming culture. It’s been recognized as a national-level intangible cultural heritage since 2008. The songs follow a call-and-response pattern: a lead singer starts, others chime in, and the verses describe harvests, love, and daily life.

On the day I visited, inheritor Xu Yinzhu was teaching a small group of visitors. “Rice flowers in the fields, farmers busy harvesting,” she sang in the local dialect, her voice strong and clear. The visitors tried to repeat the lines, laughing at their own mispronunciations.

What I loved most: the songs aren’t staged performances. They’re conversations. On festival days, you’ll hear them from teahouses, from passing boats, from grandmothers sitting on doorsteps.

The Things Made by Hand: Embroidery and Bamboo Weaving

Wandering the back alleys away from the main tourist street, I met an elderly woman in a blue cotton shirt. She was sitting on her porch, a bamboo needle weaving thread through cloth—embroidering a water town scene in delicate stitches.

This is Jiaoli Embroidery—a needlework tradition that captures the softness of river reflections in thread. “It’s 100 years old, this style,” she told me, not looking up from her work. Nearby, a bamboo weaver split green bamboo into thin strips, his hands moving faster than I could follow. In minutes, a basket took shape under his fingers. I asked if he’d teach me. He laughed and shook his head: “This took fifty years to learn. You can’t pick it up in an afternoon.”

When to Visit (and When I’ll Return)

I’ve since learned that the best time to experience these traditions is during festival periods—especially during the Ancient Town Intangible Cultural Heritage Season, where you can catch pop-up Kunqu Opera performances, lantern displays, and dragon dances. If you’re visiting around Spring Festival, the streets come alive with parades: waist drums, lion dancers, and costumed performers filling the narrow alleies.

A Personal Reflection

Walking through Zhujiajiao, I kept thinking about something He Lei told me: “The water is cleaner now.” It sounds like a small thing, but it’s not. When the water clears, when the fish return, when the environment improves—the community takes pride again. That pride ripples out to everything: the festivals, the crafts, the songs.

The intangible traditions of Zhujiajiao aren’t frozen relics. They’re being passed down—to children in schoolyards, to visitors in workshops, to anyone who stops long enough to listen to a song drifting across the water.

On my last evening, I watched a boat race practice from the Fangsheng Bridge. The drumbeat echoed off the ancient stones. The oars cut the water in perfect rhythm. And for a moment, I felt what it must have been like centuries ago—when the canal was a lifeline, and the competition was the highlight of the year.

Tip: If you visit, try to be there for a festival. Check local listings before you go. But even on a quiet day, the grandmothers still sit on porches, the children still practice their boat boxing, and the songs—if you listen carefully—still float across the water.

That’s the real Zhuajiajiao. Not a preserved town. A living one.