The next day found me in the sad state that all travellers find themselves in from time to time. I wanted to hear my own language. I wanted to rest from the strain of piecing together pigeon English or struggling to understand the littlest scrap of beautiful Chinese. Pathetic really but still...
Anyway I cycled past a small cafe along the river and found a group of Europeans having a farewell meal. They were leaving for home the next day. They spotted me as I went by and asked me to join them for a drink.
German Alissa was saddened to be leaving but as she said, "China is changing so much... so materialistic now. It's incredible. Everyone wants money. Nobody is interested in culture." ( the ever present cry of woe from the intellectual)
"It's mass consciousness." said another, "They all have weekly meetings to discuss the open door policy."
Alissa continued, "Before, I was the only one who would cycle fast on my bike. And now they are coming so, so fast by me on their mountain bikes and their stilettos and mini skirts (which is true). It's horrible!"
"Perhaps you set them a bad example!" I thought unsympathetically. And then progressed from unsympathy to down right irritation. How dare these Europeans try to deny China her party? I thought of the girl on the train and her small ambition to have a camera. It is just not fair for the West to walk out from the feast, as it were, pat the heads of those who wait with bread outside and say to them, "Darling, it's just not worth it - believe me. The soup's not what it is cracked up to be and you feel sick by the time dessert arrives. Bread! So much more wholesome anyway. So charming!"
China must find out for herself.
I came out of the Cafe feeling depressed and wondered why I had sought my familiar language if it caused me to be so put out. Then I just wondered if it was me being judgmental again and walked back to my rendezvous with my friend feeling very thoughtful. My friend, when I reached base, said I needed cheering up and proposed we caught the bus to a local temple. So we did.
The bus rattled its way through Cheng Du's, it has to be said, quite ugly suburbs and on out into the beautiful countryside which looks almost French with wide flat landscape and tree-lined roads.
After two hour's journey, the bus put us down in the middle of nowhere and we walked a mile to the Buddhist temple where, my friend told me, were wonderful sculptures.
The Temple loomed over us and we stepped through the massive doors and up some steps to a lovely courtyard in which flourishes a beautiful cedar, silhouetted against a temple wall. I noticed the empty plinths along the balustrade. The statues were destroyed by the Red Army. We walked up to the centre and on over the high step into the main temple. Two elderly and tiny nuns guarded the door.
Once your eyes adjust to the gloom, you realise you are surrounded by giants. Around the wall sit statues and behind them, above their heads, are small figures. Hundreds and hundreds of them rise up into the darkness of the ceiling. Each statue is unique. Each face is different. Some chat animatedly to their neighbours, some read, others lean forward and peer at you with interest and insight. The remnants of gold leaf cling to their clothes. They are more than five hundred years old.
At the back of the temple a huge scene in bas relief has been carved. A great sea flows. Beyond that lies mountains. The Buddha crosses the sea to enlightenment on the head of a great dragon. His sisters follow. Little fish and animals live in the waters and birds fly in the air. Behind this, sits an enormous Buddha. His lotus throne floats above us. On either side he is flanked by two Bodhisattvas. They are lavishly covered in gold. The light glints off it and off the great scarlet and gold banners which hang from the ceiling.
Whenever someone prays at the altar, one of the nuns steps forward and taps a great iron bowl. It gives off a melodious note which hangs in the air. The incense smokes around us. We sit still - and feel the presence of this building.
Later we step out into the bright air. It re-animates our senses. We were led to a smaller temple which was locked. One of the nuns took out a great key and let us in. Around us hung beautiful frescos. "Older than Michelangelo!" said our guide with pride. They showed the Buddhas and a goddess with seven heads and a thousand arms which she uses ceaselessly to help people attain paradise. Much more practical than those aloof western saints with their closed hands.
Only one section is in good repair. The others were riddled with bullet holes. It was the Red Army's doing. Most of the paintings bore deep scars, but one, I noticed, has been lovingly filled in with plasters and neatly smoothed off at the correct level. You seem to view the painting through a snowstorm. Was it one of the nuns I wondered?
The love of the nuns for their temple and its treasures is profound. I wonder what happened to the nuns who had had to bear such destruction and how did they keep their statues as safe as they did. And did some of them now witness its revival?
We suddenly realised we were ravenous and the nuns agreed to cook for us. We followed them into a tiny brick kitchen where a fire glowed in a brick oven. It being very cold, we huddled close. Chickens pecked around us and a kitten danced in sideways for a closer look. We were beckoned to a small table and sat on benches (common here) no wider than your hand. A variety of dishes were put before us with a steaming bowl of noodles. The chopsticks are of wood and in the grain is dirt. A health warning flash from the guide book appeared in my head. I looked at the trusting and serene face of the nun. "Oh, sod the guide book!" I thought and dived in. It was to prove the most delicious meal I had in the whole of China.
On the way back we made a detour to a small town outside Chengdu. There, we were shown the temple which was being rebuilt. Once more the great statues were being recreated, lovingly by hand. Curls of wood lay on the floor and the smell of cut shavings pervaded the building. Seeing this resurgence of interest in the Chinese past, it was possible to hope for restoration of the damaged frescos and artwork with which China is scattered.
In contrast, the next day, I went to the People's Park to drink tea in large quantities. There was a flower festival on and the gardens were full of Chrysanthemums. Typically the Chinese arrange them beautifully and then neglect to water them. A lot were no more than wilting displays. I compared them with the most basic of Women's institute Marquees where each plant is watered with loving attention throughout the exhibition and wondered whether the Chinese either do not see the need or are not interested in following the idea through. The concept of care seems to be lacking. While I considered this, a shout rang through the park.
"You are English," it cried, "Come and talk to me."
The man sat alone and was drunk. Tears poured down his face.
"I was born in Chengdu," he told us "and forty years ago I left for Taiwan and now for the first time I return to Chengdu to find my family. But all my relatives are dead. All gone."
His pain is intolerable. "But surely you must have had word?" I asked after the silence had absorbed his news. "Someone would have told you?"
"After I left," He continued, as if he had not heard, "The Red Army scattered my family during the Cultural Revolution because anyone who had a relative living abroad was treated with great suspicion. Sometimes killed; sometimes very harshly treated. They were traitors you see. Now all my family is vanished. I found only one old school friend. My son is in the US my wife in Taiwan is dead. I don't know where to go; to stay here or return again.
You feel your roots are here?" I asked. He was puzzled by the metaphor.
"Ah, yes, I see. In China we do not say roots. We are living like a tree but no matter how tall or strong the tree grows, his leaves always return to the ground - to its roots, yes?"
We left him lost in modern China, in a city he no longer recognised and a silent past.
to be continued... Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
Author: Sarah Keen Date: June 12, 2008 |