Luoyang Pt. 2

We went to bed early after dinner, because we had a full day of kung fu (or gongfu in Chinese) at the Shaolin Temple, which is located about an hour outside of the city, on the side of Songhuashan (literally means fragrant flowers mountain; I know, “peace and harmony” for a warrior’s name? “Fragrant flowers” for the birthplace of butt-kicking? China is full of mysteries). Everywhere you looked, hundreds of kids kicked and punched in unison, flipping and dodging with single-minded determination. Everywhere else you looked, hundreds of tourists in red baseball or cowboy hats took pictures with statues and ultimately wandered around in supreme distraction. Chinese people freaking love kung fu. In all of the Chinese movies I’ve seen since coming here (a grand total of one and a half), kung fu has had a large presence. And think about it, most Chinese movies, whether they are dramas or comedies, tend to have at least a little bit of punching and kicking. There’s always some guy saying “your Locust Style is impressive, but you shall not survive the ferocity of the Rabid Dog!!!” It’s one of their main exports. But that’s something I think I took for granted: they don’t make kung fu movies for Westerners, they make them for Chinese audiences. Japan doesn’t really make movies about karate, Thailand doesn’t make a big deal about Thai boxing, so why is kung fu so popular in China and abroad? I don’t actually know, I’m just asking. Maybe it has to do with all those different styles, and the use of qi (which is basically the force if you ask me), and the fact that parents send their 6-year-old children to train and live in a temple until they’re eighteen. This is what Xiaoxin (hope I got that right) told us.

Xiaoxin was a very gifted kung fu student at one of the satellite schools down the road from Shaolin Temple. He took us to his old school, where boys and girls at differing levels of childhood and adolescence were training. We sat down in his old classroom, which was littered with textbooks and notepads. He told us that he had come to this school when he was eight years old. He got to see his parents one day out of the year, and every other day consisted of getting up at 6 am and eating and training. After several years, Xiaoxin’s talent was spotted by his teachers, and he was chosen to be a performer in the international troupe. We saw the national troupe at Shaolin temple. They did not look happy. They essentially had to be monkeys doing tricks for the tourists, who were eating it up. I won’t say I didn’t enjoy myself, we even got a group picture, but there was a very obvious look of boredom and contempt on the faces of the students who performed and posed for us. At least Xiaoxin got to see new places. That’s actually how he learned English—drinking at British pubs and American bars. He was incredibly fluent. When he turned eighteen he decided his jumps were only getting lower and it was time to find his own path. He went to college and graduated with a degree in martial arts. At 23, he’s now running a kung fu school in Beijing. He told us how kung fu isn’t only a matter of punching and kicking, but a way to physically learn the philosophy of Taoism and Confucianism, and hopefully provide a framework for understanding our place in the universe. He said that the discipline and the opportunity to travel the world were very beneficial to him, but there are two sides to the coin, and the lack of familial bond and interaction with the outside world left him unable to negotiate love and relationships now. He then took us outside and showed us the dorms, where students slept 8 to a room. He saw his little brother, who looked about 15, outside training, and we got to say hi to him. He didn’t say anything, but just smiled. It was strange to hear Xiaoxin talk about how awful the conditions were, and then seeing his little brother following the very same path.

We said farewell to Xiaoxin and drove back to town. We stopped at a restaurant that had all local specialties, and I think Luoyang has Xi’an beat. It was amazing. Fried dumplings, a quiche-like bread, and noodles topped with chili. We then went out that night and made drunken fools of ourselves at a bar that was situated on top of a McDonalds and a Pizza Hut, showing its level of class (actually very high here—eating at Western restaurants is kind of a status statement, as they typically still have Western prices). We told everyone we were Canadian, and I vocalized perhaps a bit to loudly my disappointment in the DJ for having absolutely no Michael Jackson. But all in all, a great night in which we completely forgot about the long days and celibate, prohibitive nights of the Shaolin monk.

The next morning we got to sleep in, thankfully, and checked out of the hotel at 10:30 am. We then drove to the White Horse Temple (Baimasi), named after the horses used to carry the materials needed to build it. It is the first Buddhist temple built in China, lending it its historic prestige. After spending so much of our time on Buddhist art and architecture, however, we were a little over it, but the weather was so lovely that I just enjoyed walking around and watching people, who usually were watching me back.

We left pretty soon after getting there and went to what was called “Old Town”, aptly named, I think, after the large retired community there. We actually went to a retirement home, where an old man who turned out to be Joe’s grandfather happily watched us while Joe explained retirement homes. He pointed to one old lady, who was 96 years old, and remarked on her tiny feet, saying the easiest way to tell an old woman’s age is to see if her feet were bound. This practice ended only 90 years ago, so we still have living examples of this ancient practice. It was a little unsettling, but she seemed happy enough.

We walked down the street, where puppies were chewing on lamb bones and old folks were playing mahjong (majiang) in the warm sunlight. Joe took us to a friend of his, who was a Chinese painter (Zhongguo huajia) and calligrapher (shufajia), and she let me write my name with a brush. It’s a fairly easy name, and I managed to get a couple of strokes in that she said were very good. She said my name is interesting, because the first character is a woman under a roof, and the second is a man under a roof, symbolizing marriage and love. Or something to that effect, it was all in Chinese. We then took the next bullet train back to Xi’an.