Great Goose Pagoda

(2 of 3 of The Two Towers)

The bell resonates through the city again. Noon. He has his lunch. At two, the drums take over. Menacing and threatening. As if counting down the hours till the end of the day. The street empties itself of the men as they congregate at the Great Mosque for their Friday prayers. Their kufi so familiar yet so strange in this place.

***


The temple is no longer a temple. It is overcrowded with tourists who talk and laugh loudly. Who flout the rules. As if the place belongs to their fathers. The renovations to make the place more 'tourist-friendly' do not help with the noise and dust either. For a temple this size, it's surprising how tiny its altars are. No, it is no longer a temple. Xuanzang would be most disappointed.


Xuanzang must've had the adventure of his life. Five years! Of travelling to a faraway land. With different customs and cultures. Learning to speak a new language. Moving from one new place to another day by day. He completely understands and knows how Xuanzang must've felt.

City walls

(1 of 3 of The Two Towers)

The bell can be heard from the Muslim quarter. Solemn and sonorous, it heralds the breaking of dawn. And the same faces go about their morning routines.

***


He hops on his bike and speeds off along the city walls. The walls are unbelievably thick, evident from the wide ramparts. Wide enough for three lanes of cars. No wonder Xi'an was once known as Chang'an.


It takes the average cyclist two hours to make a full circle. This is how big the city is. And these walls were built on the walls of the Tang Dynasty palace. The city walls proper were much further out at the glorious height of the city's long history.


Along the Western wall, he sees the residential area. Decrepit flats. A local school snuggled between them. Its students practising drills in the field. At the northern wall, he encounters a cordon due to renovation work. Frustrated, he races back the way he came from. It's almost noon. This is what it all boils down to: a great race with time.

Drum Tower

A couple stands just across the road from where he's sitting, observing the comings and goings of the Muslim quarter. Both tall and lanky, the girl shows off her midriff whilst the boy covers his arms with a long-sleeved tee. With one hand, he holds his girlfriend's handbag and two other plastic bags with brand names emblazoned on them. The other pulls her in by the waist. She puts both her arms on his shoulders. Pulls him in until their noses almost touch. She smiles sweetly at him. He kisses her tenderly on her forehead. Oblivious to the world around them.

And all of a sudden, and out of his control, he wishes he were in the boy's shoes, right there, right then.

Hua Shan

He needs some time alone. Decides to climb Hua Shan: one of the many beautiful settings of Jin Yong's famous martial arts novel.


Where Emei Shan is soft. Lush with flora and fauna. Hua Shan is harsh. Trees grow sparsely in crevices of its precipitous white cliffs. The trail runs along rapids which drown out his messy thoughts every now and then as its clear cold water crashes noisily against the smooth rocks. It winds around the mountainside where sheer cliffs rise sharp and dangerous.


He passes by the usual porters, transporting basic necessities up the hill. And a few Taoist priests. But he overtakes many young couples seeking to sanctify their sweet innocent love. Like the true and faithful love between Yang Guo and Dragon Girl. They buy locks and engrave their names and wishes on it. The railings lining the trail are filled with them.


The peak is cold. Even at its base, it was already cool so despite being a 1000 metres lower than the summit of Emei Shan, it's just as cold. The rain falls around him softly but he's so far up that it doesn't feel like rain at all.


Looking at the sheer precipices before and around him, he can imagine the clashing of swords echoing down the valley's steep walls as the ranking of martial arts heroes took place. Or Yang Guo leaping from precipice to precipice as he followed Hong Qigong.


Coming down the hill, he sits in his own cable car. Which is good because if his cable car falls, he'll be the only who dies. What took him five hours now becomes ten minutes. It could've taken an eternity for all he cares.

Breakfast II

The old lady serves her breakfast of bread and stew faithfully every morning. As her mother had done before her. And her grandmother. And great grandmother. Her daughter helps her and will carry on the trade long after she's dead and gone. And her granddaughter. And great granddaughter.

She gets up early in the morning. So early that the sun hasn't even risen yet. She cooks her stew and heats up the bread. After performing her morning prayers, she readies herself for business. In the evening, once everything's sold, she washes the bowls and spoons. She bakes new bread and prepares the vegetables and meat for tomorrow's stew. She retires to an early night as soon as she conducts her night prayers.

She gets up early in the morning. So early that the sun hasn't even risen yet. She cooks her stew and heats up the bread. After performing her morning prayers, she readies herself for business. In the evening, once everything's sold, she washes the bowls and spoons. She bakes new bread and prepares the vegetables and meat for tomorrow's stew. She retires to an early night as soon as she conducts her night prayers.

She gets up early in the morning. So early that the sun hasn't even risen yet. She cooks her stew and heats up the bread. After performing her morning prayers, she readies herself for business. In the evening, once everything's sold, she washes the bowls and spoons. She bakes new bread and prepares the vegetables and meat for tomorrow's stew. She retires to an early night as soon as she conducts her night prayers.

My question is thus, this: Why does she keep on living? Why does she not take her own life? If she lives to live, if she works just to keep her living for another day just to work again, if she works to work the next day, wouldn't it be easier not to live? Not to work? Just cease to exist? What is it that keeps her going?

Eight Immortals Temple

Legend has it that the Yu Xian Bridge was where Wang Chongyang, who founded the Taoist sect Quan Zhen Jiao, happened to meet Lu Dongbin who tutored him in the ways of Taoism. The Quan Zhen temple rebuilt this bridge to symbolize the heavenly source of the Quan Zhen sect and guide later generations.


The temple, situated on Changlefang Street outside the Eastern Gate of Xi'an, was first constructed during the Song Dynasty to protect against subterranean divine thunder. The site of the temple, partially that of the former Tang Dynasty Xingging Palace, is where the famous Chang'an Wineshop once stood. The stone tablet standing before the temple is inscribed with Chang An Jiu Si, meaning Chang'an Wineshop.


This was where the Taoist Master Han Zhongli met Lu Dongbin and helped him attain the Tao. As is recorded in The Biographies of the Immortals, Han Zhongli, the Patriarch of Taoism, awakened Lu Dongbin from his dream at the Chang'an Wineshop and became his master later on.


The temple was dedicated to the memory of the Immortal, Lu Dongbin. A rumour also arose that eight mysterious figures had been seen banqueting in the temple. They were believed to be the Eight Immortals incarnate, which led to the expansion of the temple to commemorate their appearance on Earth. The temple was thus named the Eight Immortals Temple.

Qinshihuang's Mausoleum

The unexcavated mound containing the underground palace.

Historical records mention that the first emperor spent about 38 years constructing his afterlife palace and enslaved about 720000 labourers. He filled his mausoleum with mercury in the form of a lake and river resembling the layout of his country as well as decorated the roof of the mausoleum with the layout of the sun, moon and stars.

The rivers and lakes could flow the way they do in the real world, and the sun, moon and stars could also revolve the way they do in the real world. The emperor also filled the underground palace with numerous complicated weapons to ward off tomb robbers, according to Shi Ji, compiled by the famous Chinese historian Sima Qian, who lived in the Han Dynasty.

Experts have found a much higher density of mercury here than other areas.

Terracotta Warriors

The vanguard stands in three rows at the front. Armourless, they stand their ground. Brave and loyal. Behind them stands the main body in battle formation of 11 columns. Clad in full body armour, they stand proud and strong. Confident that All Under Heaven belongs to them. Their hands wield missing weapons, probably plundered by tomb raiders who decided to spare the statues rather than risk the wrath of their spirits.


An infantry stands out from the rest, from 2000 of them. He stands upright. Stiff. Hands placed straight at his sides. Tense. His face is unique like so many of the others. He is young. Barely and adult. Boyish. Eighteen, nineteen or so. His furrowed eyebrows betray his nervousness. Possibly anxiety. Mixed with a pang of sadness.


Maybe he had joined the army to buy medicine for his dying mother. Maybe he had left his lover with a promise of a prosperous future. Maybe he enlisted in the army to see the world. For fame and glory. But only having just realized that he had gotten himself into. Maybe. We shall never know. But he lives on till today. His face a familiar haunting. A reminder to all who gaze at his face of what we all have to go through.


After all these centuries, they still speak to us. Whispering their lives to those willing to listen. And through all these millennia, their war cries can still be heard. The thundering of their feet under their heavy bronze armour. And the clash of bloodthirsty weapons. In a mad bid to unite All Under Heaven.

Breakfast

Breakfast here, like anywhere else in China, is simple enough. Yang Rou Pau Muo is one of the main breakfast choices. People shred and soak thick nan-like bread in a steaming stew of mainly vegetables and a little bit of meat.

Its genius lies in its simplicity: all you want is to fill your stomach up to last the morning and the best way to do it is with soup plus bread to make it a little more substantial. Also, each of the food groups are present making it a healthy meal. If anything, it tastes good.

Muslim Quarter

He makes his way back to the Muslim quarter. The air is cool almost to the point of being slightly cold.

The streets buzzes with activity. It's simply charming. He buys a fried pastry stuffed with vegetable and meat for dinner from a stall by the side of the street. Other vendors sell souvenirs and handicrafts. Terracotta statues are everywhere. Caged crickets sing loudly into the night. At the wet market, he buys some dried fruit.

In it's familiarity, it's hauntingly beautiful. With the kufi and tudung, it brings back fond memories:

Of weekly pasar malam in Malaysia. A time before late night movies at Midvalley. The sights, sounds and smells: a delight to the senses.

Of the call of azan. Loud and clear. Deep and resonant. And the congregation to the surau where he watches his good friends prostrate and pray with such strong faith and conviction.

Eight treasure rose pudding

Heavenly.

Great Mosque

As the Eastern terminus of the Silk Route where traders exchanged not only prized goods but also ideas and lifestyles, it's not surprising that Xi'an has such a large Muslim population. However, it's Muslim quarter looks like any other Chinese street except for the slender curves of Arabic script inscribed on wooden boards above establishments and the familiar kufi and tudung. (It's also no surprise that pork is off the menu.)


The Great Mosque could easily be mistaken for a Buddhist or Taoist monastery. It's grounds sport Chinese architecture. An octagonal pagoda serves as a minaret and a phoenix-shaped pavilion stands before the prayer hall. Only small Islamic influences betray its real function such as Arabic script carved into archways and doorheads as well as inscribed on stelae. Some doorways are dome-shaped whilst the interior design of the prayer hall is clearly Muslim with its prayer mates lined up for them to pray together with their brethren.

Drum Tower Square

He now understands Chengdu's appeal. Despite being a large city - provincial capital of Sichuan - of ten million, its people are laidback and relaxed. Teahouses are filled daily with the inhabitants of the city enjoying a cup of tea over a game of mahjong. They know how to enjoy their food with delicious dishes. And the pace of the city is slow for one as big as it is especially when compared to the likes of Shanghai or even Chongqing.

That said however, Xi'an feels much more pleasant. Further up north, the air is cool and refreshing for a change. Unlike the hot and dusty city of Chengdu. The city isn't congested with vehicles nor packed with people. And Drum Tower Square next to the Bell Tower is filled with people sitting and resting or flying tiny kites stringed together in one long line.

Bell Tower

Sichuan Normal University

Peterpan takes him on a tour of Sichuan Normal University. With a student body of ten thousand in a city of ten million, it's a huge campus. Not university. Campus. It is well equipped with a lot of modern facilities including dormitories of eight to a room, lecture rooms and theatres, libraries and computer rooms, cafeterias and co-ops, stadiums and fields as well as courts and a swimming pool just to name a few.


Peterpan shows him the Art faculty. The corridors are flooded with a cacophony of music. A percussion band can be heard saliently amidst the many piano tunes. In one of the classrooms, students sing at perfect pitch and harmony. The ceiling crashes under the heavy steps of dancers practising upstairs. Two dance studios are filled with ballerinas practising at the bar in front of long mirrors. Another is filled with contemporary male dancers practising leaps and jumps. The top floor presents more art rooms where students build paper models of buildings with outrageous architecture.


It's mind-boggling to imagine all these universities, in other provinces, scattered all over China, churning out all these talents year after year after year. Competition must be really tough. No wonder the world fears what China can become. It's potential is unstoppable now that it's released.


A desire sparks off within him. Peterpan would be reading Travel Management if his parents didn't want him to study Accounting. He'd be learning Dance if hadn't gotten the scholarship to read Medicine.

School

First Monday of September. The sky is a clear blue after yesterday's showers. It's the start of the academic year. All around, children in uniform converge along roads to schools, their red scarfs bouncing in time with their light steps. Some chatter excitedly with their friends, catching up on their holidays. Some cling to their parents or grandparents. Others catch buses or trishaws on their own. At a nearby kindergarten, little children clutch at the trousers of their parents who queue up to register their children, fearful of their fist day into the world of academia.

Sichuan Chinese opera

Sichuan Chinese opera is more or less similar to Guangdong Chinese opera. The same themes prevail and the same exaggerations are used. However, from the small repertoire of performances he's seen, Sichuan Chinese opera seems to place a greater importance on skills such as acrobatic skills. The laidback people of relaxed Chengdu must be harder to please. There is a shift away from education towards entertainment.

He especially enjoyed the rolling-oil lamp show, the fire-breathing show and the mask-changing show. He believes the changing of masks has something to do with the headdress. The performance with the least appreciation however, is the puppet Chinese opera. It's a pity no one notices the skill with which the puppeteer controls the head and body with one hand and both hands and fingers with the other. The skill of manipulating the fingers of the puppet to carry out life-like actions such as plucking a flower and placing it on the headdress.

Horn

This will be the last time he travels anywhere around China for more than an hour by bus. The blaring of horns is more than he can stand. They use it so liberally here in China. He's actually conditioned to it. Gives a start every time he hears it. Feels his heart skip a beat. And a rise in blood pressure. The hideous monster of anger rears its head before giving way to frustration.

Tears

A girl whom they met along the climb up said the hike to the peak would take three days. Two monks whom they met at the foot of the mountain told them it would take two days.


They did it in eleven hours.

Emei Shan

He and the Tibetan whom he befriended at the hostel decide to climb Emei Shan right from its base. To the both of them, it is a pilgrimage. A cleansing of the soul. A test of strength and perseverance. If their ancestors could do it, so can they.


The trail winds around mountains and takes them from mountainside to mountainside. It leads right under a sheer cliff with a stream trickling down its smooth wall: a thundering waterfall of several hundred metres during the rainy season.

The trail passes monasteries by, sometimes going through them. They meet two Buddhist nuns along the way. One of them starts to sing a Tibetan prayer when she finds out that the Tibetan comes from Lhasa.

Blood


Halfway, few people hike this far up. Only locals who transport basic necessities and essential commodities up to the scanty population who inhabit the mountain and make a living out of hungry, thirsty and sleepy tourists trying to conquer the mountain.

A woman carries a block of stone on her back for the construction of steps higher up along the trail. It's so heavy that neither he nor the Tibetan can lift it off the ground. A man carries vegetables in two rattan baskets hanging from a bamboo pole on his shoulder. His trapezius bulges red under the heavy burden, swollen with blood. His gastrocnemius bulge under the sheer effort. Others carry huge cartons of oil and tanks of gas. It must be hard to live up here where basic necessities are hard to come by.

Sweat


The last two hours have been the most excruciating part of his life. It takes a Herculaneum
effort just to life his foot and take the next step. The stairs are endless. One after another. So steep that he's forced to crawl on all fours.

He grips his faithful walking stick tighter. It's helped him this far from the bottom. A mere fallen branch. He grips it so hard that he can feel the angry blisters trying their best to emerge from beneath the irritated skin.


This high up, it's freezing cold. Yet, he's sweating tremendously. Sweat drips down from his face. Causes his shirt to cling to his body.

His muscles scream at him in protest. Sue for mercy. They ache so badly he feels like giving up. Letting go and crashing to the ground. The stairs are endless. Steep.