TheBanyanTree: Wutai Shan - 970 words

[Pat M]

Seeking constructive criticism/comments from anyone who has the time and
inclination. Thanks!


*Wutai Shan*

We were more than four hours into our journey when the bus geared down and
began to snake up the side of a mountain. Whether from jet lag, exhaustion or
the windy road, I felt lousy.  Ever since I was a child, my emotions have
resided in my stomach. Right now they were awhirl as I tried to adjust to a
culture drastically different from my own.

Throughout the bus trip, my friends conversed in Chinese and only
occasionally translated. This has been a common theme in my travels, which
started when I traveled solo to Israel as a twenty-two-year-old. Since then,
I’ve been in many countries where I was the odd-one out, unable to speak the
local language, surrounded by others who didn’t know English. It’s
challenging but highly satisfying to be able to manage in these situations.

“We’re almost there,” Joyce said in English.

Wutai Shan, which means ‘Five Plateau Mountain’, is one of four sacred
mountains in China and is dedicated to Buddhism’s God of Wisdom who is
believed to frequently visit the area, often taking the form of ordinary
pilgrims, monks, or unusual five-coloured clouds.  It’s a remote area that
consists of five steep-sided peaks topped with flat, treeless plateaus
(north, south, east, west, and central). The north peak is the highest and
is known as the roof of northern China. Temples have been built on the site
from the 1st century AD to the early 20th century, and it is home to some of
China’s oldest wooden buildings. At one time there were 360 temples in the
area. Today, 68 remain: 21 outside and 47 inside the circle of the five
terraces.

It was a huge relief to my roiling stomach when the bus finally stopped and
we exited.

“My husband invited some of his friends to come with us. There they are!”
Mao chirped, pointing toward a van with three young men in it.

The newcomers greeted us with wide smiles and bubbling laughter.

“You’re the first foreigner they’ve ever seen,” Mao translated. “They’re
thrilled to meet you.”

“Tell them I’m happy to meet them, too!”

Before long, we reached Taihuai, a monastic village in a lush green valley
at the center of Wutai Shan. We’d already been treated to a glimpse of what
was to come. Amongst thick forests of fir, pine and willow trees, Buddhist
temples, shrines and pagodas dotted the mountainsides, and we’d passed two
monks taking a leisurely stroll along the road, their unhurried pace setting
the tone.

Our group booked into a small guesthouse—women in one room; men in another.
More basic than the hotel in Taiyuan, the beds were simple cots with thin
mattresses and well-worn, clean linens. The reek of raw sewage permeated the
entire place. I waited for my friends to comment. No one did. Surely they
could smell it too!

“What’s that smell?”

“Uh… The WC. We are embarrassed,” Joyce admitted. “China is very different
from Canada. We couldn’t believe it when we saw how clean the restrooms and
toilets are in your country.”

Hoping to block the stench, I went to close the bathroom door and saw my
first Chinese toilet, an oblong porcelain hole in the floor that one has to
straddle and squat to use. It was going to take some getting used to.

After a brief rest, we walked to the closest hillside monastery, only five
minutes from our hotel and passed through a massive ornately-carved entrance
gate guarded by scowling stone lions. Several staircases led up to a cluster
of brick-coloured temples.  On the rest stops, a few folding tables covered
in bright red fabric displayed souvenirs such as Chinese knots, jade
necklaces, bracelets and Buddha miniatures. There were few other visitors
and as was becoming the norm, I was the only Caucasian. Holding up their
wares, the vendors rushed me spouting a flurry of Chinese. Mao’s husband
spoke to them, a tone of authority in his voice, and they reluctantly
retreated.

“What did he say?”

“They can be, what’s the word? Aggressive,” Mao said. “He told them to leave
you alone.”

A middle-aged man wearing a gray button-down tunic with matching knee
stockings and cloth shoes moved past us. His shoulders supported a pole with
buckets of water on either end.  A toothy grin lit up his face and his eyes
twinkled, and then he was gone, hurrying up the long staircase without
losing a drop of his cargo.

My anticipation increased as we climbed the steps. At the summit, we entered
a stone-paved courtyard where five two-story Buddhist temples nestled
together. My fatigue vanished as I watched monks, some in brown robes,
others wearing yellow, going about their daily business as they had for
millennia. It was as if I had stepped into another world, a sacred, timeless
place an outsider could observe but never truly understand. The place was
magical.

For several minutes, I took it all in: the modest holy men who prayed to
Buddha, the Chinese architecture with its fine detail and the beauty of the
location itself. Gratitude filled me; gratitude that I’d had the strength to
travel alone to this exotic land.

For the next while, we visited ancient temples and my friends spoke with
several monks. There was something otherworldly about these men with their
shaved heads, placid faces and simple, flowing robes. They moved purposely
and calmly; they did not rush, seeming to have found a peace I could only
dream of knowing. One of them with a jovial round face looked like the
Buddha himself.

That night as I lay in my bed I wondered what the next day would bring. No
matter that the room stank; no matter that the food was foreign and I didn’t
care for most of it; I was living my dreams.
xxxx