South of the Yangtze Read online

  Normally, any of the three would have been fine. All we wanted to do was relax. But the weather was so stifling we decided to escape the city altogether. Instead of going to one of its parks, we hired a taxi to take us to Paiyunshan, whose forested slopes overlooked the city from the north. Surely, we thought, there was cool air waiting for us up there somewhere. Twenty minutes later, we were there, or at least we were at the foot of the mountain. The name alone, White Cloud Mountain, made us feel as if we had entered another world.

  Six Banyan Temple Pagoda

  Teatime at Nine Dragon Spring

  In former days, the mountain was covered with Buddhist and Taoist temples and shrines. Nowadays, the only buildings on Paiyunshan were villas, teahouses, and pavilions. Halfway up, we asked our driver to stop at the former site of Nengjen Temple. As recently as a hundred years ago, the temple housed 500 monks whose practice included martial arts. The temple was destroyed during the Second World War, but the stones that made up its former foundation were still visible through the vines and the weeds. We walked past the ruins and up a flight of steps to a newly-constructed teahouse. Its white walls were lined with tastefully wrought teapots and bonsais, and there were chairs and a dozen wooden tables set beside the windows where visitors could enjoy the view of the lily-filled ponds and the lush foliage that surrounded the place.

  The teahouse was named after Tiger Run Spring, which has been famous among tea cognoscenti for its water since the Sung dynasty a thousand years ago. We stayed long enough to sample the water, but the spring was only halfway up the mountain, and we wanted cooler air. We returned to our taxi and continued. Shortly before the summit, we turned off on a side road that ended at Chiulungchuan, or Nine Dragon Spring. Finally, we found what we were looking for: cool air and spring water.

  Nine Dragon Spring is one of the most famous springs in South China. People have been coming here for over a thousand years. It’s surrounded on three sides by the forested summit of Paiyunshan. And beyond the pines and bamboo are the distant, high-rises of Kuangchou, faintly visible through the smog. We sat down at one of the mahogany tables on the stone balcony and ordered a pot of Tiehkuanyin, or Iron Goddess tea. The setting was so relaxing, we just sat there drinking the beverage some say arose from Bodhidharma’s eyelids, catching up on our journals. Two hours later, when the tea became too weak for another infusion, we headed back down. As we approached the foot of the mountain, we drove past Deer Lake and noticed two old men fishing. At least their poles were fishing. The fishermen were asleep. We smiled, glad in the knowledge that at least someone in Kuangchou knew how to spend a hot autumn day. We would have joined them, but we had a train to catch.

  2. Hengyang & Hengshan

  Train tickets out of Kuangchou weren’t easy to come by, especially soft sleeper berths. Fortunately, before Finn and Steve arrived, I managed to find a travel agent in Hong Kong who was able to procure three of these rarest of commodities. After reclaiming our bags at the train station luggage depository, we boarded the evening express and enjoyed a night of listening to our motel on wheels clickety-clack its way across the Nanling Mountains that divided the area known as Lingnan, or South of the Ridges, from Chiangnan, or South of the Yangtze. Lingnan included the provinces of Kuangtung and Kuangsi and the southern parts of Hunan and Kiangsi. But Lingnan would have to wait for another trip. This time, we were bound for Chiangnan.

  Huai-jang’s grave

  Sometime during the night, we crossed the mountains and just before dawn arrived at our first stop: Hengyang. As we walked outside the station, we were met by several early-bird travel guides who wanted 100RMB, or $20, for a half-day tour of their fair city. Apparently, Hengyang wasn’t worth a full day.

  We ignored them and boarded a local bus destined for the city’s long-distance bus station, where we planned to deposit our bags. A few stops later, as we pulled away from the curb, one of the passengers asked me if I was missing something. When I said, “No,” he suggested I check my pocket. Sure enough, my wallet was gone. When I asked him where it was, he pointed outside the window. A young man was walking away from the bus stop and counting my money. I yelled for the driver to stop, but he just shrugged and hit the gas. I said good-bye to my wallet. Fortunately, there was only about 50RMB, or ten bucks, in it. I kept my big money in my backpack. I felt sorry for the pickpocket and a little embarrassed that I had lowered the high regard in which he obviously held foreigners.

  A few minutes later, we got off at the city’s long-distance bus station and stashed our gear. I haven’t mentioned it before, but when traveling in China, you’ll need to deposit your bags somewhere while sightseeing. Every train station and bus station has a storage area—just make sure you ask what time it closes so that you don’t have to spend a night away from whatever it is you might need in your bag. You can also try hotels or restaurants or even a store with a secure area—behind the counter usually works just fine. It’s no fun lugging your bag around all day long.

  Our next problem was to find transportation for the day. The easiest way to visit a number of places in a limited amount of time is to hire a taxi. Usually this involves negotiation, which I’ve never been very good at. But in Hengyang we were rescued from this tiresome process. While we were walking away from the bus station, I stopped to ask a policeman directing traffic. He not only flagged down a taxi, he helped negotiate the reasonable rate of 60RMB for a half-day tour. The memory of my lost wallet vanished. Hengyang was back on my good-place-to-visit list. And so off we went to see the sights, which began with Shihku Park.

  Hengshan’s old pilgrim trail

  The park was located at the northeast corner of the city at the confluence of the Hsiang and Cheng rivers. The Hsiang is the biggest river in Hunan—which we entered during the night, and people still refer to the province by the river’s name. It’s also the character used on Hunan license plates. But the reason we wanted to visit the park wasn’t the river, it was Confucius. A thousand years ago, this was the location of one of the most famous academies established to study his teachings. It was called Shihku Academy, and we were hoping there was something left.

  As we got out of the taxi, we were glad to see that the park was open. We thought we might be too early. We looked at a map just inside the park entrance then headed for the academy. It was built on a rocky promontory that became an island in the summer when the two rivers reached their highest levels. Hence, access was via a bridge. Alas, when we reached the bridge, the gate was closed. It was just after seven, and the academy didn’t open until eight. All we could see were the white walls and black-tiled roofs of its Sung-dynasty architecture. The buildings and their setting were quite lovely, like a painting. But we had to content ourselves with the view from the bridge and soon tired of that. Normally, we would have waited, but we had big plans that day, and the sights of Hengyang were just the beginning.

  On our way back to our taxi, we walked past dozens of people doing their morning exercises. Most were doing various forms of Taichichuan, but not everyone. There was one group of about thirty people learning to dance to the strains of “The Tennessee Waltz.” We thought about joining them, but once again, we had to remind ourselves about the big day we had planned.

  From Shihku Park, we drove to Yuehping Park. It was laid out around a man-made lake instead of a pair of rivers, but that wasn’t why we were there. The park was the location of the city’s museum, and I’ve always found such places to be sources of information that often doesn’t reach the world beyond. This time we arrived just after eight, and it was open. As a museum, it was a failure. The only relief was an exhibition of blurred photographs of the wild two-footed hairy creature seen from time to time in China’s more mountainous regions—the one Westerners call Bigfoot or the Abominable Snowman.

  I’ve always thought it ironic that most of the sightings of this creature in China have been in the Shennungchia Mountains of neighboring Hupei province. A number of Taoist masters have told me that there are 600-yea
r-old Taoists living in the same range. I’ve since concluded that China’s two-footed hairy creature was nothing more than your basic Taoist immortal in need of a haircut. Several years earlier a Taoist doctor on Wutangshan offered to lead me into those very mountains to meet his own master, who was 250 years old, he said. Unfortunately, I was on a different mission then and didn’t have time to take advantage of such an opportunity. Once again, I had other plans.

  Having seen what there was to see in the museum, we returned to our taxi and told the driver to take us to one more park. In addition to serving as a gateway to South China, Hengyang was near the entrance to one of China’s most famous mountains: Hengshan. In fact, the city’s name, Hengyang, refers to its position on the southern, yang, side of the mountain. Usually when people talk about Hengshan, they refer to the half-dozen peaks that make up its center. But Hengshan is much bigger. Its peaks are said to begin as far north as the provincial capital of Changsha and extend south for 150 kilometers as far as Returning Goose Peak, or Huiyenfeng, which rose before us at the end of Hengyang’s Chungshan Road.

  Returning Goose wasn’t much of a peak, maybe thirty meters higher than the town, but it was still counted as the southernmost of the range’s seventy-two summits. The peak was now part of a park, and it had been enhanced by chicken wire and cement, and a man-made waterfall that flowed from dawn to dusk. We were there on a Sunday, and it looked like everyone in town was on the peak. At one end of the park, there was a temple full of worshippers burning paper money and lighting candles and firecrackers. And at the other end there was a sideshow with loudspeakers blaring music that might best be described as Jimi Hendrix played backwards. After a few minutes, we decided it was time to head for the real peak. We returned to the bus station, paid the driver, grabbed our gear, and boarded the next bus headed north.

  As the bus began winding through a landscape of green hills, yellow rice fields, and red earth, we got our first glimpse of the countryside that characterizes the Chiangnan region. A cool breeze blew through the bus windows, and the road was smooth, which wasn’t surprising—the smooth part. We were on the Kuangchou–Beijing Highway, the first cross-country highway built in China. About ten minutes north of Hengyang, we saw a mountain in the distance. It was big. A few minutes later, Hengshan’s central peaks came into view. For the next fifty minutes, we continued north along the mountain’s eastern flank. As we did, the mountain kept getting bigger. After winding our way through one last valley, the bus dropped us off three kilometers from the foot of the mountain.

  From where we got off, there was a road on our left that led to the mountain, and we began following it. But once more we needed to deal with our gear. There was no way we were going to haul it up the mountain. Fortunately, a hundred meters down the road, there was another road that forked to the right and that led past a gauntlet of tourist shops and small hotels, one of which agreed to look after our bags.

  With our gear taken care of, we headed for the mountain. But first some background. Hengshan has another name: Nanyueh, the Southern Sacred Mountain. Over two thousand years ago, Chinese Taoists came up with the theory that everything can be divided into Five Elements or Aspects. There are five musical tones, five colors, five elements, even five directions—which include the four cardinal points and the center.

  Buddhists have their sacred mountains too. But Buddhism doesn’t share Taoism’s shamanistic roots. It was shamanism that provided the basis upon which the worship of mountains developed in China. When the country’s early emperors started conducting sacrifices at mountains, five were chosen for special veneration. And 1,500 years ago, Hengshan joined this exclusive club, displacing another peak much farther north.

  In the past, when emperors or their emissaries came to worship the country’s sacred peaks, they did so with great ceremony in huge temples built expressly for the purpose. And so, a temple was built near the foot of Hengshan soon after it joined the big five. The temple had been destroyed and rebuilt many times since then, but it was still there at the edge of the village that had grown up around it to serve pilgrims. As we walked down the village’s only paved street, we stopped to buy a few snacks for the trail, like peanuts and cookies. Then we joined the other pilgrims and entered the temple’s front gate and passed through a succession of archways and shrine halls.

  The buildings were relatively new and dated from 1882, which might be old in America but is yesterday in China. Still, they looked old. Finally, we reached the great hall of the Southern Mountain. The hall was among the most impressive in China, with seventy-two huge stone pillars holding up an equally huge tiled roof. The number 72 corresponded with the number of peaks that made up the 150-kilometer-long mountain. Inside was a statue of Chu-jung Huo-shen, the mythical emperor who bestowed fire on humankind. Again, this was in accordance with the theory of Five Elements, which associated the southern quadrant with the element of fire.

  Speaking of fire, there was a huge blaze rising from the incense burner in front of the building, as pilgrims lit bundles of incense, not individual sticks, but bundles containing hundreds of sticks. We lit a few sticks ourselves and paid our respects to Chu-jung, then continued on. After visiting the main hall, we proceeded to a smaller hall behind it. While I was taking a photograph, I glanced down to find an old lady’s hand inside my pocket about to remove its contents. I never carry much money in my pockets, but after traveling in Hunan, I carry less. Twice in one day was too much. Still, there wasn’t much I could do. As soon as my eyes met the old lady’s, she turned and hurried away empty-handed. She must have been seventy, but I was surprised how quickly she disappeared into the crowd. Once again, all I could do was laugh.

  Shrine to Chu-jung Huo-shen

  Having paid our respects to the mountain, we thought it was time to hit the trail, or should I say road? We considered our options. Were we going to walk, or were we going to take the bus? Hengshan was unique among China’s five sacred mountains in having a paved road that ended just short of the summit. Buses left every fifteen minutes, or as soon as they were full. For those who prefer to walk, it’s worth keeping in mind that the trail parallels the road. In fact, for most of the way, the trail is the road, or vice versa. Hence, would-be hikers have no choice but to endure bus fumes and air horns. And for what? We didn’t see much sense in walking up the mountain under such conditions.

  There was an alternative, though. We learned about it from the man who operated the hotel where we stashed our bags. We followed his suggestion and started up the road that began behind the shrine halls. After about a kilometer, we stopped short of a reservoir. Past the reservoir was a martyrs’ shrine built by the Nationalist Army to commemorate those who died resisting the Japanese. Instead of walking past the reservoir and the martyrs’ shrine, we turned off the main road onto a dirt road on the left that led about 200 meters to a small hydroelectric station. The station looked more like a farmhouse, but it actually generated electricity from an adjacent stream. We crossed a plank bridge to the other side of the stream and followed a dirt trail into a pine forest. The trail soon disappeared, and we had to zigzag our way up a series of gullies. The man who told us about this shortcut told us not to worry about which gully we walked up. They all reconnected with the old trail—the one pilgrims took before there was a road. And he was right. After about an hour, we found ourselves back on a trail. Soon after that, the trail crossed a ridge and brought us to the front steps of Nantai Temple.

  We paused at the steps to catch our breath then walked through the front gate. The temple was being renovated, and there were piles of logs and stones everywhere. Nantai was one of the most important temples in the history of Zen, and it was being restored. The temple dated back to the beginning of the sixth century, but it didn’t become famous until two hundred years later when a monk named Hsi-ch’ien arrived. He was a disciple of Zen’s Sixth Patriarch, Hui-neng, whom we met the day before in Kuangchou. Hsi-ch’ien came to Hengshan to study with another disciple of Hui-nen
g, a monk named Huai-jang. Huai-jang lived at another temple farther up the mountain, but Hsi-ch’ien preferred Nantai, and while he was here he picked up the name Shih-t’ou.

  Before entering the temple’s main shrine hall to pay our respects to Shih-t’ou, we stopped at the monastery store just inside the entrance and bought several cloth shoulder bags, the kind used by monks and nuns when they travel between temples or go on a pilgrimage. They were embroidered with the name of the temple, and we thought our Zen friends in America would appreciate such souvenirs. I thought mine might help protect me from pickpockets in the future. The bags had zippers inside.

  As we left the monastery store, we had to step carefully to avoid the logs, bricks, and stones that filled the temple’s courtyard. The buildings were being renovated. When we finally reached the entrance of the main shrine hall, there was an old lady sitting outside on a stool who insisted on reading our palms. She had never read a foreigner’s palm, and she wanted to see if there was any difference. Apparently, there wasn’t. After all, we’re all going to die, sooner or later. In our case, she said we were going to live to be between eighty-five and ninety-five. We couldn’t imagine living that long. We were hoping to die a bit earlier than that, before our bodies deteriorated to the point where someone else had to wipe our butts. But maybe she was wrong.

  We thanked her anyway and entered the hall. Inside, we met an old monk talking to several laywomen. The monk turned out to be the abbot, Pao T’an. He said he was sixty-six and he had lived there as a monk since he was nine. While we were talking, someone rang a bell. He said it was time for lunch, and he invited us to join him. It wasn’t as fancy as the vegetarian food we had in Kuangchou, but it was good. Afterwards he invited us to join him in his quarters for tea. While we were exchanging Buddhist gossip, he told us this story, which began when we asked him if Shih-t’ou’s remains were at the temple.