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A PILGRIM ON EMEI SHAN The bus is ramshackle and the road so bad it causes everything to rattle; the windows, the seats, the engine and finally the passengers too. Together with the deafening noise that comes along it's a clear example of the fine Chinese art of torturing. It's going on for over an hour now but the Chinese passengers around me don't even seem to notice. Their mouth's are moving so somehow they are still able to communicate. I try to figure out whether they are immune for the noise or are lip reading. The suffering goes on for two more hours, then I have to change to open air transport in the back of a pick-up van. The limited space is shared by a Canadian couple. They are here for the same reason as I am, climbing Emei Shan. Soon the van stops and the three of us are directed into a cab for the last few kilometres. Slowly my hearing returns and the rattling inside my head fades away. The taxi slows down and turns to what seems to be a parking lot. Out of the grey mist contours of an eastern type of building materialise. That must be Wannian Si, the Temple of Ten Thousand Years, we assume, the starting point of our pilgrimage to the top of the highest holy mountain in the Empire of the Middle. EMEI SHAN Chengdu is the busy capital of Sichuan, China's largest and, with over one hundred million people, most dense populated province. In order to escape the crowds for a couple of days I had jumped on a bus one bright sunny morning, heading for Baoguo, a tiny village two hundred kilometres to the south. Baoguo is situated at the foot of Emei Shan, one of China's four holy mountains in the eyes of Buddhists. The long and strengthening climb towards the temple on the summit is a popular pilgrimage. Every Buddhist in China has to climb it at least once in a lifetime. The first temples on the slopes of this mountain were already built in the second century, long before Buddhism was born. After introduction of this religion in the fourteenth century however the number of temples grew rapidly to over one hundred. Nowadays only twenty-three are left, accommodating a few hundred monks. The war with Japan and the destructive zeal of the Red Guards during Mao's Cultural Revolution left its sad marks here too. Only since 1976 a couple of monasteries have been renovated and put into use once again. At the same time the mountain paths have been improved and monks as well as tourists are welcome to try to make it to the top. Emei Shan is a recognised botanical kingdom. Over three thousand types of plants cover the steep mountain slopes. In the subtropical and temperate zones around the foot of the mountain rare animals like the small panda and the Sumen-antelope are said to hide in the excessive vegetation. Less shy are the monkeys halfway up the mountain that sometimes block the path, refusing to let the unsuspecting traveller pass by unless he pays a toll by handing out some food. The walking poles many pilgrims use are not only meant for support but also to chase away these bold animals. Climbing a holy mountain guarantees a long and healthy life. The majority of the tourists that visit Emei Shan however doesn't come here to enjoy the tiring pilgrimage, the luxuriance vegetation, the fauna or even the beauty of the landscape. Most people just come here to experience the sunset or sunrise while standing on the top, just above the clouds and to take a good breath of clear, fresh air once again. Chased by an army of hagglers trying to sell stuff like fruit, maps and souvenirs we rapidly cross the parking lot to where the path begins. Like everywhere in China we have to buy a ticket first, nothing is for free. The building we thought to be an ancient temple happens to be nothing but the toll house. How fog plays with proportions. The first hour we stroll along many stalls, amidst a strange variety of people; old women carrying large baskets on their backs and Chinese tourists neatly dressed as if on a Sundays trip, walking on high heels and patent leather shoes. All stalls offer more or less the same, dried mushrooms for consumption or for curing all kinds of diseases and prevention of getting any. Apparently just making the pilgrimage is not enough to ensure a good health and a long life. Many pilgrims climb a holy mountain every year, just to be sure. No doubt the physical exercise will do them good. ISLAND IN THE MIST After an hour of slow climbing we reach the Temple of Ten Thousand Years. Wannian Si is the oldest temple on Emei Shan that survived. First constructed in the ninth century it is now dedicated to the bodishattva Puxian, the patron saint of the mountain. This temple is built on an altitude of one thousand meters, the highest one, on the Golden Top, is situated on almost 3.100 meter. So now the climb really starts. The three of us leave the sanctuary behind. The path, free from stalls and other tourists now, becomes stairs, the friendly slope a steep climb winding up endlessly. As we go up the fog is growing denser. There is nothing to be seen from the magnificent nature promised by our guidebook. No breathtaking panorama's or spectacular mountainous landscapes are unfolded before our very eyes. Sweating heavily and gasping for breath we climb a thousand steps in a serene environment. Unnoticed we pass by The Slope of the Parading Heart. We reach The House were the Heart Rests, where we drink a cup of tea and then climb on to the invisible Plains of the Old Man. The mountain seems to be abandoned, we hardly meet a soul. We hear nothing but our own breathing an the beating of our toiling hearts. The mist reduces the scale of the mountain into an island less than a hundred meters from shore to shore. An island that moves along with every step we take. Suddenly, right before us, a vague shape appears on the path. A lean man approaches, a pilgrim on his way down. In a bamboo carrying device on his back is a thick trunk of at least his own weight. Is this an example of a self-chastisement some pilgrims are said to choose for? Had he gone up this way too, as some kind of penance? It's hard to imagine, it would have been extremely exhausting. It has to be said the man appears to be exhausted too, nevertheless he still finds the strength to smile politely as we pass by. He'll probably live to be a hundred, if he survives the descent. A few second later the fog consumes him again as if he has never been here. Only the regular tapping of his walking stick on the steps is marking his existence, but soon that has faded out too. Higher and higher we climb until we reach Huayan Peak at 1.900 meters. There the path goes down a little to Lotus Rock only to climb up again straight to the monastery at Xixiang Pond, Bathing Elephant Pond, halfway up the mountain. BATHING ELEPHANT POND The afternoon is drawing to an end, the monastery lies hidden in the twilight. In China the days are getting shorter too in November. We decide to spent the night in the cloister. During high season over fifty pilgrims occupy the dormitories of Xixiang Pond every night, now we are the only ones. A couple of shabby dressed monks welcome us. With a professional smile they ask an enormous amount of money (to Chinese standards) for a room. Negotiating is not really an option and they know it. The next monastery is two hours further up the mountain. The monks hardly add any water to their wine but at least we get the 'Royal Suite' for our money; a sumptuously furnished room with two large beds, a wardrobe, a heavy desk (carried all the way up by a monk?) and two chairs. There are even electric blankets on the beds. These don't function, but you can't have it all. Though a bit primitive, even to Chinese standards, this monastery is a much more attractive place to stay than any other Chinese hotel I have been in so far. There is no heating in our room, but we are allowed to dry our sweat stained clothes near the coal burner in the communal chamber. In order to stay warm ourselves each one of us obtains a heavy, green overcoat that make us look like Russian soldiers in Siberia. We arrived a bit late, but in the kitchen we find leftovers of sticky rice and some vegetables. The Chinese kitchen is famous all over the world and also the vegetarian dishes Buddhists prepare are usually of high standards. That art however never reached the kitchen of the Xixiang Pond monastery. Never mind, our stomachs are filled and we are very well aware of the fact that shopping on this mountain is a rather tiring job. In the 'sitting-room' ten monks are gathered around a pot-bellied stove to watch television. Mesmerized they all stare at the screen of a dilapidated black and white television set. The reception is awkward, probably just like the show, a Chinese soap, but that doesn't seem to matter. The monks are enthusiastic fans of the misty show. The somewhat unpleasant thought I had in a crowded McDonalds in Beijing a couple of weeks before, of people being more or less the same anywhere in the world, comes over me again. Globalisation is a fact, why leave home anymore? Still, the character of the place. the ambience, is reason enough. We take the opportunity of warming ourselves at the stove for some time before creeping into our stone cold beds. MAO'S HERITAGE Xixiang Pond is supposed to be the location where the monkeys levy their toll. Just before we reached the monastery two of these furry collectors allready had crossed our path, but apparently they were more afraid of us then we were of them. Nevertheless we prepare for the worst when setting of again early that morning. In a cool and moist morning air we step out of the front porch of the monastery. We pass by a promising warning-board 'Beware of the Monkey'. But the path is clear. We call out for them, wave with banana's and try to seduce them by promising the most delightful cookies, but it's no use, there are no monkeys to be found. They probably have flown south to hibernate or something. I don't blame them, it's quite cold and high-season is over. The four or five stray tourists passing by daily are not worth the trouble. We can understand, but do feel a bit taken in anyway. The only monkeys we are to see that day are pitiful ones sitting on the shoulder of their owner, a chain around their ankles. These poor animals are forced to perform tricks they don't want to do and are made to pose for pictures with annoying tourists. And suddenly tourists are all around. Apparently along the least steep slope of the mountain a long road winds up to a large complex at about four hundred meters beneath the summit. Busloads of day-trippers are taken up. For those who can't or won't walk the last part a cable-railway goes up even further. Though for the really decadent tourist several men with swivel-chairs are waiting to drag them all the way up. Mao would turn around in his mausoleum if he'd known about this betrayal of his heritage. It had been his initiative to put a ban on the use of the swivel-chair, in which the rich let themselves be transported by the poor. He saw it as the symbol of inequality and class-distinction. Not all of his ideas were wrong. After strolling on in peaceful solitude for hours, we now find ourselves walking in line with hundreds of, mostly Chinese, tourists. They queue up, the path is too narrow for so many people going up and down. Chinese people are slow walkers. We have to take great care not to fall down the mountain passing by so many people. A lot of tourists go up dressed in the same warm coats we wore in the monastery last night. True, it's quite cold and foggy, there's even snow on the path. Nevertheless we are climbing in our T-shirts and still sweat like hell. People bluntly stare at us in amazement, making us feel like walking tourist attractions. BUDDHA'S AUREOLE Little later we reach the Jinding Monastery on the Golden Top, the final destination for most pilgrims. This is however not the real top of the mountain. The actual summit is the Ten Thousand Buddha's Top at 3.099 meters, another 22 meters higher and a one hour walk from the Golden Top, but for some reason the path towards this top is barricaded. Maybe somebody has fallen down recently or a landslide broke away e section of the path, you never can tell. One hundred meters below we had finally climbed out of the mist. We are standing above the clouds now. The Golden Top Temple (the name is well chosen) takes a bath in warm sunlight. Some time ago the temple has been rebuilt after a fire destroyed the old one completely. Next to this traditional holy place is another device meant to contact higher spirits. Parabolic antenna's and a transmitting station of the Chinese Telecom as well as some measuring devices of the meteorological institute prove that the twentieth century has also reached the top of Emei Shan. Enjoying the sunbath we overlook the wide field of clouds. Our perspired clothes are steaming, creating new mist on the spot. The monotone humming and singing of praying monks inside the monastery is drifting through the air. Along the rim of the precipice tourists gather for pictures to be taken. On days like this sometimes a special phenomena can be perceived, named Buddha's Aureole. By means of the moist air, around shadows that are falling on the blanket of clouds around the mountain, the light is broken in such a way that a rainbow seems to stick to the shadow's outlines. In the early days devote monks sometimes used to interpret this aureole around their own shadow as a call from above and in ecstasy they threw themselves down from what is known now as the Cliff of Self-Sacrifice. In order to avoid too many suicides a low fence is put along the ridge. The tourists nervously clamp on to this railing while the photo's are made. Maybe the sun is too high in the air still, anyway Buddha prepares no rainbow-sign for us. He shouldn't, we fulfilled the whole pilgrimage, didn't we? No reason to jump, our time hasn't come yet. This however implies we have to walk down the whole stretch back to Baoguo. So be it. We decide not to wait for Buddha to change his mind. COPYRIGHT : COOS DAM |