A Well-travelled Daoist

 

The temple in the Jade Emperor's Park in Tonghua, with the character for 'dao' on the door. 

 Cultural relics were scarce in Tonghua ; to visit the ancient sites I'd dreamed of in the course of my
studies, I was forced to take overnight trains to the cities of the Manchurian hinterland.

By happy chance, I came across an exception  in  a local park, which was called 'The Jade Emperor's Garden',  located on sloping ground overlooking the river. 

This was where local girl and our self-appointed guide,  Helen, did her morning exercises when she wasn't at university in Changchun. Her aim was to show us a small zoo, which we were quick to leave for reasons I'll relate in a future extract.

Helen, however, was alarmed when we spotted smoke rising from a Daoist temple, half hidden by trees on the upper slopes of the park. We were able to enter and walk around in exchange for a small donation to one of the monks. The temple building, home to several old men,  housed giant images of frightful gods, with blue faces and long fangs, brandishing huge weapons. Various altars and highly decorated urns were on display in the grounds. Helen was anxious for us to leave, disturbed by our interest in these 'superstitious' remnants of China's pre-revolution past.

 

 

'As we made out way back across the lower courtyard, where potatoes and cabbages were laid out on sacks covering the ground, we noticed a tall, skeletal figure, standing in a shady doorway towards the back of the yard. He beckoned to us by raising his hand, palm facing inwards, and curling the fingers slowly towards himself.  His black Russian-style tunic was gathered at the waist by a cord which reached half way down his thighs, clad in close-fitting trousers in the same material, and knee-high grey gaiters His watery eyes, gaunt face and wispy beard, gave him an other-worldly air, but he was not unfriendly. His strange high-pitched voice fell almost to a whisper as he invited us in Chinese to follow him. Helen would not move, but Katharine and I  crossed the cobbles towards his stone-floored cell.

The room was windowless, but in the light from the doorway it was bare, except for a low tiled stove with  a built-in wok near the door, and towards the back, a bed and a desk. A small battered bookshelf flanking the desk held a few volumes. The old man  told us he was just back from a lecture tour of America and, opening a desk drawer, proudly showed us a passport with a visa. I noticed he was born in 1934, which made him much younger than I’d thought at first.  His passport photo resembled portraits  I’d seen on ancestral altars in Chinese homes, like caricatures which  seemed to have been painted when the subjects were at their last gasp.

Katherine, whose Mandarin was better than mine, began to ask him about his trip to America, and he said he had given talks on Daoism to various groups he’d been invited to address It was hard to imagine this strange old man, with his deliberate mannerisms, and quavering voice, striding along New York sidewalks or riding the streetcars in San Francisco. I wonder how much of the peaceful atmosphere of this hillside temple he had carried with him across the Atlantic. It also struck me as ironic that at a time when American youths were covertly seeking converts to Christianity among the Chinese, this ancient Daoist had, so to speak, jumped over the wall in the opposite direction.

Helen smiled again when, finally, we left the old man to his prayers and reminiscences. She led us into the playground part of the park, where we could throw wire hoops over pottery figurines, bars of soap and cigarette packets placed on the ground, or shoot pellets at balloons pinned to a board. We were happy enough to be amused, although we soon attracted groups wishing to be entertained by ‘waiguoren’ taking  part in Chinese pastimes.'