Empty Valley, Hidden Orchid: A Visit to Contemporary Chinese Hermits (Part 2)
In the spring of 1989, I decided to join this flow of people, not to visit relatives, but to seek out hermits. When a kind sponsor was willing to cover the expenses for this exploratory trip, I called Stephen Johnson in the United States. Two years earlier, he had expressed his willingness to accompany me as a photographer if such a trip could materialize. He had not changed his mind, so we agreed to meet in Hong Kong two weeks later. I dug out my old Forest Service backpack and had new straps nailed onto it. Meanwhile, I began to study maps carefully, especially those indicating population density. I didn't know where to look for hermits, but I guessed that if any hermits still existed, they would certainly be in the mountains. But which mountains? Even if we happened to find the right mountain, how could we find the correct path, let alone the hermit's hut? And would they welcome visitors, especially two foreigners wielding tape recorders and cameras? Furthermore, would the authorities try to stop us? A host of questions. No answers.
In ancient China, the rise and fall of the hermit community was closely related to the "changes in the wind" from the capital. I thought that before setting off into the mountains, we could also try the wind direction. After meeting in Hong Kong, Stephen and I flew to Beijing. We arrived on the last day of April, and a German friend in Beijing offered to let us share his accommodation and dining facilities in the Summer Palace on the outskirts of the city, which we gladly accepted.
Through new forms of foreign trade, China maintained a momentum of continuous development, and it had begun to rent some of its former royal gardens to foreigners whose companies could afford the cost. Ironically, my friend happened to live in the very apartment where Jiang Qing had once resided.
The next day, we visited Guangji Temple. Guangji Temple is the headquarters of the Buddhist Association of China, so I assumed this might be a good place to start our investigation. I asked Zhou Shaoliang, the Vice President of the Buddhist Association, if he knew where we could find some hermits. Before he had time to answer, Jinghui, the abbot of Guangji Temple, said that he had heard there were hermits in the Zhongnan Mountains near Xi'an.
I was not familiar with the Xi'an area and was eager to learn more, but just then Zhou Shaoliang spoke. He said that there were no longer any hermits in China, and that roaming in Zhongnan Mountain or other mountains was not only useless but also dangerous. Instead, he suggested we visit several Zen meditation centers that were becoming active again in China. He was very patient and wrote down the addresses of four such temples. I thanked him for his help, and we said our goodbyes. On the way out, I asked the abbot for information. That faint smile of his, I still remember to this day.
Two days later, Stephen and I returned after visiting the Great Wall north of the city. Our train was to leave for Datong, an ancient Buddhist center northwest of Beijing, in four hours. It was May 4th, the 70th anniversary of the first student movement in modern China. The streets were crowded with protesters, and our taxi could not get within a mile of the railway station. We had no choice but to get off, put on our backpacks, and start pushing our way along East Chang'an Avenue. The weather was clear that day. We could hear the chirping of birds and the ringing of bicycle bells. Everyone was smiling. We were intoxicated.
The next morning, we woke up painfully in Datong. Datong is one of the most dull and boring cities, with huge Buddha statues carved into the mountainsides outside the city 1,500 years ago. The only impression I have left of these statues is how lucky they are that someone had such foresight to plant many lilac trees near the caves. The lilacs were in bloom, and there were gaps at the roots that we could crawl under.
The next day, we ventured into the countryside for the first time to visit Mount Heng. Mount Heng is the northernmost of the Five Great Mountains of China and the home of ancient hermits. Its scenery was indeed beautiful, but we found no signs of hermits living anywhere.
The next day, we set off south to Mount Wutai. Mount Wutai is the ancient dojo of Manjushri Bodhisattva, the Bodhisattva of Great Wisdom, and is also the northernmost of the four sacred mountains chosen by Chinese Buddhists. Located in the midst of a vast wilderness, we thought there might be hermits living there.
But the reality was not so. There were hardly any trees in sight. I inferred: without forests, there are no dead branches; without dead branches, there is no firewood; without firewood, there is no tea; without tea, there is no Zen; without Zen, there are no hermits. Although the abbots of the large temples on Mount Wutai might disagree with my reasoning, they agreed with my conclusion. Most of them were friends of Elder Shouye, who had once been the abbot of the largest temple on the mountain and was the witness master for my first refuge in the Three Jewels of Buddhism in New York. They assured me one after another that all monks and nuns now live in temples. As far as they knew, there were no hermits on Mount Wutai or any other mountain in China.
When visiting the last temple, I stopped an old monk who was helping to repair a temple building destroyed by the Red Guards during the "Cultural Revolution." When I repeated my old question to him, he said: "Of course, there are still hermits in China." My heart stopped beating. Then he said, "But when you meet them, you won't recognize them; unless they are willing to let you find them, you won't find them." Saying this, he laughed heartily and went back to work. I didn't know what to say. That night, I didn't sleep until very late, constantly wondering how we could find those who didn't want to be found; and why I hadn't thought of this earlier.
The next day was Manjushri's birthday. I climbed the thousand stone steps to his sanctuary to pay my respects and ask for his blessings during our investigation. Clearly, we needed help at this moment. Before the incense burned out, we boarded a bus and headed south. My thoughts turned again to what the old monk had said—the hermits did not want to be discovered. What exactly were we doing in China? Obviously, at this moment we had to abandon logic. We had a mission.
However, this mission was interrupted by tourism. Stephen and I had fully enjoyed the scenery of Xi'an, feeling satisfied—in the embrace of Xi'an, eleven dynasties had established their capitals. We spent several days satisfying our historical curiosity, and then went to visit the last place: Caotang Temple. 1,600 years ago, Kumarajiva had stayed at this temple, during which time he translated a large number of Buddhist scriptures with superb quality and beautiful language. I could not miss the opportunity to pay respects to this patriarch, and since I myself had been a traveler, I paid my respects to him in the manner of a traveler.
After driving for two hours on a muddy, rutted road southwest of Xi'an, we arrived outside the long red walls of Caotang Temple. These red walls were surrounded by wheat fields and seemed to have been recently restored. Apart from the temple's fame in ancient times, it hardly seemed worth the effort to get here. But as soon as we entered the temple, I was surprised by the large number of worshippers. The main hall was so crowded that I could hardly find a gap to ask questions in front of the statues of Kumarajiva and Shakyamuni. Just as I was about to leave, an old monk walked over from outside the crowd and nodded to me—it turned out he was the abbot of Caotang Temple, and the scene that attracted so many believers was because today was the Buddha's birthday. How could I have forgotten?!
After leading us around the temple courtyard, the abbot took us to his abbot's room. I told him we were looking for hermits. At this moment, several of his disciples also rushed into the room. He looked at them, then at me, and finally said, "I know nothing about hermits. But since you have come from afar, why not pay respects to the pagoda on the mountain you passed before turning onto the main road? There are the relics of Daoxuan in that pagoda; he must know about the hermits of his time." The abbot saw us off at the gate, and we said our goodbyes.
We returned to the asphalt road, and a few minutes later, the car stopped at the foot of the mountain mentioned by the abbot. At first, we tried several paths and got them wrong, then we found an old man who was willing to guide us. On the way, Stephen and I began to doubt whether the mountain had a peak. The mountain paths were particularly slippery due to recent rain, and we fell several times. An hour later, we finally climbed to the ridge.