Hollow Valley Orchid: A Visit to Contemporary Chinese Hermits (Part 3)
Stephen stopped to take a panoramic shot of the mountain, while I climbed the final slope leading to the pagoda. I walked clockwise around the small brick pagoda three times, then respectfully saluted the master— he compiled the first chronological history of Buddhist figures in China. Afterward, I sat down with my back against the front of the pagoda. Before me lay endless rolling hills, peaks shrouded in white clouds, and turquoise streams. It looked like the perfect place for seclusion. But even with binoculars, I could not find any caves, huts, paths, or cooking smoke.
I was disappointed, yet simultaneously exhilarated by finally being in the mountains. I slid back down to where Stephen was resting. Our guide suggested taking a path behind the mountain to descend, which would be easier. This suited us perfectly, so we descended from behind the mountain.
About 10 minutes later, the path rounded the mud wall of an old temple. We could hear sounds inside, and the guide knocked on the door. The door opened, and five young monks led us through the courtyard into a room containing a table and five stools. We sat down, and they poured us two cups of hot water, adding something to it that resembled sweet orange crystal in color and taste.
This ancient way of hosting guests invigorated me, and I brought up the indispensable question to the host: "Are there any hermits in these mountains?"
One monk replied, "Of course. Which hermits would you like to know about?" For the next hour, we drank cup after cup of hot orange juice, listening to a long list: some had just spent a winter in the mountains, while others had not come down for 40 years. We had discovered a paradise for hermits. Before leaving, I asked one of the monks for the name of these mountains. He said, "This is Zhongnan Mountain. This is where true ascetics come to practice."
In 1959, writer Wright concluded his book "Buddhism in Chinese History" with this view: "I believe that what we are seeing is the last ray of light for Buddhism as an organized religion in China." At the time, almost no one would have disagreed with this view. In the years that followed, Buddhism seemed to have been cleared from the minds and hearts of Chinese people. Temples and Taoist monasteries that were not burned or looted were turned into schools and factories, and the surviving few temples were used to house new temple work groups. Most people who had lived in temples were forced to return to secular life. Over the past 30 years, observers both inside and outside China have declared this movement a huge success, thoroughly clearing the people's spiritual opium and superstition. Most observers have regarded Buddhism as a dead religion. Whenever I discuss this topic with John Blofield—who translated the sayings of Huineng and Huihai, two books that have guided my practice for many years—he sighs deeply and suggests we talk about something else.
When I began considering a visit to mainland China to see the current state of Buddhism with my own eyes, I concluded: if Buddhism still exists in China or anywhere else, it relies more on bhikkhus and bhikkhunīs living in huts or caves than on those living in temples. Looking back at the 2,500-year history of Buddhism, I have not found any master who did not attain enlightenment after a period of hermitage. When I finally decided to visit mainland China to see if Buddhism still existed, I resolved to focus on the hermit tradition rather than the monastic tradition.
I was not optimistic at the time. Two weeks before departure, Ma Yingzhou, the administrative secretary of Taiwan's "Mainland Affairs Council," told me that the Communists had long since eradicated all hermits and true ascetics on the mainland. Who was I to argue? A month later, sitting in that small mud-brick temple with five young monks, looking out at the endless blue Zhongnan Mountains, drinking hot orange juice, and recording the addresses of hermits, I could only smile.
The next day, Stephen and I left the Xi'an area to continue our odyssey across mainland China. We climbed other mountains and talked with other hermits. Most of them were Buddhists, but there were also many Taoists; most were monks and Taoist priests, but there were also many nuns and Taoist nuns; most were elderly, but there were also many young people. They were all very poor, but their smiles made us feel that we had met the happiest and wisest people in China.
Among the mountains we investigated, there was one called Taimu Mountain, located in the northwest corner of Fujian Province. On the way, we met a lay Buddhist who led us to a cave where an 85-year-old monk had lived for 50 years. During our conversation, the old monk asked me who the "Chairman Mao" I kept mentioning was. He said he moved into this cave in 1939. At that time, the mountain god appeared in his dream and asked him to be the protector of the mountain. From then until now, he has never come down the mountain. Disciples and local villagers brought him the few items he needed: flour, cooking oil, salt, and a new blanket or set of clothes every five years or so. His practice method was reciting the name of Amitabha Buddha. "Amitabha" means "Immeasurable Light Buddha" and "Immeasurable Life Buddha." After climbing so many mountains and meeting so many hermits, we finally slowly understood the meaning of "Immeasurable."
On the way down the mountain, we stopped to visit two hermits practicing in nearby caves. They had also lived there for decades. They gave us two kilograms of "Oriental Beauty" tea as a farewell gift—produced from their own small tea garden. It was a tea variety I had loved in the past and still love today. No foreigners had ever come to their mountain, so they wanted to give us something special as a souvenir.
We continued down the mountain path to a village at the foot of the mountain.
We boarded a bus, which broke down halfway. So we switched to another bus and finally arrived in Fuzhou.
After checking into the hotel, we took a shower, washed our clothes, and went out for a stroll as usual to find ice-cold beer.
The next day, Stephen and I took a bus to the port city of Xiamen, then caught the next boat back to Hong Kong. A few days later, we returned to Taiwan and relaxed. But we were also preparing: to go back for a longer trip to visit hermits all over China. However, those who had originally intended to sponsor us had disappeared, and suddenly we were on our own. We considered abandoning the plan or waiting until conditions improved. But what we had found was unforgettable, and we could not wait until conditions were suitable or met our wishes to go back to the mainland. We were undecided and flipped a coin twice—both times it came up heads. So, in early August, six weeks later, we went back. Obviously, we had to forget the plan to visit hermits all over China and limit our actions to what our finances could bear. After weighing various possibilities, we chose the paradise of hermits.