“Chengdu,” says the loudspeaker – we have taken the overnight train – “is the home of two of China’s greatest poets, Du Fu and Lu You.” Awakened by the strains of martial music, we have been regaled with a spirited folk medley, a melancholy love song, a saccharine recital of cultural attractions and local statistics. “It is hoped,” says the nasal, high-pitched voice, “that you have had a pleasant journey and will join the staff on your next visit to Chengdu.”
We have exited into the blue elevation of Sichuan’s capital city, greeted by a fresh breeze with but a soupcon of pollution. The weather is downright cool for late August, the horizon banded in mackerel clouds. We hail a cab – the mother, companion and author – and sail forth into broad rectilinear avenues. The 8:00 am traffic is thick with bicyclists, their faces frank if not open, eager but uncertain. A man pedals past on a three-wheeled pedicab, its bed filled with houseplants and tall bamboo.
As we skirt the city proper on our way to the suburbs, we notice signs of commercial activity, light industry, residential construction, as though the bustling modern ambiance were a little forgetful of Chengdu’s ancient renown. On a billboard high above a traffic circle two mini-vans leap from the barrel of a cannon. Sichuan’s capital is a leader of the economic revolution.
Before long we have reached our destination, a “film factory,” whose high red-brick wall divides it from adjacent dormitory. Having paid an outrageous fare, we set out in search of our hosts, a director and her scriptwriter husband. Sunlight filters down through an atmosphere dimmed by the smoke from a tall red stack. Below: the sounds of kitchen sink, rusty bicycle sprocket, a woman coughing. We puzzle our way through uniformly grey, unmarked blocks of flats to an entryway crowded with bikes.
Having breakfasted at home with director and writer, we are entering the grounds of the famous Thatched Pavilion. At the end of a shady allée companion recites from a black stone tablet. “In 759,” read its carved, gilded characters, “Du Fu took up residence here.” To either side a bamboo forest provides an almost total shade. “During the four years that he lived in the capital, he composed one hundred and forty poems.” Ahead of us a long, silent algae-covered pond surrounds a Tang structure. “The Thatched Pavilion,” the inscription concludes, “has been frequently rebuilt.”
We have all taken seats at a stone table, before us a reconstructed portico where Du Fu, the writer imagines, sat to compose two of his famous poems. His remarks unsolicited, he launches forth on the subject of Chinese poetry, enlivening his discourse by quoting examples. As he proceeds from its topoi to its sentiments, from examples to their delectation, the pitch of his voice rises. Wife and mother take up their own conversation. Before long writer has returned to the subject of himself, of his own topics, of his wife and the joys of collaborating with her. His own work, it would seem, consists of adapting classical stories for a television audience. “I fear,” he laments, ”that I am nothing more than a contemporary ancient – a laughable thing.” His wife’s work, so he asseverates, “is more pertinent to contemporary culture, for she was trained in social studies.” As he continues to talk, we arise and cross a courtyard.
We have entered the Great Hall and are facing a bronze statue of the poet. Framed in a brace of reticulated wood, its glass case reflects present company. For author’s benefit writer reads aloud inscriptions on either side of Du Fu, from stone slabs in commemoration of Lu You and a second Sung poet. Overarching the Tang exhibit rises the Ming hall with its Qing ornamentation.
We turn and head on, through an assembled group of Chinese tourists, who block the way as they stand to be photographed. Overhead the gnarled branches of pines intertwine, casting a dappled shade on the scene below. Interspersed among the tall conifers arise slender trunks of plum trees, rooted in stone planters. At last we reach the Pavilion itself, inadvertently interrupting two Japanese tourists occupied with their camera. “The Thatched Pavilion is a reconstruction,” reads the inscription here. The two Japanese sisters are dressed in identical skirts and identical shoes. “Its original position is not known.” They trade positions, photographed sister now photographing her sister.
We enter the Du Fu Memorial Hall and examine the poet’s painted ceramic image, again encased in glass. Writer recounts Li Po’s relationship with Du Fu, author taking a step backwards to hint that these anecdotes are already known to him. Writer persists. “Li Po,” he proclaims, “is my favorite poet.” Author remains silent, gazing at the salmon shirt and long white skirt of the younger master.
We exit into the courtyard, where a ping pong table has been formed by drawing two different tables together. Thus its center has twice as many legs as its extremities. We continue on through a room of modern paintings. Traditional music issues from a television monitor, which is playing a Du Fu video. Our guide begins to lecture on the elementary aspects of Chinese painting, as author surveys the crude, uninspired works on display before him. Out into the courtyard again, we gather up mother and wife, pass beneath an arcade, over a bridge, through a stone archway and on into the next building. From its porch we turn about to gaze backwards through the arches under which we have passed. By a small pond sit fishermen sunning themselves on rocks. The avenue is bordered with stone tree-stumps as well as living bamboo.
We enter a courtyard named for a famous phrase of Du Fu’s. The two Chinese characters for “Thatched Pavilion” have been mounted on a wall; closer inspection reveals that their porcelain fragments create a tessera landscape. We approach an adjacent temple but find it transformed into a curiosity shop specializing in bamboo culture. Examples of bamboo weaving are displayed on its walls. Two artisans – scissors, knives and as-yet-unwoven bamboo strips atop their narrow benches – work to produce more examples. Behind the counter, two service girls: one dozing over a book; the other, in a bright yellow shirt with lotus designs, asleep, her head resting against the wall. Gathering up our entourage, we cross the courtyard to another tourist shop, filled with yet more spectacular Sichuanese curiosities: rare stones in strange shapes, colored dragons on silk, a mountain lion descending a cliff.
Our afternoon outing features a trip to the banks of the Jinjiang, which cuts across the city’s suburbs. From the entrance to a park stretching along one bank we stop to observe the opposite bank, smoky with red dust. Laurels of rusty pink effluvium float against an azure backdrop. Beneath them, the traffic, mostly of bicycles and pedestrians, passes in both directions amid frequent honkings of large turquoise truck, white van, military vehicle, red taxi.
We enter the park, strolling down an archway of tall bamboo to a high-based pavilion. Other buildings in ancient styles are scattered throughout the grounds, connected by winding pathways. Lovers have etched their initials on every tree trunk, on every bench, on every railing. A young woman photographs a young man dressed in his Sunday best, she in blue rayon pants, black belt, a white blouse with plackets as wide as her shoulders. The sun beginning to set, a picks up. In the failing light a girl in a tee shirt reading “Under the Sea” photographs her nineteen-year-old friend.
*
Chengdu, second day, 7:00 am, home of director and writer. A young girl, having served the guests their breakfast, sets about to do their laundry. By mainland standards this seven-room apartment is sumptuous. Author takes a seat in living room to survey other signs of affluence: wide-screen TV with VCR; three-foot stereo speakers; an orange telephone. On a table, last night’s hospitable clutter: pear-peelings, half cups of tea. The busy phone is off its hook.
We have spent the night nearby, in the film factory’s guest house, where conditions are just short of filthy (this morning, no running water). Yet our stay in Chengdu has been pleasant withal. Yesterday evening after leaving the park we strolled the riverbank and toured the central city, a provincial capital along the lines of Denver, Albuquerque, Little Rock – if a good deal more primitive. Today we will meet a professor from the university, who will join us for a visit to sights outside Chengdu.
At 7:30 a chauffeur-driven Toyota Rover arrives. All five tourists pile in, and we are off –into a dusty, foggy semi-urban ambiance. We sway back and forth across the road, threatening bicycle traffic on either side. Abruptly we enter a rural lane and leave the city behind. We have shed 30 or 40 years. Primitive dwellings line the way. As two young girls dance along its shoulder, two old men stand talking in the middle of the road. We turn off into a narrow drive, where a yellow-tiled high-rise tower looms before us, its upper reaches shrouded in cloud. Welcomed in by professor and family, we sit for a moment on the sofa, peering through a glass partition into a tidy study, its walls lined with editions of the classical Chinese novel. The professor’s wife, who is off to work, invites us for dinner on our return. His twelve-year-old son, a “favorite young friend” of the writer, will accompany us on today’s outing.
Back in our vehicle, the women seated ahead of us, the writer and son behind, we await conversation. The professor begins by engaging author’s companion, describing his professional affiliations – in Taiwan, Japan, America. We exit into the lane, from lane into main road, our chauffeur honking repeatedly. The professor raises the question of scholarship in his field, comparing unfavorably the views of the Taiwanese with those of his mainland colleagues. Oleander bushes the size of small trees appear alongside the road. Proudly he reports on a recent conference in Tokyo.
Having donned their blue-flowered tourist hats, director and writer, from front and back, try to divert him. Author views scene out window, a lush terrain of misty fields in yellow and green. Professor elicits from writer a ritual rundown on author’s credentials, as the mother competes to contribute more details. Snubbed at first, she patiently makes her points. The professor, holding on to the strap overhead, combs through his hair with his other hand, as he struggles to negotiate the double conversation.
Turning to author, he enters his first riposte. “Western culture,” he opines, “is a culture of the mind.” Author nods politely. “Chinese culture is a culture of the mouth.” Professor seeks the mother’s approval. When she will not fully concur, he shifts to economic matters, seeking an even broader consensus. We pass a white-shirted bicyclist hitching a ride from a truck. “Culture,” he asserts, “cannot be separated from economics.” Author agrees.
We have reached an intersection. Edging our way out into traffic, we enter a highway, picking up speed as we go. Gradually the professor begins to grasp the purpose of author’s activity: a book about the Mainland. Professor is doubtful of author’s capacity to deal with China. Author assures him the book is but a foreigner’s impressions. The fields begin to clear. Turning to author’s companion, professor chooses new subject of discourse: the modern Chinese novel. We are passing through a village of some consequence. Professor inquires about Taiwanese access to mainland writers. Policemen, having motioned several motorcyclists to the curb, are examining their papers.
Half an hour out of Chengdu, commercial traffic has given way to agricultural. Bicycles bulge with wicker baskets, single peddlers laboring under loads of vegetables, three-wheeled bicycles drawing Naugahyde couches. Farmers’ houses, tiled in yellow and red, appear at intervals. Conversation turned to companion’s plans, professor offers his advice. Behind us, the twelve-year-old son has begun to doze.
At last we begin our approach to the town that lies at the base of the mountain. “We have arrived,” the professor announces. Ahead of us are three large trucks, the last with a galvanized tanker. The traffic begins to slow. It appears that we have a good way to go. As we pass a large bronze statue representing historical figures, the professor explains their significance. Further discussion leads to the cultural history of the period. Between curb and warehouse sits a basin of coal, sacks of rice stacked beside it. Author asks whether or not professor considers there to be an American culture. “There is,” he says emphatically, “but it is very young.” He compares it with the twelve-year-old son seated behind us. We pass by a shop selling video tapes. Professor asks author if he knows where his family has come from in Europe.
We cross a bridge over the Minjiang. Before long we enter a small city. Here we begin a steeper rise, up its central avenue, toward the mountain. The professor offers a thumb-nail sketch of Sichuan, its geography, its propensity for raising leaders who leave for other parts. ”The province,” he says, “has long been receptive to foreigners and foreign ideas.” As he is speaking, we arrive at a crowded parking lot, where blue-clad workers sit at rest, some poking at pebbles with T-shaped walking sticks. Nearby a boy fills their baskets with coal, for they too will soon be climbing the mountain.
Having silently crossed a tiny lake by boat, we begin our ascent of the mountain on foot, ignoring the solicitations of litter-bearers. A coolie descends, sweating profusely, two enormous rocks packed on his back. Along with a jar of tea the professor has brought a package of cookies, whose wrapper he now discards along the gorgeous pathway. Pushing ahead, he and the writer set a pace that soon leaves the female party behind. Author reluctantly follows them.
Having mounted a ridge, we pause to listen as distant firecrackers explode, then descend into a valley, cross an arched bridge and climb more steps to reach a pavilion. Pausing a moment, we continue downward. The twelve-year-old son, having run on ahead, has discovered a mossy cleft. By the time we catch up he has gathered a handful of botanical specimens, which he now presents to his attentive older friend for inspection.
As we continue to climb, the distance between the four travelers gradually lengthens. The ladies have long since dropped from sight. The day is warm, though a breeze begins to cool us. The writer takes out a red fan to augment it. The pathway has opened out to a mountain vista. Author pauses to gaze over crepe myrtle hedge down into cornfield below. Across the way stands a tall brick farmhouse, its wall contoured by the mountain slope, atop its roof kernels of corn spread to dry. Below, in the valley that we have risen from, a TV antenna nestles among tall pines. Slowly a cloud traverses the mountain interval; the cliff face opposite fades from view.
Having lost from sight his fellow travelers, author hastens to rejoin them. They have met to rest on a high plateau. The tea jar is opened and shared, three cigarettes lit. Before long we have all begun another descent, preparatory to climbing higher. Mounting carved steps in the rock, we cross a wooden bridge teetering above a creek bed filled with pebbles. Higher and higher we climb. The mountaintop temple nearly in sight, we encounter tribesmen by the side of the path selling local tea from open burlap bags.
As we pass beneath an arch reading “Large Cave Heaven,” we enter the precinct of Shangqing Gong Temple, a famed Taoist retreat. On our right, above a high wall painted a rusty maroon, the multi-story wooden buildings of the complex begin to appear, their eaves peaked against towering trees. We rise and then fall, rising again to approach the temple proper. At last we climb to a plaza that gently slopes upward to the temple entrance. “Heaven Master Cave,” proclaim the three characters over its plinth.
Passing behind the temple itself, we enter a pavilion, where, at a counter, dressed in an ancient garment, sits a mountain man, his hair coifed and topped with a black hat. Out of the darkened space we emerge onto a terrace. From our vantage midway up the slender trunks of tall conifers, we gaze out onto a dappled scene, the illuminated leaves of deciduous trees gently fluttering. About a large table we take our seats for tea. Conversation turns to China, India, Japan. An urchin arrives with steaming pot to fill our cups. To Chengdu, Chongqing, America. Capping them, we wait for the tea to steep. To Confucius, Mohammed, Jesus. Having pronounced on all these subjects, professor offers author instruction in how to drink tea.
After an hour’s interval the female party has still not materialized. The decision is made to lunch without them. Through the restaurant’s open door author views the temple, its front wall inscribed with green and yellow characters. Its pillars rise from bases sculpted in the form of lions. Flames leap from a lotus-supported altar. Incense sticks in hand, Chinese pilgrims congregate before it. The food arrives, noodles and bean curd drink. A gong sounds. Suffused in light, the small dining room is at once quiet and lively. At separate tables sit two brilliantly costumed waitresses eating bowls of noodles. At two other tables single tourists dine, one in a bright red shift, one in yellow pants. Writer-host orders bowls of soft peppery tofu, its fire quenched by equally generous bowls of sweet wine. With insistent hospitality he forces upon us additional bowls of tofu, pours additional bowls of wine. Meal finished, our waitress determines the bill by counting the number of bowls. As professor verifies her total, she stands aside, picking her teeth with her finger.
Female party still not arrived, we exit into courtyard and climb the temple steps. A blue-clad priestess motions us on to a higher platform. Circulating behind the temple, we reach the level of its rooftop, then mount even higher, past “the emperor’s chamber,” to a stage where bells are sounding. Turning a corner, we reach a porch, within which, author is told, sits China’s oldest man, the Taoist master.
Having descended the mountain, we must wait two hours before our companions rejoin us. They had taken another route and waited for us at the temple. Limply we re-board our vehicle for one last venture ― To the Dujiangyan irrigation project, site of a great act of engineering In the third century B.C., when Li Bing divided the river’s waters.
From a series of halls in honor of him, we descend to the banks of the rivers to stand above their rushing waters. Here we cross the double flood on a wood-planked bridge, swaying with every step. Upstream, logs are jammed, the waters a greenish-grey. Overhead, a cloudy sky; in the distance, an interfolded, enveloping range. From the bridge we look back on a grey, a grey-green, a greenish mountain.
Section 5: From Chengdu to Kunming