Song of the Silk Road (6 page)
“Amazing, isn’t it? The whole temple built at the precipice of Mingsha Mountain.” The Mount of Singing Sand.
Before I could respond, she pointed upward to a cave. “You think you can make it up there?”
“I’ll try.”
“Don’t worry, it looks steep, but the climb is actually not that hard.”
After about fifteen minutes, during which the relentless sun, fierce concentration, and unsettling silence took over, we finally arrived at the entrance to the cave. She led me inside an officelike area where a young man was arranging paper, pens, pencils, plastic trays, small boxes, and other paraphernalia on a wooden desk.
“Hi. How come only one guest?” the young fellow asked, giving me a suspicious once-over. “A bad day?”
Zhang hit his shoulder with her small fist, giggling. “You know very well that’s a good day. Less work and more money.”
“All right, now go do your job, we’ll talk later.”
Zhang sent him a flirtatious glance, then handed me a small flashlight and motioned me to follow her into the dim interior. “Every cave here has this narrow entrance leading to the main chamber. This is to protect the cave and its art from the sunlight.”
Walking in front of me, she directed her light to shine on depictions of flying goddesses playing musical instruments, while continuing to explain in her tourist guide’s singsong voice, “Although this cave is more than one thousand years old, it is very well preserved. See, all the colors—malachite green, ochre, lapis lazuli—all still vibrant with only minimum damage.”
Seeing the turquoise of one goddess’s robe unbelievably luminous, my finger, as if suddenly possessed by an independent will, reached to touch.
Quickly Zhang grabbed my wrist. Her move was so sudden and her grip so sharp and strong that I let out a loud
“Aiiiiya!”
“Aiiiiya!”
“Sorry,” she said, without looking as if she were, “you cannot touch. Any slight human contact will cause severe damage. Miss, if everyone is curious like you, these frescoes will be gone in no time!”
“I’m sorry,” I said, not meaning it either. Bitterness and depression always engulfed me when I could not touch what was beautiful.
But soon after we stepped inside the main room, both my bitterness and depression fizzled out like bubble water.
A huge, towering Guan Yin, the Goddess of Compassion, looked down at me with lowered eyes. Gigantic yet refined, her face exuded compassion. I followed her hands up to a small Buddha sitting on the front of her bejeweled crown. Orange-pink, maroon, and turquoise ribbons flew out from behind her brown robe, frolicking in intricately choreographed dances. The goddess looked so powerful and her energy so strong that all my own negative energy was extinguished—even my annoyance at Zhang.
Just when I was in the process of being purified by this stunning image, Zhang’s voice rose next to my ears. “This is a Tantric Guan Yin done eight hundred years ago. Named Thousand-Arms Guan Yin, she could reach out to help the many needy beings in the sea of suffering. She . . .”
I cut off her rote recitation. “Little Zhang, do you mind leaving me alone with Guan Yin for a few minutes?”
She cast a curious glance at me, as if asking why would I want to be alone when I’d paid extra for the private tour? “All right, but make sure you don’t touch anything and give me your camera. I’ll be waiting at the office.” She had barely finished when her scrawny hand reached out to snatch away my camera. Then her small feet swiftly carried her petite frame outside the cave.
With Guan Yin all to myself, I quietly admired her serene face, her flowing robe, and the glowing halo behind her back. My desire to take pictures had vanished like the morning dew. Now I did not want to disturb the goddess’s peace or remember her beauty through mere sheets of glossy paper. I stared at her, trying to burn her image into my mind, so it would never get lost but would stay with me till the end of my days.
More meditative moments passed, then a realization struck me. The circle framing the goddess’s back was not a huge halo but a disc painted with hundreds of compact arms.
The image was so powerful that I fell back a step. Or was I being pushed by the goddess’s overwhelming
qi?
qi?
Captivated by this thousand-year-old, thousand-armed woman, I slowly moved my eyes to meet hers. Besides the pair on her face, there was another on her forehead and one on each of her thousand extended palms. I felt my body floating in a trance, enjoying the delicious sensation of riding waves of her powerful yet gentle vibrations. Then something strange happened.
Guan Yin was crying.
Tears flooded from her eyes, not only those on her face but all her other eyes in unison.
My heart knocked against my ribs.
To my disbelief, something more happened.
The goddess’s innumerable eyes were moving around as if to scrutinize the room. Her thousand arms made circular movements like an octopus’s tentacles, choreographing some mystical dance in the surreal space. . . .
I pinched my own cheeks, then rubbed my eyes. “No, this can’t be real. I’m just hallucinating!”
In fact, I didn’t want to know the truth. I wanted to keep this experience in a secret chamber of my heart, safely locked away forever. Does the truth always matter?
As I hurried toward the exit, I felt the goddess’s many blinking hands reaching out toward my sweating back. . . .
I ran to the office, snatched my camera back from Zhang, dashed down the stairs to level ground, and climbed onto the first available bus back to Dunhuang.
5
Xinjiang—New Frontier
T
hat night I stayed at a hotel in Dunhuang. As I lay awake in bed, through my mind floated the image of Guan Yin with her thousand weeping eyes and waltzing arms. Had the goddess tried to tell me something? To be more compassionate—since we sentient beings are all suffering in one way or another on this polluted planet? That I should have been nicer to Alex Luce?
hat night I stayed at a hotel in Dunhuang. As I lay awake in bed, through my mind floated the image of Guan Yin with her thousand weeping eyes and waltzing arms. Had the goddess tried to tell me something? To be more compassionate—since we sentient beings are all suffering in one way or another on this polluted planet? That I should have been nicer to Alex Luce?
Apparently, my ability to “see” was still very much alive after all these years.
As a child, my acute sensitivity to vibrations from other dimensions made me “the little girl who sees things.” Most adults dismissed my “seeing” as a lonely child’s overactive imagination, but a few, mostly older Chinese, asked me to “lend my eyes” to explain mysteries, communicate with the dead, and visit an apartment before its purchase to see if it was still infested with “unclean” presences.
My ability to “see” had started when I was a child and my mother was accused of stealing a stack of cash from the church where she worked as a cleaning lady. No one could prove if she had really taken the money or if it had been stolen by someone else. I was four, an age when Chinese believe a child can see through all the contaminations of this world down to the bare truth. So, a church member who was a master of
Xuanguang Shu
, Magic of the Mysterious Light, suggested they use me to find the truth. Of course no one told me what this was all about. I was just asked to tell what I saw.
Xuanguang Shu
, Magic of the Mysterious Light, suggested they use me to find the truth. Of course no one told me what this was all about. I was just asked to tell what I saw.
So one day, surrounded by the church board members and the minister, the man performed his magic by casting a light onto the wall, then asked me if I saw anything. I told them that a bald man in a checkered shirt went inside a room, opened a drawer, took out something, and put it in his pocket. After that, the accusation against my mother was dropped.
And my reputation spread. But I hated it when a grinning adult face would thrust itself in front of me, and out of its mouth shot the inevitable, saliva-sprayed-in-all-directions question, “Honey, can I borrow your eyes for a sec?”
Once, to spite an annoying, ugly-as-death, middle-aged man, I spat back with a thick dollop of mouth water, “Yes! Now, right in front of me, I am seeing you, your debt collectors, your dead wife, your cooked dogs and cats!”
Unfortunately, at less than four feet in height, I failed to create the arc necessary for my dollop of mouth water to reach his face, so it just landed pathetically on his shoe. However, my dollop’s failed mission was offset by my curse’s successful one. The man dashed away as if he’d just been summoned by the King of Hell with a megaphone.
Seeing him flee, I laughed till tears spilled from my eyes, blurring my would-be-ten-dollar vision—the price he’d offered to pay for the use of my “eyes.”
After this incident, I kept to myself what I saw of
yin
things trespassing into the
yang
sphere. In fact, I made a deliberate effort to suppress, or ignore, my
yin
eye.
yin
things trespassing into the
yang
sphere. In fact, I made a deliberate effort to suppress, or ignore, my
yin
eye.
But now, all by myself in this remote land, I believed that my other-worldly vision, after all these years, was trying to sneak back like a discarded mistress. . . .
The following morning, I woke up at six to catch the twelve-hour train ride to Urumqi, the capital of Xinjiang—a Muslim oasis city in China’s westernmost province.
I decided to stay at the relatively expensive Welcome Guest Hotel, which cost me one hundred fifty
renminbi
a night for the cheapest room (the most expensive was five hundred), in the hope that the staff of this international hotel would provide me with information about habitable places near the Mountains of Heaven—the second destination on my Silk Road journey.
renminbi
a night for the cheapest room (the most expensive was five hundred), in the hope that the staff of this international hotel would provide me with information about habitable places near the Mountains of Heaven—the second destination on my Silk Road journey.
After a late lunch of flat bread and milk tea at the hotel’s elegant, blue-tiled, Islamic-style banquet hall, I went back to the reception desk. Scrutinizing the three receptionists—one man and two women—I finally picked the broad-faced young man and asked if he knew anything about villages near the Mountains of Heaven.
He studied me curiously. “There are a few, but why would you want to live in a village instead of at our hotel?”
“I need to be there for business.”
“What kind?”
“Hmm . . . something personal.”
That’s really none of your business!
That’s really none of your business!
Now he looked at me suspiciously. “Miss, you traveling alone?”
“Yes.”
Damn, I really shouldn’t have told him this!
Damn, I really shouldn’t have told him this!
“Then it’ll be too difficult doing this by yourself. I know most of the villages in that area. Why don’t I take you around?”
I studied his face and thought for a while. “How much does that cost?”
He scratched his big, crew-cut head. “What about five hundred
renminbi
including renting a car and gas?”
renminbi
including renting a car and gas?”
“Why so expensive?”
“Because it may take a whole day before you find the right one.”
After some bickering we settled at four hundred.
Since he worked at this international hotel, I figured he would not jeopardize his job by robbing or killing me. But it never hurt to be extra cautious. “Are you married? Any children?”
He laughed a hearty belly laugh. “Ha, my boy has just turned one year old.” Then he fished a photo from his pocket and thrust it under my eyes.
A chubby baby held by a young woman stared back at me, smiling.
“Very cute, and your wife is very pretty.” I smiled, handing the photo of the two treasures back to its owner.
Good, a family man. I should be in safe hands.
“You bet,” he said, pocketing the photo.
“All right, what about tomorrow, after you finish work?”
“OK, come back here tomorrow at five then.”
As I was about to turn to leave, a familiar voice shouted “Lily!” next to my ear.
I turned.
“Alex, what are you doing here?”
He shrugged, looking a bit amused. “Traveling, like you.”
“How come . . .”
“Lily, don’t look so shocked. This is a very popular hotel in a very popular tourist city, so there’s always a chance of running into your fellow travelers.”
Seeing that I was not able to respond, he smiled sunnily. “Can I invite you . . .”
I cut him off sharply. “Alex, don’t you see I’m busy right now?”
Broad Face and a young couple being served by another receptionist turned to look at me disapprovingly.
Embarrassed, I softened my tone. “Why don’t we meet tomorrow for breakfast here. Is eight-thirty OK?”
“Sure, see you tomorrow then,” Alex said, then cast me a deep look before he disappeared into a crowd of tourists.
I turned back to Broad Face. “Now there’s a change of plan. Can we leave here tomorrow morning early—at six?” I needed to get away before Alex woke up.
He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, of course!”
“You don’t need to work tomorrow?”
“I’ll take care of that.”
Of course, he’d rather miss a day’s work—even if he had to pay a small penalty—to make a fortune of four hundred
renminbi
.
renminbi
.
A mischievous smile blossomed on his face. “That foreigner your boyfriend?”
I was not going to answer a personal question like this, so I asked instead, “What’s your name?”
“Little Fong.”
“All right, Little Fong, remember we need to make an early start. Be here at six tomorrow morning. Don’t make me wait.”
Another belly laugh exploded in the air. “Ha, Miss, if a pretty woman can trust me to have a big, fat baby boy, why can’t you trust me to be punctual?”
My four hundred
renminbi
proved to be well spent. Little Fong, though nosy, did a good job of driving me around the Mountains of Heaven to the edge of the Taklamakan Desert, where I found a tiny village not on my map that seemed suitable. The small village was located along a dried desert river that once flowed from the Mountains of Heaven. Kucha, an ancient Buddhist kingdom that ran along the northern edge of the Taklamakan Desert, was not too far away, and I felt safer being near a city. Moreover, it was also close to a larger, two-thousand resident village with a local TV channel and telephones.
renminbi
proved to be well spent. Little Fong, though nosy, did a good job of driving me around the Mountains of Heaven to the edge of the Taklamakan Desert, where I found a tiny village not on my map that seemed suitable. The small village was located along a dried desert river that once flowed from the Mountains of Heaven. Kucha, an ancient Buddhist kingdom that ran along the northern edge of the Taklamakan Desert, was not too far away, and I felt safer being near a city. Moreover, it was also close to a larger, two-thousand resident village with a local TV channel and telephones.
Little Fong even helped me to negotiate renting a mud-brick cottage. However, what I felt most grateful for was that he took me to register in the village for a temporary resident card. Because I intended to stay for a while, I paid the owner, who would also be my nearest neighbor, two months’ rent in advance. The main reason I picked this village was that it cost almost nothing—less than my car ride from the hotel. Of course I could afford something better, but I wanted to be cautious about money just in case. The landlady was a young, stout, and round-faced Xinjiang woman named Keku. Despite our differently accented Mandarin, we actually communicated easily. She told me I would be safe because no one would come all the way here to visit, let alone to steal.
So the village must be
that
poor.
that
poor.
The tiny cottage was practically empty except for a small lamp next to a “bed” consisting of a brick platform covered with a tattered blanket. Four thin tiles placed at a small corner would be the “kitchen,” once I bought a propane burner. Water for bathing and cooking had to be brought in buckets from a communal tap.
Business
, be it major or minor, was to be conducted either in a shared makeshift hut over a pit place some distance outside the cottage or in a bucket inside the house.
Business
, be it major or minor, was to be conducted either in a shared makeshift hut over a pit place some distance outside the cottage or in a bucket inside the house.
Staring at this extremely depressing place I would now call home, my heart sank. However, it was not that it didn’t possess any redeeming features: the golden sand dunes receding to infinity; the occasional camels’ cries, remote as the callings of a lover from a past life; in the distance the peaks of the Mountains of Heaven wavering above the desert as if in a dream of paradise.
I made up my mind to turn this cottage into something less depressing, and if possible, even appealing. For an extra fifty
renminbi
, Little Fang brought me to the neighboring village market to shop. I bought cooking supplies, chopsticks, plates, cups, a tablecloth, canned food, a gas burner and heater, a blanket, two pillows, and a small wooden table with two stools.
renminbi
, Little Fang brought me to the neighboring village market to shop. I bought cooking supplies, chopsticks, plates, cups, a tablecloth, canned food, a gas burner and heater, a blanket, two pillows, and a small wooden table with two stools.
It took me a whole week to fix up the cottage. I put up curtains made from old clothes Keku gave me. Then one morning when I went outside to look for plants, I found some thorny shrubs covered with tiny silvery scales. By the road I found two abandoned tires. After dragging them home, I made them into sofas by covering them with Keku’s leftover clothes.
Keku gave me two discarded calendars from previous years. I cut off the grids and pasted the pictures on the wall. One was the Heavenly Maiden Scattering Flowers. Her sweet face and the waltzing flowers against a cloud-laden, azure sky immediately lifted my mood. The other was a Chinese garden with a pavilion and a vermillion bridge arched over a pond laced with goldfish. Keku also gave me her red headscarf, three crates, and a part-time functional boom box with five Xinjiang folk music tapes. From one of the occasional passing three-wheeled carts, I bought an assortment of candles and a small carpet. Now at night, three reddish-orange candles stood on my wooden crates, scattering yellowish light in my little home like mini desert-setting suns.
A week later, I looked around my tiny refuge and felt a surge of happiness—like the rising desert sun.
My neighbors were mostly Uyghur people who lived a very meager life with few possessions. It surprised me how quickly I was able to make friends in this small piece of exotic land. Most of the men either farmed or worked in the next village as vendors selling clothes, fabrics, plastic utensils, dried fruits, grilled lamb. The wives, besides taking care of their small children, helped raise cows and sheep and sewed hats and clothing at night to take in extra income.
At first, the village women would bring their little ones to play in front of my cottage, peer inside my house to watch my every move, then giggle and run away when I spotted them. Everyone knew about the “stranger in town.” Some cast me friendly glances, while others, especially older people, watched my every move as if I were a shadow that had just lost its body. I tried my best to keep a smile on my face wherever I went.
To please the friendly yet overcurious villagers, I decided I would give the women cheap jewelry and spices and the old people medicine oil I bought in the next village. For the children, I’d bribe them with candies and small toys so they’d run simple errands for me—taking pictures, delivering messages, and finding oddities for me like strangely shaped stones, twigs, or fossils.
Once I had finished fixing up my cottage and had time on my hands, I began to stroll around taking pictures. Local women and children adorned with colorful scarves and exotic costumes were my favorites. My other subjects included poplar and fig trees, the sheep and cows raised by the villagers, passing three-wheeled carts loaded with trinkets, and the little store that sold plastic utensils, sugar, flour, spices, dried fruits, canned food. When I tired of this I would go back to my cottage and write in my journal or reread the books I had brought with me.
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