Shaolin
Temple. Those two words may conjure up images of Zen-like monks living a
reclusive life in the mountains, imitating the movements of animals in
the pursuit of enlightenment. Or perhaps you picture those monks doing
somersaults, landing to break metal bars over their heads while spears
are stuck into their throats. The cinema and savvy publicity by the
current abbot have a lot to answer for.
I
am visiting Henan province’s Dengfeng county, home to the temple, to
track down styles of kung fu that have been practised in the area since
the late Ming, early Qing dynasties.
Television viewers have seen
Dengfeng town, its streets teeming with kung fu kids jogging up and down
in tracksuits before disappearing into their schools to practise
routines. In the flesh, the scale of these institutions is overwhelming.
But I am not here to visit these large modern schools.
Shaolin
kung fu is misunderstood. TV shows would have us believe a monk named
Bodhidharma, from India, taught yogic type exercises to the Buddhist
monks to relieve aches and pains brought on by long periods of
meditation. It was this, they say, that inspired the monks to create
styles of kung fu based on the movements of animals.
The
truth, though, is more prosaic. The Shaolin Temple lies in a mountain
pass not far from the ancient capital of Luoyang. War, banditry and
rebellion have long ravaged the area. The temple was often caught in the
middle and so kept its own militia. Over hundreds of years, the
fighters absorbed various forms of martial arts from the surrounding
areas, the temple becoming a hub for the exchange of ideas and the
development of kung fu.
Kung fu students train in Dengfeng.
I
base myself at the small school of Hu Zhengsheng, in a village between
the Shaolin Temple and Dengfeng town. Master Hu’s school focuses on
Xinyiba, the so-called internal art of Shaolin, which takes a
minimalist attitude to training: a few core movements used to develop
coordination and the mind-body connection.
Hu
is one of the few teachers still in contact with the old masters out
in the villages. Down to earth, tall and slim, he smiles often and
doesn’t fit the stereotypical kung fu master mould.
He enjoys having
his foreign students hang out and drink tea in his office; a respite, he
says, from the stress of dealing with officials and the bureaucracy
involved in running a business such as his. Hu sits on the floor and
stretches his legs while telling us about his own shifus, principles and theory of the art. He swings around rusty antique weapons as he talks.
My
search for the old Shaolin methods leads me first to 90-year-old Mao
Yonghan, who, I’ve been told, was a monk in pre-revolution times. Hu
phones ahead to tell Mao I am going to visit and, along with one of Hu’s
students, I take a taxi to the address I have been given.
The
small block of flats in the middle of Dengfeng town is old and run
down. Next to it is wasteland littered with bricks, broken glass and
rubble that residents have optimistically turned into an allotment. A
man waiting by the road tells us he is Mao’s son and leads us into a
concrete room on the ground floor of the residential block. Other than a
small shrine and photos of people in kung fu poses on the wall, the
damp, musty room is empty. Mao enters, dressed in full monk regalia, to
greet us.
The
story goes that in the 1930s, his parents sold him to the temple in
exchange for corn and then went off to be beggars. He was raised by the
Shaolin monks and trained as a wuseng
(warrior monk). When he reached adulthood, he left monastic life to
marry and start a family, but continued his martial arts. He began
teaching only later.
Our
meeting feels strained. The son sits us down for tea but will not let
us converse with his father.We leave confused, and without having found
out much about Mao’s fighting style. Fortunately, other masters live in
the area.
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