Newsgroup: it.sport.arti-marziali
Titolo: un monaco di brooklin

http://ezine.kungfumagazine.com/ezine/article.php?article=411
The Monk From Brooklyn
An American at the Shaolin Temple
by Antonio Graceffo
SUNDAY 03/02/2003: Dengfeng Village, Shaolin Temple
 I stared out the window of the taxi and took in the sights of the rural
Chinese countryside. For hours I saw nothing but primitive houses, mud and
brick huts, and people toiling in fields. It was like the opening scene in
Monty Python and the Holly Grail: "Dennis, there is some lovely filth over
here." A horse-drawn wagon went by with three or four poorly dressed
passengers, and I suddenly realized I wasn't in Brooklyn anymore. I wasn't
even in Taiwan, my home for the last two years. I was in China, Big China,
Communist China, and it was a little scary. Spending time in Taiwan first
gave me a chance to acclimate and learn the language. No one spoke English
here at all. The shock of moving directly from New York to rural China would
have killed me. It would have been like flying from base camp to the summit
of Mount Everest. I'd be dead within seconds of landing. On the way to the
train station, the taxi driver asked me why I was in China. I told him I
wanted to study kung fu and showed him the information I had grabbed off the
web. I was planning to go to the Shaolin Wushu and Civil Institute in the
Shaolin Village, located in Dengfeng. He said that he would take me all the
way to Shaolin village for 300 RMB (About $36 US). This seemed easier than
taking a train. So, I agreed. Next he said, "My brother is a kung fu
teacher. Let's go get him." Against my protestations, we drove an hour out
of the way and picked up his brother. The brother had two other friends who
were kung fu teachers and they wanted to come with us too. Our twosome
became a fivesome, and we pressed on.
When I saw healthy-looking boys limping, I knew we were close. It reminded
me of my kung fu team back in Taiwan. They were some of the most gifted
athletes I had ever seen, but they were always injured. As we drove through
Dengfeng Village, I could not believe how many kung fu schools there were. I
learned later that there were nearly 40,000 kung fu students living at the
40 or so schools.
By the time we got to the temple, it was after 8:00 PM and the temple was
closed. I figured that they just wanted to show it to me before they took me
to the kung fu school I had found on the internet. The driver leaned out the
window and spoke with the ghostly figure of a cloaked monk. A few minutes
later the gates opened, and we drove inside. I couldn't believe it! I was
here, the Shaolin Temple. It looked exactly like it did in the movies. I
kept expecting David Carradine, Kwai Chang Caine, to come walking around the
corner. The monks, wearing their hooded robes, were a scene right out of The
Name of the Rose. Our new monk friend took us to his room. Some older monks
joined us. With long gray beards and shaved heads, they looked like ZZ Top's
Hari Krishna cousins.
They asked me millions of questions about Taiwan and the US. I steered clear
of the Taiwan independence issue as much as I could. They also wanted to see
my boxing and my Tae Kwon Do. It amazed me that even at the Shaolin Temple
they thought boxing was such an interesting and exotic sport. In Chinese
they often refer to boxing as "American Kung Fu." They particularly enjoyed
seeing my signature feat, 180 punches in one minute. I read somewhere that
Bruce Lee could do more than double that number.
It was getting late, and we were all hungry, so the first monk took us all
out for dinner. I thought monks were supposed to take a vow of poverty, but
when the bill came he whipped out a wad of cash that would have gotten him
rolled in a second back home in Williamsburg. I made a mental note to teach
him how to play cards later.
One of the many Chinese specialties which they had was dog meat. Monks are
vegetarians. So, they didn't have to eat any of Old Yeller. I ate some, just
to be one of the guys, and as a sort of nonspecific revenge for the
existence of French poodles. It wasn't bad. It tasted like any other meat, a
little gamier than manatee, and a bit greasier than koala or panda.
When we went back to the temple, one of the taxi driver's friends -- a
former student at the Shaolin Temple -- took me outside and handed me a
Buddhist prayer book. "Put $200 US in this book," he said, "Go inside,
prostrate before the monk three times, and then hand him the book. If you do
that you will be in."
In? You mean I could study at the Shaolin Temple? I had been planning to
study at one of the commercial schools in the village. Studying at the
actual Shaolin Temple was beyond my wildest dreams. But what was this issue
with the money? Was this a case of "Our philosophies are Eastern, but our
payment methods are Western?" Put the money in the book and hand it to the
monk? This is one of the oldest scams in the world. They get you to put
money in the book, then they switch books and you loose your money.
The Taxi driver's friend was getting impatient. He kept up a constant
barrage of fast Chinese, explaining and re-explaining what he wanted me to
do, as if the issue were that I didn't understand. I understood just fine. I
just didn't want to do what he was asking me. In between explanations, he
was alternately pushing my shoulder and throwing kicks in the air. I was
certain that one of those kicks could have broken my leg. But he was still
standing close enough for me to knock him out with a punch. But then what?
If I hit him, I probably wouldn't get to study at the Shaolin Temple. The
others would still rob me, and I would lose my money anyway.
Suddenly I found myself in one of those situations only I can find myself
in. I was in Mainland China. I wasn't registered with the US Embassy. I
wasn't at the school I had told my family and friends I was going to. Nobody
knew where I was. I had no friends. These guys could have killed me, and no
one would have asked about the body. In the US or Taiwan I always get a
little tough with people when I don't get my way. I know that if worse comes
to worst I can fight my way out of most rooms. But here I would be fighting
my way out of a room full of kung fu monks. A quick call to Atlantic City
said the bookmakers were giving 5000 to one against my survival if I refused
to give up my money.
I did as he told me and put the money in the book, but as a compromise I
made sure to keep control of the book. If I was going to pay a bribe to get
into the Shaolin Temple, I at least wanted the bribe to get to the right
person. If bribing a holy man was like God's payola, I wanted to make sure
Caesar got every penny I rendered unto him. In a very ham-handed and
laughable way, the guy tried to pull the old switcheroo. "Give me the book,"
he said, kneeling down. "I will show you how to hand it to the monk."
"Yeah, I got a better idea, Momo. How about I show you where you can stick
your head," I thought. I laughed.
If he tried running a scam this stupid in New York, he'd be left under the
boardwalk somewhere with his pockets turned inside out. Once my money was
inside, he'd have had to use a crowbar to get that book out of my hands.
With apparent resignation in his face, he lead me back to the monk's
quarters, and just before I went inside he tried to grab the book out of my
hand again. God! Had this guy never heard of Brooklyn? I handed him my
diary, instead. "Hold this for me," I said. I went in, prostrated three
times, and gave the book to the monk. He nodded approvingly. I saw him
exchange a look with the one who had taken me outside. Had they prearranged
to steal my money? The other passengers and the driver all stared at the
friend questioningly. I guess everyone had been promised a share for their
trouble.
"What is your religion?" the monk asked.
"Catholic," I answered.
"To be a monk you have to be Buddhist," he explained.
"No problem," I answered. When my friend Herschel's little brother had his
Bar Mitzvah, I went to temple with his family. Isn't this sort of the same
thing? Anyway, I am not looking at it as a conversion. It is more like an
advanced field experiment in theology. It had been so long since I had been
in Church I think Father Carmine would have just shaken his head and said,
"At least he is attending services."
"Wait here," said the monk. He went outside and wacked up my bribe money
with the taxi driver and his friends.
Before they left, the taxi driver had the balls to come and ask me to pay
the fare. "Why don't you just take it out of your commission," I wanted to
ask. But I had become a monk, so I wasn't able to feel anger at anyone
anymore, not even some jerk-face moron who tried to steal my money. I felt
pity instead.
After everyone had gone, the monk returned and said, "Put your things here."
Apparently I would be sharing the room with him and his novice monk. The
novice and I hit it off right away. He was twenty-five years old, and a good
guy. Also, in the couple of hours I had been there, he hadn't tried to steal
from me.
It is friggin' cold in China, and there is no heating in the temple. I would
later find out that even homes are not heated. The monks live in relative
squalor. The chambers were just tiny concrete rooms about twice the size of
a deluxe suite at Attica, with absolutely nothing in them apart from a bed
and a desk. The only things the monks seemed to own, apart from my $200,
were the clothes on their backs. The Chinese are rather dirty in general and
throw trash and litter out the window. The temple grounds -- at least the
part where the monks lived -- were strewn with refuse.
The novice led me through a labyrinth of outdoor alleyways to the communal
toilet. There was no electric light, and in addition to being ice-cold, the
night was pitch dark. The toilet was just a hole in the ground, overflowing
with human waste. There wasn't even a privacy screen or anything, so
everyone could see you poop.
We returned to the room, where the monk and novice shared their hot water
with me. I would learn later that hot water was a rare commodity. The novice
would carry a single one-liter thermos jug to the kitchen every morning at
5:30 AM and fill it with boiling water. That was the hot water ration for
the two of them for the day.
I put on thermals, sweats, thick woolen socks, and my Navy watch cap. I
crawled into bed and wrapped up in the blankets they had given me.
"Tomorrow you will have your head shaved. Then we will begin," said the
monk.
MONDAY 03/03/2003: Shaolin Temple
 The monk, Shi Hengdong, got up at 4:00, but the novice Yantong and I slept
in until about 6:00. The three of us made our way to the various shrines on
the temple grounds, where Shi Hengdong taught me how to light incense and
prostrate before the Buddha. Breakfast was served in an ice-cold room with
wooden benches. The food, big plates of spicy pickled vegetables, was
brought in large metal buckets. Steamed bread, mantao, which is tasteless
but very filling, rounded out the meal. Although no beverages were served
during the meal, at several times during the day we stopped to drink boiled
water. They seem to drink this more than tea here. After the meal, we washed
our bowls with ice-cold water and no soap. Then we took them back to our
room to be used again later.
They took me on a tour of the temple grounds, and Shi Hengdong explained, in
great detail, the significance of each obelisk and statue. He kept stressing
how the history of the temple went back for thousands of years. He had been
living here for seventeen years and must have seen these historic treasures
thousands of times, yet he was filled with wonder and excitement, as if he
were seeing them for the first time.
"I want you to learn kung fu, but you must also learn the culture of the
Shaolin temple," he said. The lives of the monks and the students are so
minimal that they appreciate every little thing that they have. There is a
lesson in that.
We hiked up the mountain to Damo's (Bodhidharma) cave, and Shi Hengdong told
me the story. Damo is the monk who originally brought Buddhism to China,
from India. The legend, or the history, is that the Shaolin Temple was
originally created as a Buddhist temple. When Damo came back to check on the
 progress of the monks, he was appalled to find that they had all become fat
and lazy. Damo went up the mountain and sat down in a cave to meditate. He
stayed there for nine years. While there, he observed the animals and
invented kung fu. He brought kung fu down the mountain, and taught the
monks. From the Shaolin temple, martial arts eventually spread throughout
the world. Karate in Japan, Tae Kwan Do in Korea, Thai boxing in Thailand -
they all started here at the Shaolin Temple.
We came down from the mountain and began training. I had expected a
boot-camp style training regimen. In the schools which surround the temple,
training follows this type of strict schedule. But in the temple things are
different. The Chinese are always working on an unlimited time line. So,
they see no reason to rush. There is intensity, but it is somehow a slow
intensity.
We began with Yantong teaching me a basic horse stance, which meant standing
with my back straight and knees bent. After just a few seconds my legs began
to quake with strain. No sooner had he let me sit down when another young
monk came to see my horse stance. Next, an older monk came, and so on.
Everyone who stopped by wanted to see me perform. They had me standing in
horse stance and throwing punches for much of the day.
After lunch we took a rest and then resumed, doing horse stance and punches.
Shi Hengdong took me up the hill where a young instructor named Jiao Lien
was training a group of students. I joined them for about two hours of
kicking practice. We had to walk across a hundred meter field with our arms
held straight out to the sides, parallel to the ground, kicking over our
head as we went. We went back and forth, forever. Next, the kids
demonstrated their forms. The monk asked me to demonstrate my boxing.
After dinner, the young Jiao Lien took me back up the hill for more kicking
and stances. Once it was too dark and cold to train, Jiao Lien and I headed
back down the hill. Along the way, he told me he had been living in the
temple for seven years, but that he is not a monk. He is allowed to drink
alcohol and eat meat. In theory, he could even marry, but there isn't much
opportunity to meet women living in a monastery. I asked what he wanted to
do with his life. He said that he wanted to live in the temple forever.
He referred to the other students I had seen as "my students." I am guessing
that the Shaolin Temple is like a franchise. These guys are all allowed to
use the temple, and to have students, but then they kick some of the money
back to the temple. He took me to a restaurant and ordered a ton of food.
These guys eat constantly and none of them have any body fat. I think the
combination of exercise and cold keeps them thin. You probably burn a ton of
calories just walking around the temple grounds in this cold weather.
When I got back to the room, Shi Hengdong told me my tuition would be $5000
US for the year. "What!" I wanted to ask if he had included the $200 bribe I
had given him. I don't remember this scene from the Kung Fu TV show with
David Carradine. They never showed Master Po extorting money from the
students.
I didn't feel like arguing. Instead, I flat out told him I couldn't pay. He
asked what I wanted to pay. I told him the other school only wanted $200 a
month. I picked up my bags and started heading for the door.
"You stay here tonight and think about it," he said.
"There is nothing to think about. I can't pay your fee," I said. He insisted
I spend the night.
"Tomorrow we will find a way," he told me.
TUESDAY 03/04/2003
Shi Heng Dong was gone all morning, so Yantong trained me. He had me doing
horse stance and bow stance until my thighs were crying. Shi Hengdong
returned, and said that he had no time to train me. So he ordered Yantong to
take me to another Sifu, named Se Hungfu, who also lived in the temple
grounds. Se Hungfu was probably in his late forties, very fat, but
phenomenally strong. He looked like a Mongolian prince, wearing his monk's
robes and a tall fur hat.
He accepted my offer of $200 US a month, but there will be some changes to
my temple experience. I will be living in a school outside the temple
grounds, but training in the temple each day. I will not be a monk, but
still will have to shave my head, wear the uniform, and attend Buddhist
prayers.
Sifu Se Hung Fu's apprentice is not a monk. He is a 19-year-old kid named
Miao Hai. He is well-mannered and has been living in temples for eight
years. Sifu Se Hung Fu is the trainer of the famous Shaolin Monks stage
show, which tours all over the world. Sifu ordered Miao Hai to show me all
of his photo albums, of the different countries they performed in. At first
I was really fascinated by all of the photos of people doing tremendous
feats of kung fu. But after a while it got boring.
"Oh, look, people doing kung fu," I said. And then the next page, "Well,
would you look at that, more pictures of people doing kung fu." When Miao
Hai handed me the final book, I said, "Let me guess, more pictures of people
doing kung fu." I opened the book and I don't know if I am psychic or what,
but I was right.
No one here speaks any English at all. Occasionally they will come out with
some phrase, like, "let's go" or "very good." One of the instructors said
that my clothes were cute. He said it all in Chinese, but used the English
word "cute."
My new Sifu must be rich. He has a VCR, and his room is heated. That is to
say it is somewhat heated. You can still see your breath in there, but it
doesn't interfere with your vision. We watched a video of the Shaolin Monks
performing, then Miao Hai took me outside and demonstrated his form. He did
a Wushu form where he jumped, spun, flipped, kicked, landed on his belly,
and hopped back up again. He was really incredible. His grand finale was
that he smashed an iron bar over his head. I think if we had had a kid like
Miao Hai in my high school we would have all brought things from home to
have him smash over his head.
"How about a rock, can you do a rock?"
"Here try this manhole cover."
"What about a desk, can you break a desk over your head?"
After he did his demonstration, Miao Hai began teaching me. The first form
he taught me was called Wubu Quan (five step form). The Sifus watched me go
through it about a thousand times. After the Sifus left, probably to split
up my tuition payments, Miao Hai and I took a break in the relative warmth
of the Sifu's house. He raided Sifu's cupboard and made us a snack of tea
and some kind of gooey candy that tasted like halva. My legs ached like no
pain I had ever felt before. My back was throbbing. My forehead was bruised
from where I had repeatedly kicked it. Miao Hai laughed a conspiratorial
laugh. We were Huck and Jim stealing apples. It was good to be breaking
training. I can't believe it is just beginning.
WEDNESDAY 03/05/2003
Sifu explained to me that Miao Hai is my training brother, Lien Shung Di. I
have another training brother named Miao Ping. He is twenty-four years old
and comes from Canton. He completed his education as a Microsoft Engineer
before coming here. Although fifty or so other students live in the school,
Miao Hai, Miao Ping, and I report to the Sifu and train directly with him.
Training brothers is a very special relationship in Chinese society.
Training brothers are bound for life. Sifu even told me, "You are the older
brother; you have to take care of them." At the end of my training I will
receive a certificate book, which states the lineage of my Sifu. It will
also identify me to any training brothers I have in the world. Apparently,
there are others in America, Europe, and various places. They are all
Chinese. As far as I know, I was the first foreigner to be given the title
of training brother.
Strolling through the Shaolin Village, all you see is a sea of uniforms.
Kung fu students roam the streets brandishing swords and other edged weapons
with reckless abandon. I saw some kids playing with a spear, and I almost
stepped in to take it away from them. "You could put an eye out," I wanted
to say. After all, I used to be a schoolteacher. I was going to say, "This
spear is going in my desk and you can have it back at the end of the term."
But, of course, I did nothing, because the kids could probably have maimed
me.
THURSDAY 03/06/2003
While the other students have to live in crowded rooms with bunk beds, I
have my own room. It is a 12 X 12 concrete box, devoid of any amenities
apart from my steel frame bed. There is no box-springs or even a mattress.
My blanket is simply laid out on a wooden plank. The house itself is just a
concrete block with no comforts. We have no running water. Miao Ping helps
me by having his little brother fill my water jug in the kitchen once a day.
We are allotted one liter of drinking water per person, per day. There is no
shower or even a toilet. We have to take a bus into town to take a shower,
once a week. As for the toilet, it is a smelly, snow-covered hole, a little
too close to the kitchen for my tastes.
Our meals consist of vegetables, rice, and mantao, three times a day. There
is never any tea or any beverage apart from our meager drinking water. I
learned to drink the water quickly, because if you let it stand sediment
would collect in the bottom and make it even more foul tasting.
Last night, a seven-year-old performed for me. He was jumping, flipping,
kicking, and tying his legs in knots behind his head. Then he took off his
shirt and posed. He had washboard abs and pencil-sized veins popping out of
his biceps. A twenty-one-year-old student named Duo Mo demonstrated the
Shaolin low kick. I held the kick pad at knee height, and he kicked it so
hard it nearly ripped my arm off. I don't want him kicking the side of my
knee like that. With the advent of the UFC (Ultimate Fighting Championship),
and with the popularity of Muay Thai, in the West, we are all aware of the
benefits of low kicks. But somehow we never practice them. After seeing Duo
Mo kick, I thought, "What a crazy concept. If you want to be good at low
kicks, you should practice low kicks."
Every minute of down time they have me standing in horse stance, standing in
bow stance, stretching, walking across the room kicking, or throwing
punches. They train constantly. I am used to being one of the best. But here
I am the limping old guy who hobbles behind the team. It doesn't help that
we train with all of our clothes on because it is so cold. It's hard to move
with five layers of clothing on. You train to keep warm. Then you get tired,
so you want to take a rest. But as soon as you stand still, you get cold
again. So, you always train. It is exhausting.
FRIDAY 03/07/2003
In Taiwan I used to complain that I had to train in a large basement, and
that we did the same kicks over and over again for hours. Here, I train in
my room, which is completely bare except for the brown and gray dirt which
covers the stonewalls. It is brutally cold, just like a jail cell, ala Gulag
Archipelago. I go back and forth, doing my kicks, intermittently standing in
horse stance.
This morning when I woke, all I wanted out of life was to take a hot shower
and change my clothes. Coffee would also have been nice. Obviously none of
those bourgeoisie luxuries were open to me. There is no shower, no hot
water, and often no water at all. After hours of training I begged for some
drinking water. But the answer was, "It's still too cold, and the snow
hasn't melted yet."
Miao Ping arranged for me to get my Shaolin uniform. It is a red tracksuit
with Shaolin Temple written in Chinese and English. It looks a lot like that
outfit Bruce Lee wore in "Game of Death," except that his was yellow.
SATURDAY 03/08/2003
Miao Ping took me to practice kung fu in a martial arts park (Wushu Guan)
this morning. There were endless armies of kung fu students running in
formation, wearing various colored uniforms. The parade of color took forty
minutes to pass a given point. It wasn't a special occasion. It was just
morning in Shaolin Village.
Miao Ping had me stand on top of posts, in horse stance, like in the "The
Karate Kid" movie. I had to throw three hundred punches before he let me
come down and practice kicks.
Because it is so cold, I am wearing four layers of clothing under my red
kung fu tracksuit. I look like the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man. The hooded
sweatshirt and the navy watch cap I wear make me look very Brooklyn, like I
am here to collect money for Jimmy the Nose. Apparently Shaolin Temple
students are the only ones with shaved heads. So everyone knows at a glance
what school I go to. In total there are less than 80 Shaolin Temple
students, in contrast to the tens of thousands of non-Shaolin students.
Yesterday, the old cook got a little lippy with Miao Ping. I was about to
step in and say, "Not only is Miao Ping my friend, but he is an adult, and
if you ever talk to him like that again, I'll stick your head in the oven."
But then I thought better of it. This is their culture. If they want to
mistreat each other, it's none of my business. The other thought that
crossed my mind was that the cook probably knew kung fu. I had visions of
that fight scene in Dragon, the Bruce Lee Story, where Jason Scott Lee,
playing Bruce Lee, gets in a fight with the four cooks at Ruby Fu's
Restaurant in San Francisco. Of course, Jason Scott Lee's kung fu is better
than mine. So, I backed down. Later in the day I found out that I had
decided correctly. The assistant cook must have done something to piss off
the old cook. The old cook beat the living tar out of him with some of the
most violent kung fu I have ever seen.
"Note to self. Don't upset the cook."
I made it a week! I know I will make it longer, but I am really feeling my
age. We have three training sessions each day. We have one from 5:30 AM to
7:00 AM. Then we eat breakfast. Next, we train until about 12:00. We have a
two-hour nap and then resume training until 6:00 PM.
As hard as the training is, the sanitary conditions are actually even harder
on me. The students spit on the floor everywhere, including inside the
house. The floor is covered with a thick slime of yellow lung jelly. They
also blow their nose on the floor, even while eating. They hock green and
yellow lugies right next to the table while they are eating. In fact, the
only people who eat at a table are the instructors and me. Everyone else
squats on the floor, inches above their own mucus, happily shoveling food
into their mouths with chopsticks. Anything that winds up in their mouth
that they don't want, like bones, seeds, inedible leaf fragments, or small
stones, are just spit out on the table, or on the floor. Toddlers, in China,
don't wear diapers. They wear little jumpers with a slit up the back. When
they need to go to the bathroom, they just squat and go wherever they are,
even indoors.
We have one monk, our Sifu, and three instructors (Jiao Lien). One
instructor asked if I would teach him some boxing. We worked for a while,
and I was surprised at how quickly he picked it up. It turned out that he is
the trainer for the Shaolin Temple Sanda team. Sanda is Chinese kickboxing.
We sparred around a bit for twenty minutes or so. His foot speed was
incredible, and he could probably cripple me with a kick. I did land a few
punches, however. I accidentally drew blood on him, which was embarrassing,
especially since -- if he had wanted to -- he could have really hurt me.
Sanda is very similar to Thai boxing, except Sanda has more grappling and
all of the throws come from leg grabs, as opposed to head grabs in Thai
Boxing. Another difference is that the kicks are even lower in Sanda. In
Thai Boxing, or UFC, you kick your opponent's thighs to wear him down. In
Sanda, you also kick the opponent's calves and ankles. Those kicks really
hurt. A single kick to the ankle could end a fight.
Sanda fighters are terrible boxers. The strategy I eventually learned to
employ when fighting them was to go low, catch a kick or two on my forearms,
but then move in and take the opponent out with a combination of punches.
I sparred the Sanda instructor again. I was extremely nervous that he might
try to hurt me to regain face. I meant to let him win, but he did something
stupid. Instead of staying at a distance and kicking -- which I completely
couldn't have defended against -- this time he tried a Sanda technique
called shuai jiao, ducking his head and grabbing my waist in an attempt to
throw me. I caught him in a guillotine choke and then went to the ground
with him, arching my back and cutting off the blood flow to his brain. I
kept waiting for him to tap out, to signal that he had enough, but the
signal never came. When his body went limp I released my hold. It turned out
that he didn't know about tapping out. Apparently in Sanda, when people try
to throw you, you are supposed to have the good manners to fall down.
Now I am worried. Maybe he will jump me when I'm not looking. Actually it
wouldn't matter if I were looking. He could kill me with those kicks.
My instructor today was named Da Se. He had me standing in horse stance for
periods of five minutes, with a one-minute rest in between. We did the same
for bow stance, on both the left and right side. Next he had me do my form
about five thousand times. Each time I finished, he said, "Ok, begin." We
kept this up for four hours.
The other students ply me with questions every chance they get. They all
want to know about the outside world and ask me about Taiwan and America.
They also ask me about my fighting and my religion.
The apprentice monk asked me about the cross I wear around my neck. I told
him, "I am Catholic."
"Is that the Jesus religion?" he asked.
I knew from previous experience that Chinese have trouble telling the
difference between Protestant and Catholic. Once, a Chinese friend had asked
me if I attended "Jesus Church" or "Mary Church." So I told the young monk,
"I attend Mary Church." And suddenly he understood.
Today being Saturday, the kids are allowed to watch TV after dinner. And
what tape did the Sifu bring for the kids to watch? You guessed it: the tape
of the Shaolin Monks performing. You would think they would have had enough
of that. But they never tire of kung fu. They live it, eat it, and breathe
it.
Da Se wanted to show me how strong he was, so he held out his arm and said,
"Feel." In the West when someone does this they want you to feel their
bicep. Here, they want you to feel their wrist. Their thinking is "anyone
can get big biceps. But big wrists, that is really something." This guy's
wrists were as hard as stone, and as big as a normal man's thighs. I am
exaggerating, of course. But when he grabbed my hand, I was powerless to
defend myself. He could have crushed my bones like a vice. I was looking at
him thinking, he must be about 45 but he is in such great shape for his age.
It turned out that he is 26. People lead hard lives in China.
Da Se told me that he has lived in the temple since he was six. His kung fu
is amazing, but what does that do to your psyche in the long run? He can
just barely read and write. He has never had a job, never had a bank
account. He has probably never been laid, with a woman. The other weird
thing is, he's not a monk. He is just an instructor. He is allowed to drink
alcohol, eat meat, even marry. But how would he marry if he is living in a
monastery? And if he did marry, where would they live?
Da Se hasn't seen much TV and very few movies. He doesn't know popular
music. He's never read a book...Imagine having no knowledge of the outside
world! No MTV, no CNN.
I look at Miao Hai and the younger kids and think, "Man, you're missing out
on so much." But then I think, there isn't all that much opportunity in
China. Maybe they aren't missing out on anything. They have food,
occupation, activity, and they love their life and their kung fu. Maybe that
is enough. If nothing else, they are better off than if they were Chinese
kids not living in a temple. Those kids have nothing.
The only thing they ever talk about is kung fu. I asked some of the
non-monks what their plans were. None of them seem to have a plan. Before I
came I was told that the dream of anyone at these schools is to go get a
good job with the police or the army after graduating from the temple. But
only one kid has mentioned that to me. The rest of them plan to live here
forever.
THURSDAY 05/01/03 Two months later...
We had been hearing rumors about SARS for some time. Sifu was forcing the
kids to drink a Chinese medicine which cures SARS. I asked Miao Ping, "If
China is the only country with a cure for SARS, why is China the only
country where people are dying of the disease? And why doesn't the WHO know
about this cure?"
"No one ever believes China when we invent something," explained Miao Ping.
The only trustworthy information I can get anymore is from the internet. But
we are allowed out less and less. The police closed down all of the shower
places and all of the internet cafes. I haven't had a shower in about a
month.
Se Gu, Sifu's little sister, who works as our house administrator, told me,
"The police have been here again, looking for foreigners."
The government hadn't officially blamed foreigners for SARS, but they were
cracking down on us. The final time I managed to sneak out of the temple and
get into town, I ran into two foreign friends, Kim and Bill, who told me
that most of the foreigners had left and the few who remained were trying to
get out. Apparently there were no more flights to Hong Kong. Rumor had it
that there wouldn't even be buses or trains to Hong Kong anymore. We had
also heard that foreigners were being forced into quarantine in hospitals or
hotels.
Foreign countries weren't issuing visas to people who had been in China.
This wasn't a problem for Kim and Bill, who would be returning home. But for
me it was serious, as this meant I couldn't return to Taiwan, my home for
the last two years.
"All the foreign students left the other schools," confirmed Se Gu.
"Were they forced to leave, or did they leave by choice?"
"Well, you know blah, blah, blah, police, blah, blah, blah SARS." Asking Se
Gu a direct question was a waste of time.
FRIDAY 05/02/2003
On the night leading into the morning of 05/01, I became extremely sick,
with diarrhea. Running a fever and completely dehydrated and exhausted. I
felt so weak that I couldn't stand. I wanted to drink some soup or even some
hot water, but there hadn't been any water for days.
Se Gu told me that the police had been there asking about me. She said that
I would have to register with the police, but that I first needed to go to
the hospital for a health check. I wasn't crazy about doing it, but I
agreed.
At the hospital the doctor said, "You have something wrong with your lungs.
You'll have to stay overnight and get an IV."
"But what is wrong with my lungs?" I asked.
"You are sick a little bit," answered the doctor.
"But what exactly is wrong with me?"
"You are sick a little bit," he repeated.
"You are sick a little bit," confirmed Miao Hai.
"What is it that you want to give me in the IV?"
"Medicine."
"But what kind of medicine?"
"For the sickness," said the doctor.
I asked for an English-speaking doctor. Of course there wasn't one. Miao
Ping and I went out in the hallway to discuss my situation. I had been
dehydrated for weeks. Most days I only got a single liter of drinking water,
and Miao Ping and his brother drank about half of that. The bout of diarrhea
had completely drained my body of fluid. My stomach ached. I was running a
fever. It was all I could do to stand up.
"If you try to leave the hospital they may force you to stay," said Miao
Ping. "Or the police may bring you back here. Also, we can't register you
with the police till after your medical exam. So you will have to leave the
school."
I thought out my options. I didn't trust a Chinese hospital. I certainly
didn't trust them to give me medicine, and particularly if I didn't know
what that medicine was. If avoiding the hospital meant that I had to leave
the school, that wasn't a problem. But I could barely stand up. Could I make
it to Hong Kong by myself? In my present state I didn't think I could lift
my backpack, much less travel with it. And what if I got to Hong Kong and
couldn't get to Taiwan? At least here, I had lodgings and food.
I was put in a room with four beds approximately a foot and a half apart.
The nurse inserted a mystery IV in my right hand, and then disappeared. At
one point the family of one of the elderly patients in my room came over and
made some adjustments to the flow mechanism on my IV. "That's better," he
said. "It wasn't draining fast enough before." Is this normal procedure? I
wondered. Do people just make their own adjustments to medical equipment? It
must have been because the nurses never came to check on me.
Some time during the night a guy was admitted to my room who was throwing up
blood. His spittoon was a glass jar two feet away from my bed. It was like
sharing a room with Gene Simmons. He was spitting so much blood that his son
had to empty it about every ten minutes. Aside from the noise, which was
disgusting, the sight of all that blood was turning my stomach. And of
course, once again, I was scared about infection.
The next morning, the doctor came in and said that I would have to spend
another night in the hospital. When the nurse thankfully pulled out the IV
tube, I packed my things, preparing to escape. When no one was looking, I
tore off down the hall. At the elevator I bumped into Miao Ping.
"Did the doctor say you could leave?"
"I don't care what he said. We are out of here."
"OK," said Miao Ping. "I will go ask him."
"No you won't," I said, grabbing his arm. "We are leaving right now. And
don't call any attention to us."
We were nearly out the front door when Miao Ping said, "I have to check you
out at the cashier and pay the bill."
"I already did all that," I lied.
"Who helped you?"
"I just figured it all out on my own."
I didn't breathe a sigh of relief until we were safely on the bus and away
from the hospital. Now, more than ever, I felt like a fugitive. In fact,
technically I was. Not only had I violated doctors' orders -- something
which the government had declared a crime since the beginning of the SARS
outbreak -- but I hadn't paid my hospital bill.
I knew I had a certain margin of safety, however, because I hadn't given the
hospital my passport. Neither had I given them my English name. When they
asked for ID, I gave them my Taiwanese identity card, with the excuse that
it was all written in Chinese and easier for them. This meant that the
police wouldn't be looking for Antonio Graceffo. They would be looking for
An Dong Ni, and they wouldn't have my passport number.
I decided to leave Shaolin.
WEDNESDAY 05/07/2003
 On Sunday, 05/05, Sifu came to the school. We all got dressed up in our
formal monk outfits and we took my graduation pictures. The entire school
came to my room to see the photos. Naturally they all started in with "Can I
have this one? Can I have that one?" Se Gu, even more than the kids, kept
begging me to give her photos.
On Monday I called Sifu to ask when he was coming with my money and my
certificate of training. He still owed me 1500 RMB. This was the only money
I had, and I needed it to get to Hong Kong. He said that he would come after
breakfast on Tuesday.
On Tuesday morning, the day got later and later and still Sifu didn't come.
Around 10:00 there was a knock at my door. Se Gu, the two school teachers,
and the three kung fu instructors all pushed their way into my room. They
surrounded my bed, where I was reading, and demanded that I hand over all of
the photos I had made while I was in China. I hopped out of bed, put on my
shoes, and told them in no uncertain terms that I wasn't handing over
anything. They kept pushing the issue.
"It is illegal to make photos inside of a school," said Se Gu.
"If it is illegal, then call the police," I suggested.
"But we are trying to help you," said Se Gu.
"By stealing my photos?"
"It's not stealing. We just don't want you to get stopped at the border to
Hong Kong with illegal photos."
They began to move in on me, and I really thought I was going to have to
fight them. I ducked, pushed through the six of them, and put my back
against the concrete wall. I then slid along the wall until Miao Ping's
swords were within reach. Se Gu and the two teachers probably wouldn't have
been stupid enough to try and fight me. So they were out. I had beaten two
of the instructors on several occasions in the past. There was no way either
of them was going to initiate anything. The only person at the whole school
who I couldn't necessarily beat was the kickboxing instructor. And the other
five were all looking to him, to lead them. I never took my eyes off him. If
someone -- anyone -- made a move for my bag or my body, I was going to punch
the kickboxing instructor in the throat. I had nearly knocked him out a week
earlier. I was extremely angry, and I wasn't backing down. The whole time we
kept arguing in rapid-fire Mandarin.
I was so high on adrenaline at that point, it was all I could do to not
start swinging. The kickboxing teacher stepped to the back of the crowd,
stared at his feet, and I knew I had won.
"It is our law," Se Gu kept saying.
"You are lying," I said. Finally, I told her to go get my money. I wanted to
leave right then.
Se Gu, the two teachers, and the two smaller instructors left. Se Gu
basically told the kick boxing instructor to remain behind and guard me. As
soon as we were alone in the room, I felt sorry for him, because he was
fidgeting around, frightened. I opened the door and said, "You can leave
too." I didn't have to tell him twice. He left like he was running from a
fire.
I wanted to get out before Sifu came because he is the one person at Shaolin
who I couldn't bully and intimidate. Anytime there was a problem with me,
they sent Miao Hai to straighten it out. But this time, even Miao Hai's
pleading and his charming face weren't going to soften my heart.
"An Dong Ni, you have to give them the photos."
"No I don't."
"Yes you do. It is the law."
"Bullshit! It's not the law. And if it is, then just call the police."
Miao Hai was nearly crying. "You have to give them the pictures. I promise.
It is the truth."
"Miao Hai, you don't know what the truth is. You only know what they tell
you. And they lie."
"It is true, An Dong Ni," said Miao Ping. "You have to give them the
pictures. Chinese law says that you can't take pictures inside of a school.
It's just like if I went to America, there are things I couldn't take a
picture of."
"No, if you went to America you could take pictures of anything you wanted
to."
"You have to give them the pictures," repeated Miao Ping weakly.
"You are the smartest one, Miao Ping!" I said. "You know that what you are
saying isn't true. If it were, you would have stopped me from taking the
photos in the first place. Or you guys would have told me yesterday when you
saw them. You know you are lying to me right now."
For one one-thousandth of a second Miao Ping became human. He looked at me
pleadingly and said, "I can only do what they tell me. I am powerless here."
But then, like flipping a switch he became a robot again, and insisted that
I hand over my photos.
I put on my backpack and carefully made my way down the stairs, keeping my
eyes open for an ambush. The only thing that kept me from making an
immediate dash for freedom was that I had no money.
My heart stopped when I saw that Sifu was waiting for me in the living room.
The two smaller instructors ran off to hide somewhere, as did the two
teachers. I never saw them again. The kickboxing instructor was still there,
"guarding" me. But I knew now that he was powerless. So did he.
"I want to see the pictures," demanded Sifu. He said that he didn't
necessarily want to take them. He just needed to see them. I placed my fist
in front of my chest, and laid my left hand on top of it. Bowing, I said,
"Sifu, I'm sorry. It is not a question of bad manners. But I cannot give you
my pictures."
"Who said give? I just want to look at them. If they are OK, I will let you
keep them."
"I'm sorry," I said, bowing again. "I can't do that. I just want my money."
He kept demanding to see the photos. I kept politely refusing. We went
through a number of exchanges like this. Finally I gave up on my money and
just made a B-Line for the door.
Sifu sent Miao Hai to try to calm me down. But by this point anything my
friend said just enraged me. He knew the situation was a farce, and yet he
participated. He kept saying, "You took pictures of us squatting on the
ground, eating. If people see that in the West, they will think we are poor
and filthy."
"You are poor and filthy," I said.
"But you can't tell them about it," said Miao Hai. He was crying. Miao Ping
came next and said that Sifu would give me my money and my certificate if I
went back in the house.
"You go get my money, and I will wait here," I said. Miao Ping went in the
house, but it was Sifu who came out.
"You don't have to show me the pictures," he said. Then he shook my hand.
"We are all good friends." He handed me my Shaolin certificate and said that
Miao Ping would be out in a minute with my money. When Miao Ping came back,
he handed me 800 RMB.
"But you owe me 1,500 RMB," I protested.
"Is there a mistake?" he asked. "Come inside, and we will straighten it
out."
"You are all a bunch of bloody thieves," I screamed. "Now go back in the
house and get me my damned money!" Miao Ping came out and gave me 200 RMB
more.
 "You owe me 1,500 not 1,000!" I protested.
"Do you want to come in the house?" he asked.
"No! You are all thieves and animals!" He went to put his hand on my arm,
and I shoved my friend away from me.
"Thieves and animals!" I said. These were the last words I said to Miao
Ping. By this time Miao Hai had disappeared. I was angry. But more than
anything, I was heartbroken. I had really come to love the two of them. And
my last act was to push Miao Ping and curse at him. When I left Shaolin I
didn't just feel that a period in my life had ended. I felt that a portion
of my heart had been ripped out.

:-[
          Maestro Mario Cosentino
 
http://web.tiscali.it/MarioCosentino
 
http://web.tiscali.it/FREE_ISAM
                  ICQ 46225702
                        Milano
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 Hai scritto un messaggio di 47 Kb in Inglese !!!!!!!
.penso lo abbia solo copiato.
se lo scriveva lui probabilmente lo faceva in cinese e allora si' che
erano c@zzi....
Jack (Hung Gar)
"Se ero Marlin mi ammazzavo da piccolo"
-- 
questo articolo e` stato inviato via web dal servizio gratuito 
http://www.newsland.it/news
 segnala gli abusi ad 
ab...@newsland.it

 erano c@zzi....
merita la lettura
il diario di un americano al tempio di shaolin
istruttivo .... una vera farsa !!!
da leggere
YM

by Antonio Graceffo
davvero interessante ma anche ben scritto.
ciao,
s

 da leggere
mpff...con la mia conoscenza dell'inglese ci metto 2 ore.... :-(


 mpff...con la mia conoscenza dell'inglese ci metto 2 ore.... :-(
quindi giusto giusto per passare il tempo in mabo ...;-)
YM

Yuen-Ming ha scritto:



prima mi procuro la panchetta alla jackie chan... :-)
Jack


Grazie per l'artico YM, e' sicuramente interessante. Non conosco la realta
cinese e quindi lo registro come "realta virtuale": una eventuale conferma
potresti darcela tu oppure qualcuno del forum che abbia vissuto in Cina
fuori dai classici circuiti turistici.
Purtroppo mancano delle informazioni sul protagonista cioe eta, esperienza
nelle arti marziali, formazione scolastica, status economico ed altro.
Avrebbe aiutato a dare un quadro piu' completo.
lü dongbin
---
omnia mutantur

 erano c@zzi....
ROTFL!


 ROTFL!
Tanto il risultato era lo stesso...cinese o inglese o russo...sempre 47 Kb
sono !!!
^________^
Mica faccio Tai Chi io !!!
Non ho tempo da perdere....
:-PPP


 by Antonio Graceffo
racconto molto spassoso, certp però rischiare quasi la vita per delle
foto......
bye 


 
ma dove cozza le trovi ?
(non vale dire "vedi link")
Curiosamente a fronte del fatto che questo cuggino non sa minimamente di
cosa parla in fatto di wushu, riporta alcuni particolari che indicano o
che in cina ci è stato davvero o che ha copiato molto bene e dalla gente
giusta.
Mia personale classifica:
- la tassistata come a tunisi o elsewhere
- quando gli fanno fare wubuquan
- i fratelli di gongfu
- gli insegnamenti che trae dai film trasponendoli nella realtà
a dire il vero sento la mancanza alla fine, per completare il "balla coi
monaci", di lui che per saldare il conto gli dona una autoradio di
pozzuoli con dentro un mattone di fango originale di Dengfeng ...
'bona
Af
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 pozzuoli con dentro un mattone di fango originale di Dengfeng ...
Eddai dopo aver letto un articolo per almeno 5 minuti ( a meno che tu non
sia di madrelingua inglese) potevi essere meno Jackburtoniano nel commento.
Se continuiamo cosi' mi converto all'aikido. ;-)))
Lü Dongbin
---
omnia mutantur

 omnia mutantur
Ma in buona sostanza che passaggio ti manca, dimmelo che se ne parla,
non è che mi diverto a non farmi capire ..
