Day-trip from Beijing: 3 seldom-seen temples
By Ann Mah
International Herald Tribune
Published: December 1, 2005
BEIJING: As the city races headlong into the 21st century, sleek glass office towers and frenetic rush hours confirm the capital’s grasp of modernity. But Beijing has a secret. Fifty kilometers west of the Forbidden City is a serene and spiritual pocket, a cluster of centuries-old Buddhist temples that are as charming as they are exotic.
With their expansive courtyards, delicate pavilions, purifying clouds of incense - and rare tranquillity - Tanzhe Si (Temple of the Pool and Mulberry) and Jietai Si (the Ordination Terrace Temple) are the kind of storybook temples one dreams about before coming to China. Between both is the Lingshan Chansi, or Miraculous Vulture Zen Temple, a crumbling structure hidden in a shallow mountain valley.
Though once accessible only by foot or donkey, today Highway 108 makes a visit to these temples an easy day trip. And so, together with our driver Wang Xiuhai, my friend and I set out early one morning in August, armed only with a map and a picnic lunch.
At 6:30 a.m. traffic was still light. Highway 108 is a narrow, two-lane road with twists, turns and wildly careening trucks that made us grateful for Wang’s skillful driving. Forty minutes later the city was far behind us, evidenced only by a distant smear of smog.
The approach to Tanzhe Si offers little in the way of romance with its asphalt and concrete barriers. Still, I spotted leafy trees and a sign that dated the temple’s origins to 400. A local saying on the sign confirms its history: “First there was Tanzhe, and after there was Yu Zhou.” Yu Zhou, it says, is an ancient name for Beijing.
The curious and the devout have explored Tanzhe Si for centuries, but on this warm morning we were the only visitors. We passed from harsh sunlight into a cool, shady courtyard, where we heard only a soft rustle of wind brushing the leaves of a majestic gingko tree. Known as the Emperor Tree, it towers 30 meters, or about 100 feet, high in ageless splendor and is worshiped as a deity, with sticks of unlighted incense tied to its mighty trunk. Across the courtyard stands a gingko of equal stature: the Empress, or, as its sign proclaimed, “the Emperor Wife Being.”
Legend has it that Kublai Khan’s daughter entered Tanzhe Si’s nunnery in the 13th century. We climbed broad flights of stairs before pausing at the scarlet pillars of a large shrine. Entering, we breathed in musty air and paid our respects to Guan Yin, the goddess of mercy. Kublai Khan’s daughter’s devotion to Guan Yin is illustrated by the indentations of her feet in the shrine’s stone floor, on display in a corner.
While poring over the map, we discovered a mysterious Buddhist temple, marked only by the characters Lingshan Chansi. “We’ll try to find it,” Wang said. And so we began an hourlong journey up and down the Dashi River, passing small villages and slate quarries. Every so often Wang would stop the car and ask for directions. But though many of locals had heard of the temple, none could pinpoint its exact location.
Finally, at Beicheying, a coal mining village, we found success. An old man, his grizzled face black with mining dust, pointed a finger at a dirt road that led up a mountain. We followed its twists and turns until we reached a sticky patch of mud. “The car can’t go any farther,” Wang said. “The temple is another kilometer from here.” Squaring our shoulders, we began to walk, with a mob of wasps as company.
A lone marble marker provided a vague clue that we were on the right path, and the sight of a crumbling arch above us soon eliminated our doubts. We scrambled up the hill and peered through the door to see the small temple’s courtyards unfurl in faded grandeur. Summer corn grew lush and tall between the decaying buildings that date to 1440.
A stooped old man came out to greet us with a friendly smile. He gave his name as Old Liu and led us through the weed-choked courtyards to the temple’s main hall, the only building kept in repair. “The Japanese destroyed this temple during World War II,” he said, gesturing to the wall of empty niches that once housed a multitude of miniature statues of Buddha. A box of tiny, broken Buddhas lay in the corner. Despite its disrepair, the shrine is still impressive with carved marble embellishments and an enormous, shining Buddha offering a poignant reminder of the temple’s former splendor.
Finally, we moved on to Jietai Si, which dates to 622. On a clear day, this temple offers an unhindered view of Beijing’s sprawl. Unfortunately, on this day, a thick soupy haze obscured the distance. We ventured inside in search of the temple’s spiritual heart, the Hall of the Altar of Ordination. For centuries, the devout have entered this enormous room and clambered up a three-tiered structure to be ordained as Buddhist monks. I circled the giant platform slowly, imagining the silence filled with chants and drumbeats.
Outside, we strolled through wide terraces and climbed several flights of stairs, admiring the stretch of brightly painted eaves. The temple boasts seven ancient pines with knotted trunks and gnarled branches that curl into the air. Soon we would be back in the hot, crowded city, but for now we were content to bask in their cool tranquillity.