In Weng-ji, A Police Report
Q: When and where did the incidents happen?
A: Black and I are walking down the stone paved road, firstly passing the Village’s Heart, which is an earth platform in the shape of a heart, also as the word “heart” written in oracle , reinforced by stones. On its surface, pebbles are densely laid. On the opposite sides of the Village Heart, there are staircases for people to climb up. All the houses’ balconies and staircases are facing the Heart. At the point of the Heart, there is a vertical pole, the highest man-made structure in this village, with flags cascading around it. At the bottom of the pole, there is a sparsely weaved bamboo basket.
Then, the road is divided into two. Black and I follow a road, keeping on down. I couldn't tell if it was morning or not. Papaya leaves stretch as if they are large green palms, below which greenish-blue fruits are the size of fists. The houses retreat with the shape of the land. The rooftops are at eye level, but when walking close, we approach their lower floor. A fence surrounds a small triangular garden; three or four little hens follow a tiny cock, dining on the roadside. Seeing Black and me, the cock calls the hens, and they all run away.
Black is a dog. He follows Guan-qiang and I all the way from Mang-jing Village to Weng-ji Village. Mang-jing is a bigger village, and we go there to dine in a kitchen, banana flowers, and water brackens fried with tomatoes, which I love. It is 3 kilometers from Mang-jing to Weng-ji, where we stay. There’s a Weng-ji Kitchen in Weng-ji. I go there to buy rice noodles and see Mr. Monk sitting in the kitchen, in his ocher-red robe. Black’s hair is all shiny, eyes black, body almost all black except his belly, which is white. Guan-qiang and I go to Mang-jing, to the market, and Black goes with us. Somebody gives us a ride back, and Black is running, following us all the way back. The day before yesterday, Guan-qiang and I go to the market in Weng-wa. Black is about to fetch the barbecued tilapia from Guan-qiang. Guan-qiang is a bit irritated and kicks him; later on she shares some tilapia and cake with Black.
The barbecue stand at the market is selling pork belly, sausages, ribs tied with lemongrass, squash, and leek… the grease of the tilapias is all shiny, under a thin layer of spices, and the white flesh was like milk custard. The smell mixed with barbecued lemongrass and grease is tempting. There is a huge plastic can at the vegetable stands across the road, inside which the dark-green colored pickled cabbage tastes sour and crispy.
In the afternoon, it rains again. We are sheltered in a family’s front yard. Black’s new girlfriend Four-eyed is nowhere to find. This morning Guan-qiang is saying that Four-eyed follows Black from Weng-wa, the village she is familiar with, to Weng-ji, a strange village, however she gets Black, so she is not afraid, and that is love.
Going down to the tail of the village, shrubs grow on the hillsides. A granny is picking leaves in the fog. She wears peach-pink clothes, yet her feet are not to be seen. When the fog goes away, the granny is nowhere to be found. Houses, roads, trees, and the giant tree at the edge of the village are all visible again.
Mr. Monk in an earth-yellow colored wool hat, lean but healthy-looking, is still wearing his ocher-red robe, exposing one side of his shoulders. He is riding on his motorcycle, which has blue stripes on white background, coming down from the center of the village, passing the cement memorial arch, tut-tut-tut, riding somewhere he can’t be seen, as if disappearing into the landscape.
The sun is so big yesterday that Mr. Monk squinted. Tut-tut-tut, the blue-on-white motorcycle rides him away.
The tut-tut-tut sound comes near. Mr. Monk asks Zhao Yu and Guan-qiang if they want to shoot another scene. They say, “let’s shoot this again”, and move the video camera from facing the cement memorial arch to its side. We also write two “antitheses” on each side of the arch, on the right side, “Art Motivates Production”, on the left side, “Countryside Liberates Artists”. Seen by the paving worker walking by, he shouts, “artists can’t find their way!” in a Sichuan accent --We love it. Mr. Monk is shown in the viewfinder, and his body gradually becomes as small as a red bean, and then disappears with the slope. He reappears suddenly, as the camera zooms in. Zhao Yu and Guan-qiang say, “thank you Mr. Monk”, and Mr. Monk rides up, tut-tut-tut.
The temple is located at the top, across a car drive which leads to the village, which is paved by stones. Cars come and go; there come tourists, tea-buyers, vegetables-sellers, and meat-sellers. The only butcher in the village is off work now, because his wife is sick. Crossing the car drive, climbing less than 20 stairs, we go into the temple.
In the middle of the first level, there is a stone square pond; the pond is half a meter above the ground. In the pond grow water lilies in purple, light yellow, orange, and pink colors, some of them are tilting their head, taking a nap. Several stairs up, on the second level, on the left and right hand sides, there are ocher-red colored bungalows. The garden in the middle is paved with stones, and there are four banana trees; two in the front, the other two in the back; dark green leaves are widely spreading, like peacocks spreading their tails.
Walking into the temple, an observation deck is built to the mountainside. Climbing up the deck at the sundown, Black and I get lost looking at the clouds, until the sky turns dark blue, then we descend to the back garden of the temple.
Cloud-but-not-cloud, smoke-but-not-smoke,
All so bright and so beautiful,
Curving, diffusing, just like the lightest silk.
Officer, I’ve got to tell you that the poem is completely true.
The next day, it rains so heavy. We are having tea and chatting in Yu-ni’s newly built inn. Guan-qiang asks our host Yu-ni is there any treasure in the village. Yu-ni said yes, the scriptures. In the scripture, there is a chapter about how to tell your fortune, from the time you are born, to the death point, and what will happen in between; there’s also chapters about building, marriage, and so on. If one has learned them all, then he shall be called the Great Monk. When boys turn eight, they shall be sent to the temple, to learn how to write, chant the scriptures, tell fortunes, host the festivals, and how to host the raising of the roof beams. Monks normally know five or six subjects, and the Great Monks know them all. Sometimes, a boy can learn more within a single year then others can in five or six years. Yu-ni then says, normal people living in the village learn some of the subjects as well. Sometimes when one is ill, and can not be healed by doctors from the hospital, then we assume that he might have knocked into something, something not clean. Perhaps it was the spirit of a relative passed away a long time ago who now wants to eat, however you didn’t know. In this case, my Granny will use un-grained rice, to calculate in some way, to figure out who this man might be. Only can someone married learn how to do this kind of calculation. My Granny would look at the rice grains in her palm, then tell you the name of the person you knocked into, and how much rice and tea you should offer. For example, the person might want four dishes. Then you pick a banana leaf, using its tip as a plate, offering tealeaves, salt, tobacco, and meat, a little bit of this, a little bit of that, on the top of your banana leaf plate. The ill man would stand by the door, and another person would stand in front of him, while my Granny takes the offer, hands circling above the ill man’s head, saying that this is an offering to the spirit, and please don't let this man be ill anymore. And then, my Granny would tell the other person where to put the banana leaf plate in the village.
The Dhai-language class is at nine o’clock, when the rain has already stopped. Mr. Monk has written the text on the blackboard. Under each Dhai word, there’s a Chinese character to explain its pronunciation. The fluorescent lamps are very bright. Black sneaks in. Mr. Monk has finished writing and begins to read, like chanting or singing, and then we repeat the singing, while Mr. Monk is holding a thin bamboo stick knocking on the blackboard, under each word.
After repeating and repeating, Mr. Monk lets his students read the text. Mr. Monk is about 24, and his students look like around 45.
On a paper on the wall is written:
Proverbs the Great Monk Ai-meng
Entering into a temple, don't forget to pay respect to the Buddha; having your meals, don't forget your parents fed you.
A good student depends on good teaching; a good child depends on good parenting; a good senior depends on reasoning.
A full sack of gold and silver is not as valuable as a mind-full of wisdom.
The strength of the body comes from what you eat; the strength of life comes from what you believe; the strength of the community comes from unity.
When the culture decays, the nation will not last long.
The best legacy to your descendants is to know what is right and to know how to know what is right.
Black hears other dog’s barking, tightens his chin, and barks in a very low tune.
We ask Mr. Monk, “What is the meaning of the text you teach us?” Mr. Monk says, “It is a blessing, rather than a story.”
Black and I then sneak out of the class. There is a jade green bug crouching low on the window frame. The bug tells me, “TO ONLY START TO READ IN THIS LIFE IS ALREADY LATE.”
The next morning we go to pick mushrooms. Back home I can't find Black, so I descend to the largest tree at the edge of the village by myself, to fetch Feng-xin. At the bottom of the bungalow, Mr. Tang takes out his knife, and puts it against the throat of the chicken. The chicken flops hard. The blood oozes over the black, shiny feathers. Feng-xin gets a bowl for the blood.
I go to get a mosquito coil, and light it besides the sink. Mr. Tang tells me that when I was away, the chicken kept flopping until he chopped her head off. The chicken keeper sends whichever chicken he can fetch from his chicken flock. Today he sends a hen and a cock, Feng-xin splits the stomach of the hen, and it is full of creamy colored oil. Mr. Tang jokingly says, “let’s see what this chicken had for lunch today,” then splits the crop, pours out the stuff, sand, and rice. One by one, Mr. Tang hollows out the heart, the liver, the spleen, and so on, and the intestine, all in a stainless steel bowl, and two kidneys.
Dinner was chicken soup, and rice jelly with lemon and chilly juice. Just after we eat, the drum sounds come from above. We leave the dishes unwashed and go to see what is there.
The sounds of the drum come from the temple. We climb up the staircases, to the level where the banana trees are. In front of one side of the red bungalow there are three round tables, made of rattan. Mr. Monk and some other men are sitting around the tables, all drinking Dali Beer, and smoking. In the center of the garden, four men are playing the drums, and beating a gong, while dancing in a circle. Feng-xin goes into the eddy of sounds, begins to dance, and becomes part of it. She suddenly makes a gesture of worshipping the Buddha, with two palms together, thumbs resting on her forehead. Her foot step back following the rhythm, then step back repeatedly. Her waist bows little by little and her head goes down little by little. Then she steps forward, one step, two steps, waist straightening up, then bowing down again as to worship the gods in another direction.
The water lilies are in blossom, light purple, light yellow, light orange, and light pink colors.
Black and I leave the party, walking towards, and into the night.
We are chatting while walking, and for the second time, wandering in the garden of the Pipal Tree.
