Juggling commitments....

“If there is to be any peace it will come through being, not having.”
Henry Miller

It is late on a balmy Friday evening, something of a relief after the mercury touched 41C mid-afternoon; a slight breeze stirs the air pleasantly. I find myself sitting in the open air Tara Guest House restaurant enjoying a large and very refreshing Chang (Thai beer) and a plate of what are described on the menu as 'Pineapple Flitters'. These come with either honey or chocolate, or even both if one is feeling particularly indulgent. My lifestyle here is generally quite healthy but this, I have to admit, forms something of an exception.
I did actually stay here for a few days on arrival, opting for the very reasonable 'superior' suite at a relatively expensive £12 a night. Normally, by this stage, I have settled into some kind of long term accommodation, usually involving a cold shower and a lack of air conditioning, but this time I have been in somewhat indulgent mood and so the pleasures of fresh sheets, fresh towels and a small but cooling swimming pool have proven too much to resist.
Although such temptations sometimes get the better of one, I still find myself frequenting the much-loved but distinctly down market 'Jolly Frog' on a regular basis. The accommodation may not be the best in town and the service internationally renowned for being terrible, but they do have the most wonderful garden and a peripatetic clientèle of wonderfully eccentric characters, some of whom seem to have become regular visitors over the years.
The garden is also a wonderful place to take some exercise; the air is fresh, the flowers beautiful and the fact that the river Kwai runs so close by all lend a unique ambience to the place that has charmed many a weary wanderer (including your footloose flaneur). When I arrived last week, I immediately headed for the place to practice a little qigong and indulge my current fascination for swinging nunchucks. I have little interest in using such weaponry for any aggressive purpose, but love learning the wonderfully flowing and co-ordinated movements that are necessary if one is to perform with any degree of gusto.
On the first day in the garden, whilst practising a few of the more advanced moves, I met a German guy by the name of Alex and a young French lad called Ansulyman, both of whom were practising juggling in the same garden. A mutual exchange of views on the subject of skill acquisition followed, and so it was that, for the last four or five days at least, an informal school dedicated to such performance arts sprung up quite spontaneously amidst the palms, tamarinds and bougainvillea of the Jolly Frog.

Others guests and various itinerants have happened by over the last week and found themselves drawn into the process. At any given time one can find oneself learning various forms of juggling, particularly with balls and skittles, nunchucks, qigong, tai chi or other, equally exotic forms of martial and performance arts.

The atmosphere is very informal, relaxed and supportive; all in all, very conducive to learning such skills without any sense of pressure and, basically, just for the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of it. For my part, I have focussed so far mostly on picking up juggling and am now, after a few days of trying, able to manipulate three balls at once without injuring the spectators or dropping them too frequently. One young man has progressed from neophyte to attempting five balls in a mere four days, although it has to be admitted that it can be a somewhat hazardous undertaking to stand anywhere in close proximity when he attempts to do so. 

 
When learning new skills is a pleasure, almost an indulgence, such activities become very pleasant indeed. I sometimes think back to the pedagogic horror which formed my own education, to the woefully inadequate methodologies employed, to the stress laid upon discipline imposed from the outside (whilst discipline is clearly necessary, that imposed from within is often far more powerful, and far more effective), to the simplistic 'chalk and talk' methodologies, and many other unpleasant and ineffective conventions, and realise that, for me at least, conventional education was merely something that I had to survive rather than having any real value in terms of knowledge or skills acquisition.
Since those far off days and the daily frustrations and humiliations one suffered in the process of poorly acquiring skills that were often completely useless from that moment forward (working out tangents has not come up even once in the intervening years, and as for the learning of the (mis)doings of various Kings and Queens of England… such knowledge only turned me into a lifelong and convinced republican). Since those happily far-off days I have invariably found myself enjoying learning a range of new subjects and competencies in so many areas. All of these seem to have been acquired relatively easily, just as long as I was given at least a modicum of encouragement and support to do so. Looking around the 'school' in the Jolly Frog this morning, the thought struck me that such learning is so normal, so natural, so enjoyable for all of us, if only the right ambience is created.
Back in the Tara they are closing up for the night and I find myself faced with a pleasant ten minute walk back to my hotel on the river front. Kanchanaburi is even quieter this year; so quiet in fact that one wonders how long the almost deserted bars can survive. On the other hand, those of us who are more open to the less inebriated, daytime pleasures of the place are enjoying the current state of affairs immensely. And so, as this late but still

very steamy hour, I must bid thee a fond farewell and prepare this rather over-exercised body for a night of hopefully recuperative slumber.
Night night….

Wanna Fight ?

Another evening spent in the enjoyable, if somewhat controversial, company of martial arts practitioners at the local Jeet Kun Do School. For this particular group of Wushu experts, the training itself is often interrupted by long interludes of sipping tea from tiny cups seated around the heavy wooden trunk alluded to last week. The conversation is mostly related to technique, exactly how to inflict the most damage possible with a given punch or kick, or everyday life in China. As such, it is a source for much material for this blog, although the conversations can get a tad surrealistic at times.

The Chinese seem to love a fight. So much of the culture here is related to, or directly involves, martial arts. In matters on the macro scale, the Chinese military have not shown themselves to be particular competent in any area, their greatest victories coming when they are fighting each other, as in the Chinese Revolution. The modern day People’s Liberation Army seem to be in the business of liberating people in much the same way as the Americans liberated Iraq in 2003 or the Russians liberated Poland in 1940. Their most notable victory in the last fifty years came when they briefly entered Vietnam in 1979 whilst the main Vietnamese forces were away in Cambodia. When these threatened to return, the PLA quickly changed strategy and advanced in a generally backward direction to the safety of China. For all their historical limitations militarily, on the smaller scale, as in hand-to-hand combat, the Chinese fighting man represents a formidable foe.

 The attitudes contained within the Wushu (martial arts) lifestyle are, in a sense, almost a national metaphor. The ways to success are often seen in militaristic, martial or very directly competitive terms within this society. Far from being a particularly co-operative or socialist society, the underlying culture is one of constant struggle against others who are seen in terms of being fellow competitors.

Even a short trip down a metropolitan Chinese road will aptly demonstrate this point. Co-operation is the very last notion to cross the mind of the average driver here. It is very much dog-eat-dog and too bad if you cannot keep up. An interesting statistic will serve to illustrate this point. A person in charge of a motor vehicle in China has, per capita, something like eight times the likelihood of becoming a fatality on these roads as on the roads in the US (which, in itself, is hardly the least competitive society on the planet). Of course, there are many other factors involved in that statistic, but the vast majority of the accidents here are down to ‘driver error’, a pleasant enough euphemism for ‘driving like a lunatic’.

During this current stay in China, I have had many fascinating interaction with some very interesting, and even occasionally charismatic, martial arts practitioners, from those practicing the gentler skills of tai chi to the representatives of the local school whose skills are far more practical in nature. Personally, I am getting a tad long in the tooth (and carrying a few too many injuries) to train too seriously with these folk, but I have enjoyed learning to use nunchucks, a strangely fascinating and absorbing activity the learning of which requires a great deal of concentration, perseverance and the willingness to take the odd bruise here and there as the fast flailing handles forever shoot-off in random directions each time I lose control of a sequence.

The sheer variety of skills and techniques studied and employed here in China is enough to boggle the mind of the Western observer. In my short time here, I have seen people training with swords, short-swords, long-swords, cutlasses, daggers, spears, both short and long, staffs, sticks, nunchucks, flails and fans and observed them using various techniques to stab, jab, slash, cut, skewer, pin, impale, flail, smash and generally do untold amounts of damage to their opponent. Happily, all the violence I have witnessed using implements has been of the practice variety, although I have seen several injuries even within that context (I have my own bruises from the nunchucks to illustrate my point all too painfully….).

The more direct weaponless techniques allow for tightly controlled contests to take place. Last weekend, I witnessed my first ever Taekwondo tournament. Originally a Korean martial art form, Taekwondo has been happily adopted by the Chinese who now have hundreds of thousands of active participants in the sport. The contests are conducted mostly with the use of kicks, scoring kicks being made to the central anatomy and the head of the opponent who wears thick pads around his/her ribs and a helmet incorporating some protection for the face and skull. These protective measures are very necessary as the power of the kicks from a properly trained practitioner is impressive indeed. When training with these guys, the sheer weighty thud of a well placed kick into the heavy punch bags is enough to send a shiver down my spine. One would definitely not want to be in the way of such an attack, even if wearing protective pads…

 The wushu specialists at the school I attend are fairly liberal and eclectic in their approach to martial arts – almost any technique is countenanced if it is likely to have the desired effect. At times, one can watch them practicing punches, slaps, backhand slaps, elbows – both horizontal and vertical, knees (usually applied to a particularly vulnerable area..), kicks to the ankles, legs, stomach and head and even butting for street fights.  

Oddly, each and every one of them seems a relatively gentle, even genteel, soul when not fighting. We sit around the intricately worked trunk and consume the tiniest of tiny cups of green tea. The cup is forever replenished as long as you drink it. The host, whoever that is on any particular evening, has the duty of ensuring that your cup is never empty. Each cup is but a couple of sips, but the teas are often delicious, each practitioner taking it in turn to supply his own particular tea. Each of these gentlemen has enough knowledge of martial arts techniques to do considerable damage if they so desire, but each seems to be the perfect gentlemen in such surroundings. It is my good fortune to have met and learnt so much from these gentlemen whilst in China.

Needing a little energy...

Much as it pains me to say, this week I find myself in tax dodging Starbucks, in its Epping incarnation, famed for its 'Swiss' coffee and creative accountancy. My excuse is that I needed a decent internet connection and also a little space away from friends, many of whom view the idea of contributing to Starbucks' coffers with some distaste.
After another week in the UK, I realise that my definition of a pleasant day seems to have changed quite drastically over the past couple of years. Gone are the days of finding 18 or 19 degrees centigrade comfortable; after spending weeks, or even months, in the mid thirties, such days now seem positively chilly. Odd too how one notices all the little aches and pains that a body is heir too in such weather as is prevalent here in the UK. In Southern China and, particularly, in Thailand, such things scarce came to my attention. Perhaps the last few years have rather spoilt me in this way, now the prospect of spending months of one's year in such a climate as here in the UK seems positively unpleasant.
One of the most positive aspects of my recent travels has been just how healthy, how energetic, I had been feeling. I am, hopefully, not quite over the hill yet, but certainly could be described as a tad long in the tooth. Yet during the past five months it has been noticeable just how well, how energetic, how downright healthy I have felt.
For much of this time I have become increasingly interested in Chinese health systems that relate to the idea of chi. For those who have never heard of such a notion, chi is defined as a universal energy that exists in all living things. To feel well, according to this paradigm, one has to find ways of increasing one's chi, or at least to having access to good quality chi. The latter, in the Chinese system, is considered a matter of clearing the body of stagnant and stale chi, and replacing it with fresh and flowing chi. The techniques evolved by the Chinese Taoists were originally known as qigong. As ever with Chinese, the sound of the words is a lot more exotic than its literal translation of 'energy work'.

Over the last few years, such esoteric health systems seem to have played a significant role in my life. At times, it almost feels as if these ideas have found me, rather than me them. My first exposure to the concept came about seven or eight years ago now. At the time I was severely incapacitated due to nerve damage from a previous climbing accident, the effects of which had dogged me for most of my adult life.
One day, whilst wandering along a local High Road, supported by a pair of walking sticks, I happened to notice an advert for acupuncture in the window of a shop that specialised in all things Chinese, and particularly Traditional Medicine. I tended to notice a lot of such things in those days. One of the benefits of finding one's normal walking pace to be as painfully slow as mine was at the time, is that one finds one has time to notice an awful lot more detail than was previously the case when I would blithely yet somewhat blindly wander the streets in good health. In my youth, I had often rushed around at a helter skelter rate as is the rather over-urgent norm of our present day society.
On enquiring how much such treatment would set me back, I was informed it would require a rather chunky £360 for 12 sessions. At other times, I might have been reluctant to spend such sums on what seemed to me to be a somewhat fanciful form of treatment, but as being confined to using a pair of walking sticks just to get about tends to restrict the things one wishes to spend money on, it seemed a reasonable idea to at least give acupuncture a chance.

I think my interest was also piqued as the year before I had spent much time in researching a book about the idea of a vital life force, and how this same idea seems to crop up again and again, being found in different guises in many cultures and spiritual systems around the World. I had managed to complete several chapters of the book covering such interesting notions as prana in yoga, huna in the Hawaiian spiritual system, odic force as explicated by Von Reichenbach in the 19th century, Henri Bergson's Elan Vital and even Wilhelm Reich's intensely sexual idea of a universal orgone energy.
Researching and writing about such things had been a pleasurable experience as I found many similarities in these various systems, and was fast confirming the idea that they were all essentially talking about the same thing, albeit using vastly different terminologies. All was going well with the book until I reached the chapter that was to deal with the Chinese Taoist idea of chi. Although it was clear that the concept was, in many ways at least, quite similar to the other examples, it seemed that the more I looked into it, the more complex and the more subtle the ideas became. In the end, it struck me as unfair that I should mislead any potential readers of the book by pretending I had sufficient knowledge of the concept of chi to warrant giving my opinions on the subject.
My first practical exposure to these ideas came with that first course of acupuncture. Many of a more scientific bent tend to want to decry the effects of this system and, it has to be admitted, there are many aspects that don't easily fit into Western ideas as to how the body works. Some of the critics tend to observe that any positive effects are probably down to placebo effects alone. My own expectations had been initially very low, but I did think that, given my parlous state at the time, it was worth trying at least.
Despite my low expectations, within a few weeks I was able to do away with one of the sticks. Within another month, I was walking unaided for the first time in quite a while. Whether I understood what was occurring or not, clearing something had changed. At the end of the treatment, I found myself walking relatively normally again and, quite pleasantly, out of real pain for the first time in years. There was a leftover numbness that stretched down the side of my right leg and into the foot, making moving the toes of that foot more or less impossible, but it seemed a small price to pay, generally preferring pleasantly numb to positively painful.
Such experiences made me quite open to the suggestion that I should indulge in a little qigong whilst I was in China. Again my expectations were relatively low, but even after a short while my flexibility began to improve. Also, my general sense of well-being, of joie-de-vivre even, had clearly taken a turn for the better.

After about three weeks I began to notice that feeling was returning to my toes and, lo and behold, for the first time in years I was actually beginning to move them again. At first the movements were slow, barely perceptible in fact. I even dismissed them originally as mere wish fulfilment. Over time though, little by little, strength began to return, and with that strength came an ability to balance on that foot once again.
My understanding of nerve damage had led me to believe that such results were nigh on impossible, but on the other hand, it is hard to deny one's own personal experiences even if they don't fit the paradigms one it given by Western medicine. In the couple of months since, the numbness has continued to subside but the old pain has not returned and, as an added bonus, the strength seems to be gradually returning to muscles that had been dormant for many a year.
Looking back on my time in China from a distance of some weeks, I have come to realise that much of what I valued and enjoyed in China were the remnants of the past, the gifts of a long and fascinating history. The philosophy, the spiritual systems, even the architecture of previous dynastys has left China with a deep and rich source of inspiration and guidance which, unfortunately, much of modern China seems to be busily ignoring in its headlong rush towards a supposed modernity, which expresses itself by way of aping the worst excesses of Western decadence and capitalism.
As I sit here, slightly shamefacedly enjoying the delights of a fairtrade coffee in Starbucks in Epping, I find myself once more yearning to go back and enjoy the best of what China has to offer, even if that emotion is mixed with a dread of the worst. Yangshuo, with its clear waters, beautiful peaks, wonderful vistas and clean air beckons just as much as the East Coast cities with their constant noise, teeming crowds and choking pollution repel.

China is forever an enigma, its history and culture being both fascinatingly deep and subtle whilst simultaneously its modern developments are ugly and depersonalising almost beyond believe. I find myself both loving and loathing the place in almost equal measure...

Every breath you take...

This week's flaneurial reflection comes from a rather comfortable seat on a rather comfortable train that is comfortably travelling at very nearly 200 miles per hour. All is smooth and quiet as we whisk along the track between the cities of Zhuzhou and Guangdong through the somewhat continuously grey Chinese countryside. The coffee on board is a very reasonable 20RMB a 400ml cup (about $3). The subjective realisation of speed only occurs when one chances to glance out of the window and watches endless hills, roads and rivers flashing past at a truly alarming rate.

          I am on my way back from attending a Tai Chi tournament in the City of Liling. The event was rather successful for my friend who managed to win a gold and a silver medal and come home with an 18” plate and a rather large china vase. We had travelled to Liling on the invitation of the Hunan Tai Chi Association, who generously supplied hotel rooms, meals and transport for the both of us from the Friday evening  to the following Monday morning.

          This generosity was much appreciated, as were the facilities of the four star hotel we stayed in. The food was copious and prepared in the local Hunan style (very greasy, very salty, very spicy) but, unfortunately, was not particularly to my tastes. There was something typically Chinese in the way the food was presented though. The dishes, usually a dozen or more, were set upon a glass revolving disk in the centre of the table and one chose from the offered selection whatever one took a fancy to. This style of eating is very communal in nature which is not atypical of the culture here in general. There is a great willingness, almost an expectation, of sharing. If someone orders a bottle of the local alcohol, an horrendously strong brew that fair took my breath away, it is expected that it will be shared by all at the table.

          There seems to be an etiquette to turning the glass centrepiece, an etiquette that stresses the needs of others at the table above oneself. Generally on such a table there is a huge pale of sticky white rice in the centre. Here too there is an etiquette – one makes sure everyone else is supplied with rice before filling one's own bowl. Even within this there is another level where the status of those waiting is to be recognised, with the higher status individuals going first. In practice, this generally implies a respect for age, with the elders being given preference over the youngsters.

          Toasts are often drunk, complete with the usual expression 'gumbei!' (empty glass) proceeded by a chink of one's glass with all and sundry. Again, one needs to make sure one includes everybody who cares to be included and, as a mark of respect, holds one's glass slightly lower than those of higher status (usually best just to presume everyone else is – my personal 'fail proof' method!).

          Throughout my stay in Liling I was treated with great respect and a rather lovely inclusivity.  This is one of the loveliest aspects to the culture here. Once accepted within a given group, one is treated with a great deal of friendly and good natured indulgence. The Chinese, in this way at least, are a very hospitable people.

          The time spent in Liling was enjoyable on many levels bar one, but that exception makes the thought of my upcoming trip to Thailand a pleasant prospect. The quality of the air in these medium sized cities has to be seen to be believed. I use the word 'seen' advisedly. Of course, as soon as one gets off the train, one is immediately aware that the air quality is not all it should be. My first bout of coughing was on the station platform itself, but what is most noticeable is the dreary grey smog that hangs continuously over the town.

          We arrived at the hotel just before five on the Friday evening and I took a photograph of the somewhat uninspiring view from our seventh floor window. Grey and dank and almost sulphurous, the blocks in the distance disappearing into the smog:

          At nine on the following Monday morning I took a second picture from the same vantage point:

          Comparing the two images, one would think that they had been taken one after the other. This was not the case. In the three days we were there this view did not change at all except for the coming of the night. Just one long, dreary, greyness that hung over the city continuously from dawn to dusk. Never a glimpse of the sun, never a shadow beneath one's feet, unless you chanced to go inside a building.

          Many of the more industrial Chinese towns and cities are like this the whole winter long. Dreary, dirty and, in the air quality sense at least, really quite disgusting. To experience this is really quite oppressive, the feeling of not knowing when you will next see a patch of blue sky or where your next breath of reasonable air is coming from. In Liling's case this was particularly disappointing as the town itself looked to be rather interesting with a huge pottery market and some lovely old architecture.

          Last year, as happens many a year, there was some particularly bad smog in Beijing and Shanghai during the winter months. It became so bad at times that some people, having unwisely decided to venture out for the evening, were reportedly reduced to using the satnav apps on their mobile phones to find their way home again!

          A few years back, the Chinese government became quite annoyed with the American consulate in Beijing for publishing air quality figures on its website. The American staff had become increasingly worried over time with the deterioration of the environment. As far as the Chinese government were concerned, all was fine and there was no problem as long as no one made a fuss about it. The fact that millions of Chinese people were dying prematurely each year because of the effects of pollution was not particularly concerning, but 'losing face' in such a way, particularly at the hands of the Americans, was definitely not acceptable.

          Eventually, they relented and started publishing their own figures but this caused another problem. The PM 2.5 figures (fine particles below 2.5 microns in width that your body has little or no defence against) were truly atrocious. The World Health Organisation recommend that these should be kept at levels below 20 micrograms per cubic meter of air. Hardly anywhere in China could meet these standards so the Chinese government did what the Chinese government does best in such circumstances; it moved the goal-posts. The Chinese national standard calls for a 'healthy level' of 35 micrograms per cubic meter of air. It would appear that Chinese lungs are 1.75 times better than lungs elsewhere on the planet at dealing with this problem...

          Even with these much lower standards, Chinese air quality in most major cities fails to achieve these levels. Examining one of the websites that publishes this data, I see that today in central Beijing the level is 309, ie., some eight plus times their own, rather liberal (nice to see them liberal in some ways at least...) limits and fifteen times the WHO levels. Some Northern Chinese cities are at levels well in excess of 500. Sad to say, this is not an unusual occurrence.

          Back in the train a couple of hours have passed and we are now within just a few short miles of Guangzhou. This technology is very impressive, as is much of the new infrastructure of modern China. At times though, these achievements have been made at a tremendous cost to the environment. Apart from the truly awful air quality, 70% of China's rivers and lakes are polluted, not to mention 90% of their groundwater (which makes up most of the 'potable' water used for drinking, cooking, etc.). The widespread and indiscriminate use of pesticides and chemicals means that the soil is very unhealthy in China too. The pace of economic growth has been truly amazing but, to paraphrase, and slightly amend, a saying from the Bible: What does it profit a man if he gaineth the whole World but cannot breathe the air, drink the water or eat the food?

                      

Beware of drinking hot coffee in close proximity of impatient Chinese train passengers...

          

A Dangerous Exercise ...

Today my flaneurial duties find me gently lapping at a bowl of 'dou nai', which roughly translates to, warm soya milk (with a little added sugar). It is a great favourite in these parts and is often given away free with meals. In this particular café, they charge the exorbitant sum of 1 Yuan (10p or 16 cents) if you take some with your morning meal. I hesitate to say breakfast as it is already 10.30 in the morning;  another late night due to the demands of my friend's addiction to tai chi, demands which sometimes mean that I get dragged into taking exercises of various sorts very late in the evening.      

          My friend is a great devotee of Tai Chi itself whereas I only tend to indulge in some of the more esoteric offshoots such as 'Qigong' (energy work) and 'Pai Da' , a form of exercise therapy that involves slapping various strategic points on the body. The latter I find particularly enjoyable although it does tend to border on the masochistic at times. In the version we practice, one slaps five different locations; the inside of the elbows, the armpits, the groin (carefully!), the backs of the knees and the insteps of the feet. When I say slap, I don't mean a gentle tap but a full-blooded, vigourous slap, the effect of which feels as if the skin is being stung, hard and continuously. This is repeated a large number of times until the blood raises to the surface and the area thus treated has turned quite red. At least, that is the hoped for result. Other colours, in theory at least, indicate an imbalance in the body's energy that will necessitate drawing out with yet more slapping. The exact imbalance is indicated by the precise colour that comes to the surface of the skin.

          Many of these practices, like Tai Chi itself, go back centuries and are deeply rooted in the Chinese psyche. One sees them everywhere in the squares and parks of Chinese cities, sometimes even 'en masse' as hundreds of people will be practising a given sequence together. There are numerous sequences advocated by the various different schools of Tai Chi, passed down partly through the written word but mostly from Shifu (master) to pupil. Some pupils then go on to becomes Shifus themselves and so it goes on down through the years. Some masters even claim direct lines of descent, Shifu to pupil, going back to the origins of Tai Chi itself.

          There was a brief stage though, a decade or so in length, when this sequence was very nearly broken and Tai Chi itself nearly became merely an historical artefact rather than the living, growing cultural phenomenon that it is today. This period was known as the 'Cultural Revolution' and lasted from the mid sixties to the early seventies. Tai Chi was deemed by the advocates of the Cultural Revolution to be reactionary and hence unworthy of being followed by the Chinese populace. Practitioners were persecuted, some even ended up in prison where not a few were unable to survive the extremely harsh conditions imposed by the Chinese penal system of the time.

          The Shifu of the person who teaches my friend is now a venerable old man in his mid eighties, though it is difficult to tell from his upright posture and the smooth and beautifully co-ordinated movements he makes when he goes through a sequence. He lives in a large city in Sichuan province which today is enjoying the benefits of a booming economy and a good standard of living. It was not always thus though. Back in the sixties it was caught up in the storm that was the Cultural Revolution and he himself came very close to being imprisoned for his 'counter-revolutionary' activities.

          He had to promise to not only stop only teaching Tai Chi but to give up personally practising it himself. He found the latter promise impossible to keep though. At this stage of his life he had already been practising for many years and he was aware of the enormous benefits that such continuous practise had bought him. He chose to continue but to be very quiet about it. Sometimes he would practise in the dead of night at home when he thought all his neighbours must be asleep. Sometimes he slunk off in the middle of the night and practised in the local forest or in the cemetery. On one of these sojourns to the graveyard he even came across the man who had been his Shifu beforehand, the tow men practising an exercise known as 'push hands' together.

          The Cultural Revolution was, in one sense, an event unique to China but in another just a repetition of a sequence that has gone on for centuries. The leaders of revolutions, and generally those who seize power through violence, seem to suffer an enormous fear, a paranoia if you will, that that power so taken will be taken away from them, and maybe in a similarly violent way to which they had acquired it in the first place. In reaction to this there is often an attempt to almost start history anew, as if they could re-invent the whole of society in exactly the way they wish it to be, usually with themselves held up as the supreme leader. Even calenders may be reset to year zero (as was the case with French Revolution and with the Khmer Rouge). Perhaps this could be thought of as the ultimate in control-freakery.

          The French Revolution could be thought of as one example, although in that particular case the violent and irrational forces unleashed by the revolutionaries rebounded on themselves (Robespiere being one of many who suffered this particular fate).  Pol Pot's Cambodia would be another, perhaps even more extreme case. Mao's China a third, although the cultural revolution came some years after the original revolution when Mao could see that his grip on power was waning following the disaster of his economic policy known, somewhat ironically it would seem now, as 'The Great Leap Forward' (perhaps more aptly termed 'The Great Fall Backwards!'). Mao is often called 'The Great Helmsman' in China and that would be true, if you think that a great helmsman is someone who steers his ship onto the rocks! He is often treated almost like a deity, the disaster of his policies ignored in a strangely enduring cult of personality. The man actually responsible for much of the economic and social progress in China today, Deng Xiaoping, is barely ever mentioned.

          Indeed, it was Deng Xiaoping who as leader deemed that there was, after all, nothing wrong with Tai Chi. After years of being fearful to practise their art, people started to emerge into the light once again and Tai Chi once more resumed the cultural role that it had played in China over many hundreds of years. Unfortunately, it was too late for some. The Shifu of the man who practised in the cemetery was apprehended one day soon after and, after a perfunctory trial, sent to a labour camp. He never returned. Now his pupil is a great Shifu in his own right and held in great respect across China. How times change...

          My friend is not only a great devotee of these arts but is, in truth, a very skilful practitioner too. I, for my part, am a mere dilettante as far as these things go. I must admit though, despite its sometimes painfully masochistic quality, there is something very energising about Pai Da. Fifteen minutes of such exercises leaves one literally buzzing with energy in a way that conventional exercise never does. One may be feeling a little tired or jaded at the start but by the time the short session is finished you feel like you could take on the planet! I am not sure that I buy into ideas of Chi as a universal energy source but... I have to admit the affects of the practices. They are very direct and very difficult to ignore. Also, when one sees men in their mid eighties prancing around like teenagers it does tend to give one pause for thought. I am not sure how or why it works, but it is clear that something very significant is triggered by these strange but somehow very effective forms of exercise.

          Back in the café I finish off my second bowl of dou nai by picking it up and sipping directly from the bowl. The longer I am in China the more I seem to be picking up the local habits. It may be a good idea to be a little conscious of this if and when I eventually return to the West, slurping from bowls is generally not 'de rigeur' in those parts. I am also sorely tempted to have another portion of chang fen, a very pleasant and very filling dish that is not dissimilar to lasagne, but without the cheese. At the princely sum of 3.5 Yuan (35p or 50 cents) it is hard to resist but I growing increasingly aware of my ever increasing waistline – it has been doing so steadily  since I arrived in China, despite the amount of exercise I have done. Better to resist for now methinks and leave it for another day.

          The sun is out, it is around 20C and I sit here in shirt sleeves watching the world go by enjoying the last of my drink and another completed blog. Life could be a lot worse...

          

Son of Sun Tzu

“Gumbei” said Master Sun as he held up his glass of beer. “Gumbei” I responded, clinking glasses before consuming half the contents. Master Sun, in the true style of an advanced Taiji practitioner, downed the whole glass in a few brief seconds. A smile broke out upon his features. A smile for Master Sun was a slight narrowing of the eyes and the most minuscule curl of the lips, maybe a sixteenth of an inch, maybe less. The Master was the very quintessence of Eastern inscrutability.
       I had met Master Sun the day before at morning Taiji practice. He had strolled in amongst us quietly, not even needing to announce his presence. He wore Western style clothes on his thick-set body and even sported a pair of Nike sneakers on his feet. If I had to estimate, I would have said he was around 5 feet 9 inches, perhaps a fraction more. It was not so much his height that was impressive as the sheer solidity of his frame. He was build like an extremely solid out-building....a brick one at that!
       I was asked if I would like to practice with Master Sun, just a simple exercise known as 'push-hands', it would have seemed churlish to decline. The Master took up position opposite me and I crouched a little to bring my much taller frame into line. The procedure starts with the two practitioners opposing the backs of their hands. One then turns his palm inwards, attempting to push into the opponent's chest whilst the opponent using the back of his wrist to turn the blow to one side and then return the attack to the other person. In theory, the power for the deflective movement is not supposed to come from the hand or even the arm, but originate from the shoulder and the turning of the hips. The arm should actually stay relaxed during the process. In practice, this is easier said than done...
       Facing Master Sun that morning I could feel the power of the man. It seemed as if he were rooted to the ground, a seemingly immovable object that I nevertheless had to attempt to move. Within a few passes the muscles of my upper arm ached and were sending urgent messages to my brain, begging me to stop. I tried to remain impassive and ignore the steadily raising levels of discomfort and pain, attempting to give no clue to my opponent of the difficulties I was experiencing. Master Sun looked totally impassive, almost a little indulgent, as if he were playing with a small child rather than a six foot eight, 100 kilo opponent. Strength just seemed to ooze from the man, each movement so sparingly economic yet so profoundly powerful.
       Rumour was that Master Sun's lineage was from the famous Sun family. The family are known throughout China for their martial expertise, both in the sense of their military involvement and in the sense of specialising in the martial arts. Master Sun himself had served in the military with distinction, teaching the receptive soldiers of the People's Liberation Army the skills of Taiji and Kungfu. The Sun's were a family whose due was immense respect and reverence.
       It was even rumoured to be the case that Master Sun himself may have been related to the same branch of the family that produced Sun Tzu, the author of 'The Art of War'. This volume was penned some fifteen hundred years ago by General Sun Tzu of the Wu Kingdom. Under threat from a neighbouring and much larger kingdom, his strategy guided his king to a great and resounding victory and, more importantly, a productive peace. Sun Tzu's strategy did not stop at the cessation of hostilities but continued on into the nature of occupation. Throughout history, Sun Tzu's treatise has guided many a fine military leader in both war and peace. Unfortunately, these lessons, ancient and venerated as they are, seemed to have bypassed more modern American thinkers in campaigns such as Iraq. That particular case could be held as a fine exemplar of how not to execute a war, particularly in regard to the occupation phase.
       Not all Americans were as ignorant as those in power at the time of the Iraq war. Perhaps the greatest American general of all time, General Douglas MacArthur, was a well-known student of Sun Tzu's masterpiece. He applied the lessons of war very successfully in the Philippines campaign of World War Two and again the lessons for peace in his reconstruction of the defeated Japanese nation.
       The greatest exponent of all though has to be the renowned Vietnamese general  Vo Nguyen Giap who sadly died at the beginning of this October 2013 at the venerable age of 102. He successively defeated the Japanese in the Second World War, the French in the 1950's and the Americans in the 1960's and 70's. During the Vietnam conflict, after achieving considerable success against the Americans using the methods advocated by Sun Tzu, the politicians forced him to adopt different tactics during the Tet Offensive of 1968. This turned out to be one of his few defeats. After that, the politicians left the strategy and tactics to Giap, resulting in a victory against  perhaps the most powerful military nation on the planet at that time.
       Meanwhile, my own struggles against Sun Tzu's descendant were not going that well. My arm felt like it was about to desert my body, it ached so much. Not a flicker of expression from Master Sun though. After about three minutes, the Master relented. I think he knew he could defeat me with even the slightest extra push at this stage but was gracious enough to forego the victory. We shook hands and he walked away to talk to the other practitioners. After a few moments he returned, card in hand, inviting me to come to him for further instruction in the subtler aspects of Chinese martial arts, if I so desired.
       Back in the restaurant the next day I glanced across at the table to my right. The empties of the previous seven litres of beer stood there as evidence of our session. Master Sun may well be far more proficient in martial arts but I can still drink with the best if called upon. The more we drank the more I found myself enjoying the process and going from a 'ban bei' (half glass) to the full amount each time by the end. I still made sure that I gulped it down slightly slower than the master – this as a measure of the respect he was due – but enjoying the competition and the feelings of camaraderie it engendered. Indeed, the whole meal was turning into a very pleasant experience. Although we shared barely any language my friend Huang Mengxue was able to make some of the more important points and body language and gesture seemed to cover the rest.
       One final bottle to consume – two last glasses to fill. Master Sun's expression, still the essence of inscrutability was, at the same time, warming considerably.
       We clinked the glasses together one last time, each of us echoing one of the few words we both understood:
“Gumbei!”