When Pedal Power Reigned Supreme in the People's Republic of China
When Steven Spielberg filmed the movie, Empire of The Sun in Shanghai in 1989 he hired a Shanghainese woman to serve as his interpreter. I had the honor to be in her company while exploring Shanghai.
I asked her how much work was involved to modify the streetscape to appear like it did in WWII. She said that for the exterior film locations along the Bund to appear as it looked during the war—all they had to do was take a sign down from the front of the Peace Hotel and another one down the street--and the cameras were ready to roll.
When I first visited China in 1989, bicycles and busses ruled the streets of Shanghai, as they did in Beijing. There were often four lanes for the bikes, a lane or two for busses and a lane or two for autos. High-end exotic European models were an oddity.
I remember more than once being excited at the sight of a Mercedes or a BMW zooming by--definitely the odd duck out at the time. Shainghai as a shopping Mecca back in 1989 can be summed up by the simple phrase, “No. 1 Department Store”.
Located on East Nanjing Road, near People’s (Renmin) Park, this was Shanghai’s first, and at the time, only modern department store, opened by the government in the early days of Mao’s rule.
The décor inside was utterly utilitarian with shabby painted-plywood wall dividers and simple fluorescent lights.
Of course there were smaller, ma and pa hole-in-the-wall clothing shops around town, but not much in town compared to good old No. 1 Department Store.
At the time there were signs of a rising tide of demand for trendy European fashions, and the subsequent explosion of consumerism, but it was simmering just below the surface.
Today, No. 1 Department Store is still in operation today and it has kept up with the times with glitzy décor and top fashions from around the world.
A journey to Tiantong—One of China's five sacred Buddhist temples
Glistening-green fields of rice, interwoven with patchworks of golden wheat stretch across the great Ningbo Valley. In the near distance, a peasant, wearing baggy gray trousers and a bulky, blue Mao jacket gently prods his water buffalo across a muck-filled irrigation canal.
A quarter-mile away, skirting close to where the mountains thrust up from the flat, agrarian plain, a satin-black steam locomotive speeds northward toward Shanghai.
Clouds of steam burst frantically from the stack and swirl around the engine and the first two freight cars before billowing upward and dissipating in the sky.
Terraced rows of rich-green tea plants line the lower reaches of the surrounding hillsides, while further up, uniform columns of Asian bamboo dance and sway in concert with the gentle mid-morning breeze; higher still, a skyline of redwoods crown the ridge tops.
I am traveling by bus from the port town of Ningbo to visit the 1,700 year-old Tiantong Zen Buddhist Temple. Situated in the mist-covered mountains, an hour and a half west of town,
Tiantong is considered one of China's five sacred temples. In addition to being an extraordinarily mystical place, the temple is revered as the birthplace of two early sects of Japanese Buddhism.
During the Song Dynasty (960-1127), two monks, Dogen and Yonsai, traveled from Japan to study at Tiantong. They subsequently returned home to found the Soto and Ranzai sects of Japanese Zen Buddhism.
At its zenith, the Tiantong temple complex claimed almost 1,000 rooms and several thousand monks. Today, approximately 60 resident monks are in residence and the various temple structures cover an area in excess of 600,000 square feet.
Tiantong is so far removed and insulated from the modern world that it is reminiscent of James Hilton's mythical realm of Shangri-La. The atmosphere is permeated with a tranquil aura of solitude.
A dome of gray clouds and fog hang low, with misty tendrils of vapor descending teasingly close to the temple rooftops.
A few wisps caress the twisted pines on the steep mountainsides encapsulating the narrow canyon floor. It starts to drizzle, and it seems so appropriate that our visit to Tiantong is accompanied by mist and moisture. I have just stepped into an ancient Chinese watercolor painting.
As I walk down an open-air corridor in the upper reaches of the ancient, and starkly quiet complex, the muted silence is punctuated by the gentle and rhythmic thrump of a monk tapping on a drum.
The muffled cadence hauntingly beckons me on and I pray for a glimpse of the mysterious, contemplative drumbeating-monk.
As I approach the end of the corridor, the drummer appears to be no more than two or three feet away. A discrete glance to my right reveals the phantom music maker-- water droplets falling from to the base of a copper downspout and landing on a moss enshrined, hollow log.
Regretfully, the bus back to town has arrived. As I exit through the temple's main gate, I notice an elderly monk sitting sedately on a plain wooden chair, just to the right of the mammoth, ancient hand-carved entry doors.
The monk’s gaze is fixed on the raindrop-pocked pond across the lane. His lips are frozen in the beginnings of a smile. His eyes glisten with contentment. His palms rest placidly on his knees.
He methodically rotates his head, and his eyes fix on mine I know he is reading my soul. I desperately want to talk with him, but I do not speak Chinese, so I just smile, bow politely, and wave goodbye. He nods in response.
As the bus rattles back down the pot-holed road, past groves of rain washed yellow bamboo, I stare out the rain-splattered window and I wish that I had missed the last bus back to Ningbo.
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