Confessions of a Drifter

Day 1 - January 26th, 2011

I came out onto a courtyard that looked like a set from ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon’: an archaic bronze well with carvings in the middle, stone archways, typical Chinese rooftops with wooden shingles and colorful pointed tips, mustard yellow walls with thick red doors and dragon-head knockers…

I could hear the praying ceremony clearly, in front of me, in a powerful-looking building illuminated by lights from the inside. My friend and travel buddy, Tomas Froes—a fearless Portuguese man with a magnetic smile and an insatiable ‘joie de vie’—was the first to approach, creeping with cat-like stealth, inching up the stairs high enough to see through a misty window. Froes popped his head up for a millisecond, saw something, and quickly dashed back to rejoin the onlookers.

I had to go next. I ducked down, tip-toed and made it up two slushy steps… slowly, I poked up my head far enough to catch a glimpse through the glass…

I saw a row of monks in orange robes, sitting on the ground and chanting in sync with the drum…another monk slightly elevated than the rest, wearing a conical hat, waving his hands and directing the prayer…a glimmer of gold in the background—and that was all. I quickly bent down and scuttled away like a peeping Tom, afraid of getting caught.

After a few more from our group took peeps, we all went back downstairs with a rekindled desire to stay in this magical place. Brieter and the Buddhist negotiator soon rejoined us as well. Breiter reported that the rooms were okay—albeit a bit cold.

Now this is where things began to get complicated… After presenting our student IDs and passports, they told us that actually, they could only accept Chinese ID numbers to make a booking at the temple. It was a matter of going to the police station, registering, and getting the appropriate papers. Breiter translated and we discussed: What the hell? Where was the police station, and was it even open at night?

We told Breiter to negotiate and try to find a way around this. But as soon as the Chinese jabber began again, a higher authority emerged.

The monk came down from upstairs, orange pants tucked into brown furry boots, covered up by a brown jacket and furry fez-type hat. He looked at each of us up and down, severely. I noticed he was a bit cross-eyed and tried my best to give off a respectful, innocent vibe.

The monk raised his arm and barked something to the negotiator. Brieter looked taken aback and confused. He translated: “No foreigners allowed.” Huh? We looked at the cross-eyed monk pleadingly, but he just raised his hand and shook his head no. He wasn’t having us. What was his problem? Had he caught us peeking or something?

So we left that temple, with a bitter taste of rejection and an ominous feeling about it… We got back to the minivan and accepted the driver’s offer to stay at his cheaper hotel. The place wasn’t bad at all: spacious, with TVs and heaters; just a cracked tub and limited access to warm water.       

-Seb