To Hell and Back: Journey to Ningxia Day 4, Part 2

Wizard of Oz

Returning from the desert, I decide to go directly to Hell.  After saying goodbye to Dirk Lee and purchasing a ticket for Hai Yuan County (apparently the birthplace of hua er, the singing style I want to hear) departing Zhongwei the following morning, it’s finally time to explore Zhongwei’s “High Temple” and the secrets it holds within.

Taking a bus to the Zhongwei’s drum tower, I make my way through the back streets of Zhongwei towards the High Temple and come upon a glistening tiled road.  It’s empty and the Sun bakes the surface.  The road is a kind of a wide pedestrian street or public square lined on both sides by street lamps that are lit up at night.  The surface of the street seems to be smooth and made of polished granite.  It’s the kind of surface that is perfect for rollerblading, if that is your thing.  On the first night that I came to Zhongwei I saw this street, and it was filled with children running around, children on skateboards, old folks sitting around shooting the breeze, young lovers holding hands, and others rollerblading.  This afternoon, besides myself, there is not a soul on the glistening Yellow Brick Road.  The eerie silence that occurs directly after the tornado deposits Dorothy’s house in Oz, crushing the Wicked Witch to death, pervades the atmosphere.  There are no munchkins.  There is no wizard.  There is only Him.  At the end of the glistening street, standing stoically with his overcoat magically blowing open on this windless day, there is a mammoth statue of Mao Ze Dong, towering over all that he sees.  On the plaque in front of him it reads:

“The Great Marxist thinker, the great revolutionary, military strategist and philospher–Chairman Mao.”

Behind his shoulder I can see where I want to go, the High Temple.  All is quiet and hot, the kind of heat that comes off the sidewalk and makes a buzzing sound in my ears.  I share a couple of moments with the Chairmain, with whom I also share a birthday.  At this moment I completely understand and share my friend Simon’s affinity towards statues.  It brings me peace to be there with the Chairman.  No one disturbs us.  Satan and his Hell seem far from this place.  How little we know.

The Gateway

Entering the gate to the high temple, it is not immediately apparent to me that evil lies within it’s belly.  The temple itself is beautiful and ornate.  As I walk around to examine the intricately painted walls and turrets, I am extremely impressed at how well preserved the structure is for having being built during the Ming Dynasty^W.  With over 250 rooms inside the temple, I take my time walking around it’s base.  There are other visitors in the floors above me who have just ascended the staircase to the rooftop.  It is at the point where one can climb to the roof that I feel the cold and dank air seeping out from behind a corner.  Curious at the slight drop in temperature and moldy smell, I decide to investigate further.  There, standing at the entrance to the temple’s catacombs is a young chinese man, about my age.  He seems like he is debating some question in his mind.  He shifts back and forth from one foot to another, gripping his cellphone in one hand.  His skin has turned pale.

“I’m glad you came.  I was scared.  I don’t want to go in by myself.”  I shake hands with the frightened young man and ask him what’s inside the darkness.

“This is the gateway to Hell,” he says.  “Will you go in with me?”

Beneath the Depths

The young man is from Harbin^W in Dongbei Province^W.  I’ll call him “Angel.”  Like Dirk Lee, Angel is also here on business and will have to stay in Zhongwei for one week.  Today is his first day in town.  He tells me he has been standing in front of the doorway to the gateway to Hell for the past few minutes, trying to get up his nerve to face his fear and enter the darkness.  Like me, he is also 29 years old.  He shows me the sign in front of the gateway that describes the secrets of High Temple’s bowels. 

According to the notice, underneath High Temple’s majestic and holy turrets lies the largest display depicting the 18 levels of Buddhist Hell and Torment.  I have seen displays of Buddhist Hell before, most recently when I visited a cave open to tourists outside of Beijing’s outskirts with my friend, Simon.  We entered the cave with a group of Chinese tourists and a guide, walking through the clammy depths for about 20 minutes until we arrived at a precipice that led to a stairwell down to Hell.  The guide told us that the tour would end at the top of these stairs, but we were free to venture down to view the display of Buddhist Hell if we wanted to.  Just like the great botoanist, Luther Burbank^W, Simon and I had nothing to fear, for we were both infidels (and still are).  We were the only ones in the group to walk down the stairs.  Were the other members of the tour group afraid like Angel, or were they just tired and did not want to walk back up the stairs?  Whatever the answer, Angel was clearly afraid of venturing in alone.

“Sure, let’s go in,” I say.  We walk into Hell, which is completely dark, except for the faint christmas lights and exit lights that line the walls and ceilings.  Walking down the corridor, I become more and more impressed with the underground labrynth of High Temple’s catacombs.  They are quite extensive and keep a relatively cool temperature.  After a few steps we come to the first chamber, which is labeled, “Hell of Flames.”  As soon as we enter this room, a red light turns on automatically and Angel and I are faced with a scene of torture in which a poor soul has his feet burned by hot pokers.  Holding the hot pokers are black demons, giggling with relish and justification.  He lies strapped to a bed of hot coals.  Accompanying the red light is the sound of recorded screaming.  Angel and I stand there for a couple of seconds, silently watching this frozen stasis of torture before moving on to the next Hell, the “Hell of Dismemberment by Sawing.”  Once again, we are faced by a scene of giddy demons who hold another unfortunate sinner, forever captive due to his crimes in life.  He hangs by the arms while two demons voraciously grab opposite ends of the saw and begin to cut him in two, starting from his crotch.  Crude blood is painted on his body as it spatters the demon’s legs, bathing them in his sin.

Angel and I walk from room to room, faced each time with another scene of horror and gore.  There is the “Hell of Tongue Ripping,” the “Hell of Torso-severing,” the “Hell of Eye Gouging,” the “Hell of Maggots,” etc.  Apparently, each of the separate Hells is specialized for particular sins.  Cold-blooded murderers are thown into the “Hell of Pounding,”  peeping toms go to the “Hell of Eye Gouging,” people with evil hearts are approrpriately put into the “Hell of Heart Gouging.”  As we slowly make our way through the 18 levels of Hell, I begin to wonder if there are perhaps other, easier and more relaxed levels of Hell for those lesser sins?  These ones seem pretty heavy.  They aren’t, however, Hells that I am personally accquainted with.  Where’s the “Hell of perpetual ‘My Heart Will Go On’,” a Hell seemingly reserved for me, as this Celine Dion song is ubiquitous and never-ending all over China?  And what about the “Hell of having to drink grain alcohol with grown adults at business dinners?”  Something I’m all too familiar with at this point.  Let’s not forget the “Hell of having to construct a mobile project and balance it just correctly so that the margin of error for the balance is less thatn .09 percent.” This was a personal Hell that seemed painstakingly impossible, frustrating, and useless to me at the time I had to do it while attending an Indiana University physics and science course.  Still, the “lesser Hells” don’t seem to make there way here amongst the big boys.  Angel and I continue our walk.

Twice during our lonely walk through the chambers of Hell, our tour is interrupted by another kind of display, the road to salvation.  In between two of the chambers, we notice a large cluster of Christmas lights and a box in front of the lights.  Just as we pass in front of the box, more lights automatically illuminate the wall behind the box, showing a set of stairs leading upwards.  The light is golden, and the stairway is flanked on both sides by kind Buddhas striking calm and inviting poses.  They seem much more benevolent than the bloodthirsty demons torturing the sinners in the 18 chambers of Hell.  As I admire the display for the road to salvation, I look more carefully at the box and notice that there is a slot there big enough for one to put money in.  Oh.  So that’s how you get out of Hell.  Neither Angel nor myself put money in the box to salvation.  Little do we realize how much our seemingly innocent neglect will affect the outside world.

Pandora’s Box

Exiting Hell without getting lost is not an easy thing to do, but Angel and I manage to escape.  We simply follow the green exit signs which thankfully really do lead us upward to the light.  Angel seems relieved to be back on the surface again.  The color returns to his cheeks and he doesn’t grip his cellphone so tightly.  He tells me that he needs to message his wife.  They are still newly weds, and this is his first time away for a business trip.

“Before getting married I always thought going on business trip would be great.  Now I just want to stay at home and spend time with my wife,” he tells me while punching away a message on his phone at the same time.  We walk up to the top of the stairs to view the turrets and and the view of the town.  As I make my way up the stairs, I turn around and notice that it’s easy to spot Chairman Mao’s statue in the distance.  He still seems larger than life from up here.  On the other side of the High Temple I can see Zhong We’s train station that I only arrived at the day before.  The town is small and compact.  All of the most important places are within walking distance.  Walking around the side of the temple, I hear screams coming from the shady side.  Thinking perhaps someone has been injured, I rush to investigate.  What I discover is almost as disturbing in an entirely different way.

The screams come from some girls directly next to this beautiful and ancient temple, less than 50 meters away.  I am relieved to find that they are not screams of terror, but screams of excitement and joy instead.  There are two girls riding on an amusument park ride.  It’s not a roller coaster, but one of those rides that circles around and around vertically, while at the same time rotating the seats as a merry-go-round would.  The ride is within a large steel circle and makes it’s participants swing back and forth, back and forth.  Each time they swing back and forth, they swing higher and higher until they eventually are being fully rotated upside down in one direction, and then backwards in the opposite direction.  Although this ride is directly next to the temple, I didn’t notice it until after exiting Hell.  Did I unleash this ugly amusement park ride from pandora’s box and carelessly juxtapose it next to this ancient temple, spoiling the view for future visitors?  I wonder if I should go back to Hell and toss in a coin.  Maybe when I come out, the ugly ride will have disappeared.  The girls go back and forth, back and forth, screaming and laughing.  Coins and earrings fall to the ground.  Do they even know that there is an ancient temple right next door?  That Hell is waiting for them?  I watch them finish their ride, knowing that I would immediately vomit if I sat in their place.  They wobble out of their seats and search the ground for the belongings that fell out of their pockets.   Angel finds me watching the girls as they dizzily leave the park below and exit the mysterious amusement park ride.

In the evening Angel treats me to a dinner.  During dinner we are mostly silent.  The lights in the restaurant go out 3 times while we eat.  Customers make a fit.  I should have paid the coin.  I should have paid the coin.  Is Angel contemplating the same sin?  Does he feel guilty for not putting the money in the slot to the road to salvation?  I look over at him as I scoop a spoonful of porridge into my mouth.  He is looking down.  At first I think he might be praying.  It turns out he’s just sending his wife another message on his cellphone.  We hardly speak at all for the rest of the meal. 

After dinner, I walk Angel back towards the High Temple.  His hotel is near the train station.  We part from each other without even exchanging phone numbers in accordance with keeping with the sinner’s vow.  I meander my way back towards my hotel and walk along the road.  The temperature is cooler now that the Sun is down…almost as cool as when we were underneath the temple.  Strolling down the main avenue, I don’t have any real destination in mind.  I just want to walk off my stomach a little bit.  As I pass the temple, it’s then that I see the Monkey Devil  He is short and gangly, with straggly hair shooting out in all directions.  His face is wrinkled and he wears army clothes.  He walks with a big stride, a stride bigger than his legs, a John Wayne stride, a stride that says he is a man who won’t be messed with.  Two monkeys trail him from behind.  One is on his shoulders.  In one hand he holds leashes to which all three monkeys are connected.  Each of the leashes is connected to a collar which is affixed around the monkeys’ necks.  The two walking behind the Monkey Devil are older.  One is clearly male, and other is female, her mammory glands sag along the road lathargically.  The monkey on Monkey Devil’s back is just a baby.  From time to time, Monkey Devil yanks the older monkeys along, urging them to walk faster, choking their necks.  He holds a whip in his other hand but doesn’t use it.  Not yet.  Not now.  I look at the Devil Monkey and he looks at me, trying to make out my face in the darkness.  He sends me a blank stare, but doesn’t slow down his pace and continues to an unknown destination.  After he passes, I stop to watch the small procession with curiousity, wondering what other oddities await me in Hai Yuan County the next day.  Pandora’s box has been unleashed.

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