Kung Fu Trip Page 2

  I was furious, but tried to keep calm.

  ‘Closed? Why didn’t you say so before? If I knew you had no gym when I was choosing a hotel, I wouldn’t have come here. The reason why I picked this hotel was because you had a gym. This is terrible. I have to exercise, I have to. It makes me who I am. It’s part of who I am. And if I don’t exercise I’ll get fat, and you won’t like me when I’m fat.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. The gym will be closed for six months.’

  I realised that I was not going to get anywhere arguing with the receptionist so I went to my room and wrote an email to Lorrimer, my travel agent and my Mr Fix Things back in London.

  Dear Lorrimer,

  I have arrived in Beijing and I am well, but there is a problem. There is no gym at the hotel. Well, there is one but I am told that it will be closed for a long time and so I won’t be able to use it. I’m really upset, man, as you know I picked this place because it said it had a gym, and now I’m stuck here. I don’t think there’s anything that can be done now but I thought I should let you know.

  Have a good play,

  Benjamin

  Later that day I received an email from Lorrimer.

  Dear Benjamin,

  Sorry about the mix-up. I have sorted it out for you. The gym is closed but the manager Mr Woo has given you permission to use the gym as much as you like. If there is a problem, just ask for him.

  I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay. Do let me know if there is anything else that I can do for you.

  All the best,

  Lorrimer

  I was told that I could get to the gym by using the fire escape, so I ran down from the ninth floor. When I arrived, there were seven people there to welcome me. I was shown to the gym and it wasn’t a gym. It was a swimming pool with some exercise equipment around it.

  ‘Is this it?’ I asked Shirley, real name Zhao Bin, who was leader of the group of people who began to follow me around.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘This is very special, just for you.’

  Now get this. I step on to the running machine and all seven of them stood and watched me. Some of them were watching how my feet connected to the treadmill; others were clocking the meters showing my speed; and others were studying my forehead to see how much I was sweating. These people followed me to the small weights machine and watched me exercising my forearms, my chest muscles, my thighs and my hamstrings. I was amazed at their level of interest.

  Then I saw something at the far side of the swimming pool that really got me excited – a punch speed bag and a pair of boxing gloves.

  ‘Zhao Bin,’ I said to Shirley, ‘can I have a go on that?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘no problem, everything here is for you. Mr Woo say you can have access to anything. Let’s go.’

  I ran round to the speed bag with my followers walking quickly behind me, then I put the gloves on and began to punch the boxing bag. They were now like excited school kids, shouting ‘Wow!’ as I connected with the bag. As I built up my work rate and really began to move around the bag, bobbing and weaving, they shouted words of encouragement like, ‘Very good’, ‘You are strong’ and ‘Powerful!’

  I would box for a while and then stop for a rest. Every time I stopped someone took a towel and wiped my face, another person would put a bottle of water to my mouth, while someone else wiped the sweat from my upper body. They had become my ringside team.

  After six three-minute rounds I gave up boxing and decided to end with a bit of kung fu. I stood still and straight. I concentrated and focused my eyes directly in front of me. I breathed in deeply, and out, and in, and as I breathed out again I began the form. When you do a form, you have to concentrate and nothing must distract you. I’m normally good at all that, but this time I had people cheering and making strange noises at me. I stayed focused and when I had finished I had a loud round of applause that embarrassed me.

  ‘You very good,’ said one member of the crowd.

  ‘You know kung fu?’ I asked him.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘You are master. I will learn from you.’

  ‘I am no master. After I leave Beijing I will be going to meet the real master for some training. He’s a real master, not me,’ I told him.

  ‘Where is your master?’ he asked.

  ‘Shaolin Temple,’ I said.

  He screamed, ‘Shaolin Temple! You go Shaolin Temple?’ That grabbed the attention of the others.

  ‘He is going to Shaolin Temple,’ he told them, and then they all bowed down as if to worship me.

  Although most people think of kung fu when they think of China, the truth is that most of the people in China don’t do kung fu. The Chinese know that kung fu is an important part of their culture but most don’t have time for it, which is why they have great respect for foreigners like me who are trying to keep it alive. They were even more impressed by my forthcoming journey to the Shaolin Temple. Even the Chinese who do take up kung fu do it at the local gym and won’t bother to train high up a mountain where it’s either really hot or really cold.

  They lined up for me, and as I walked down the line like a royal person or a general inspecting troops each of them shook my hand and thanked me for the demonstration, wishing me good luck and prosperity. When I had promised that I would report back to them after my trip, I was shown to the fire escape by Zhao Bin and made my way to my room to do a bit of writing on my new novel, Teacher’s Dead. It’s a novel for teenagers, an easy read about a kid who kills his teacher. Just kidding. It’s not really easy; just my way of dealing with it.

  Chapter Four

  Who Am I?

  This was the big day. I was going to the Shaolin Temple to meet the kung fu master.

  I got up after a night of very little sleep and opened the curtains. It was as if the sun was waiting behind the curtains. It slapped me across my face and blinded me for a few seconds, then it sent a wave of heat through my body, reminding me that I was away from home, on another continent.

  I had always found it very difficult to understand how an economy grows. My visit to China changed all that. As I looked out of the window, I saw high-rise buildings that weren’t there when I went to bed. Hundreds of vehicles were delivering building materials, and thousands more were taking people to work. Everywhere I looked it was the same. China’s economy was expanding OK, and I was watching it. I was standing on it, it was growing underneath my feet. As I stood there looking at China developing all around me, I wondered if anyone was watching me, and if so what they would make of the naked Rastaman on the ninth floor scratching his chest and feeling the future.

  I made my way to reception to check out. As I was trying to leave, I saw out of the corner of my eye a hand reaching for my suitcase. I slapped the hand and pushed the person away with my bottom. He fell over and struggled like a cockroach on its back.

  ‘What are you up to? You messed with my bag, guy.’

  Well, I could see he wasn’t a real criminal. He was too scared.

  ‘Benjamin?’ he said. ‘Are you Benjamin?’

  I was surprised.

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘Me your driver,’ he replied. ‘Me come to take you to the airport.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘You should have introduced yourself. If I see a hand going for my bag, I do my kung fu.’

  ‘That is not kung fu,’ he said.

  I reached out and gave him a hand up from the floor.

  ‘That’s kung fu all right. It’s called Afro Botty style and it floored you, didn’t it?’

  ‘Afro Botty style,’ he said, looking at my bottom. ‘Where did you learn this style?’

  ‘It is an ancient African martial art that was developed by a great voodoo master who fought with giant big-eared elephants.’ I was joking, of course.

  ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Are you ready to go now?’

  The driver’s name was Mr Young. He drove the way I like my drivers to drive, fast but safe, and he loved talking.


  ‘Mr Lorrimer tell me that you are famous man in London.’

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘I write poems and sometimes I go on television.’

  ‘So you are rich and have many wives?’

  ‘No. I’m not rich and I don’t have many wives. I don’t even have one wife.’

  ‘You are going to Shaolin Temple?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Kung fu,’ I said.

  He misunderstood me.

  ‘Very good. You are going to teach Chinese monk ancient African martial art of the Afro Botty style. Great, very great. Will make Chinese monk very happy and make giant big-eared elephants fall over, like me.’

  I laughed. ‘Yeah, like you.’

  I was worried. I had told him this crazy stuff about the Afro Botty style and at the time I thought that he knew I was joking, but I could see now that he was taking it very seriously. I didn’t know if I should tell him that I was only joking or just let it go, but then he made it harder for me.

  We stopped outside the airport terminal and before I got out, he said, ‘These monks at the temple are a bit old-fashioned. They think that good things come only from China. They think that China is the centre of the world. They are always taking about this Chinese style and that Chinese style. It will be very good if you go there and teach them the ancient art of the African Afro Botty style. Good luck.’ He was being so nice and serious I decided not to tell him I’d been pulling his leg.

  I had never taken an internal flight in China before so I was nervous, because it seemed like every time I heard the words ‘Chinese airline’ it was to do with a plane crash on a remote mountain that couldn’t be reached for two days. But the plane I boarded was new, newer than Mr Young’s car. Every seat had its own TV screen, radio headphones, and a little box full of crackers, boiled sweets and a bottle of mineral water from the mountains of Shandong. It was great.

  I sat in my window seat on the plane and started playing with the gadgets like a little boy with a new PlayStation. The two seats next to me were empty but as soon as we’d taken off and levelled out a man came and sat next to me.

  ‘I know you,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve been to England?’ I replied.

  ‘No, but I know you. You are famous.’

  ‘Well, a little famous. So you’ve seen me on television?’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve seen you on television. You are great. When I see you, I always say to my wife and children, “That man is a great man.” Yes, I know you. You are like a prophet. You are a leader of people.’

  I was beginning to feel embarrassed by his words, and was trying hard to think what to say next when his eyes lit up.

  ‘Please,’ he said, ‘can I have your autograph?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He went to his seat a few rows behind me and came back with a postcard with a picture of the Great Wall on it. He turned it over and said, ‘Sign, please.’

  I signed it and handed it back to him with a smile. He took it with a smile that quickly changed when he saw my autograph.

  ‘What is this?’ he said, looking confused.

  ‘My autograph,’ I replied, also looking confused.

  ‘What? You are not Bob Marley?’ he questioned me angrily.

  ‘I didn’t say I was,’ I replied angrily.

  ‘You said you’re famous. You said you’ve been on television.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Are you famous?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say I’m famous, I’d say I’m well known.’

  He looked more hopeful.

  ‘So you’re famous. What for? Are you actor or singer?’

  ‘I’m a poet.’

  He looked disappointed. He threw the card back at me.

  ‘Poet? You are a poet? Who ever heard of a famous poet that is alive? There is no such thing. You may think you’re famous but you just waste my time.’

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I didn’t come to China to be famous and I don’t care if I’m famous, but you don’t have to be dead to be famous, and I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Bob Marley is dead.’

  ‘He is not dead,’ he said.

  ‘His music lives on and his spirit is still with us, but his body has gone.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes, he died a long time ago.’

  He looked at me for what felt like a lifetime. It made me feel uncomfortable. The more he looked at me, the more it looked as if he was going to cry. Then he walked away. I didn’t even have time to read the list of ingredients on my packet of crackers when he came back with another postcard. This one had a picture of the Forbidden City on it. He handed it to me and said, ‘Please, I want Bob Marley’s autograph.’

  ‘He’s no longer with us,’ I said.

  ‘I understand, but you must do Bob Marley’s autograph for me.’

  I pointed to the card with my pen and checked that my hearing was in working order.

  ‘Let me get this right. You want me to sign this not with my name, but with Bob Marley’s name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I thought about it for a moment and I decided that to sign it was not a great sin. I wasn’t asking for any money, and I was sure Bob would have done it for me, so I signed the card as Bob Marley and handed it back to the man. He was happy again. He was still looking at the card as he walked back to his seat.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘This is very good; very, very good. I like this, but poetry is rubbish.’

  Chapter Five

  The Airport

  As the plane landed safely, the passengers clapped the pilots. When I see and hear this, it always amazes me because I know that most planes are landed by computer. I remember being in the cockpit of a plane in East Africa once and when it landed the passengers clapped the pilots while the pilots clapped the computer. I wondered if the pilots of this Chinese aeroplane were doing the same.

  My taxi picked me up and, after driving for an hour, we arrived at the hotel in the town of Dengfeng. Dengfeng could easily have been one of those small Chinese towns in the middle of nowhere. The kind that white people never see unless they have a film crew in tow, but this place is special, and what makes it so is the Shaolin Temple.

  This town is the last stop before you ascend the mountains to the temple, so the people of Dengfeng have become used to seeing groups of foreigners. Some of the shops are named after the temple even though they may not sell anything to do with the martial arts. Chinese youngsters dressed in their kung fu suits can be seen jogging through the streets, and it’s hot, really hot.

  My hotel was trying very hard to be modern and international. At first it looked fine. Painted on the bright white walls of the reception area were figures of kung fu fighters in action. Woven into the carpet on the floor was the yin and yang symbol. This symbolises hard and soft, male and female. Yin and yang are the symbols of unity and harmony used by martial artists all over the world.

  The first thing I noticed when the hotel porter opened the door of my room was a strong smell of urine coming from the bathroom. It was the kind of smell you can get in telephone boxes.

  I put my head into the bathroom and sniffed hard so that the porter would notice. He smiled and said, ‘Very good.’

  ‘Erm,’ I said, ‘there is a strange smell. Can you smell it?’

  ‘Very good,’ he said.

  ‘No. Not very good. Bad smell.’ I pointed into the toilet.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘very good.’

  We stepped further into my hotel room. I could feel my shoes sinking into the carpet. It was so soaked that it felt as if it had been on a pub crawl in Newcastle on a Saturday night. The wallpaper looked as if it was trying to leave the room. The room itself smelt like a farm.

  ‘It stinks,’ I declared.

  ‘Yes, it stinks. Very good for you.’

  When things get lost in translation, I never think I am better because the other person doesn’t understand Engl
ish. Even if somebody has only a few words of English I rate them higher than me. After all, I only know three words in Chinese and one of them is a really rude one. But I was annoyed because the smell in the room was so bad.

  The porter left, and I unpacked my suitcase and plugged in my laptop. One of the things about Chinese hotels is that they all seem to have free internet access. I logged on and sent an email to everyone who cared, telling them that I had arrived and things were looking good but smelling a little weird.

  I surfed the internet for a couple of hours to read up on the news back home. Then, when darkness fell, I thought I would take my nostrils for a walk in the fresh air. It was a Chinese national holiday and the very young and the very old were out on the streets enjoying the warm summer night.

  As usual, people stared at me, because I stood out from the crowd. In this town they were used to seeing foreigners, but not foreigners like me. I loved the attention. In all my travels in China I had never felt unsafe, and I had never been insulted. If I stared back, they stared more, but I soon discovered that if I smiled they smiled too, so that’s what I did and I found that it was a lovely way to greet their curiosity.

  Just down the road from the hotel I came across one of those classic Chinese sights. It reminded me of the China that I used to see on television, the China that shows the world that great things are possible if you work together and embrace collective spirit. In a large square in front of a shopping centre, I saw about two hundred people of all ages. They were all dancing the same steps in unison to Chinese pop music. The music was terrible, but the dancing was good.

  The oldest person I saw looked over a hundred years old, but she glided through the movements. As I looked at her I thought, ‘I hope I can do that when I’m her age, and I wonder if I can do that to a Fat Boy Slim tune?’

  I soon learnt that watching was just as rewarding as dancing, so I looked on and all my troubles just melted away.