Left to right: Mr. Tang, Master Yan, Nick, and Myself
I
awoke with a start to the domestic sounds of children playing in a park, and
the distant and melodious chirping of birds. Laying beneath a pile of
clean-smelling sheets and staring up at a spotless white ceiling, I could feel
my groggy, sleep-addled brain slowly regain function as I tried to remember
where I was. My inner ornithologist set off alarm bells at the chirpings
outside; these were not the birds I remembered hearing in Hanoi. I shot upright
and looked around the tidy, spacious room. It was beautifully lit by diffuse
sunlight coming in from a courtyard outside, and fresh air made light blue
curtains sway invitingly nearby. I squinted into the sunlight and moved to the
edge of the bed, beginning to recount events that had brought me there.
Due to
airline issues, I had been forced to fly from Vietnam to Japan, and then back
to Hong Kong, where I had planned to visit friends from college who lived in
the area. After about 20 hours of travel and a sleepless night, I found them,
and we had hit the town for a very, very late evening. My good friend Nick, a
native of mainland China with whom I would be staying in China, had managed to
drag my exhausted, delirious self through Chinese customs and border control
and into the city of Shenzhen, where his family lived. After a night of
exploring and partying in Hong Kong, we made it to his family’s apartment on
the mainland by around four in the morning, and then there was wine to be had.
I had slept like the dead… at least until that point.
The
door opened quickly and quietly, and Nick poked his head in, cleaning the lens
of his glasses on his T-shirt. “Charles, you should get up now. My mother will
take us to see the Xinyi master.”
‘The
Xinyi Master’? I had almost completely forgotten, but months before, when I had
been arranging to stay with Nick after my study in Vietnam, I had mentioned off
hand I would be interested in meeting and possibly training with some martial
artists in China. Nick’s mother was an instructor of Yang Style Tai Chi Chuan,
and evidently had connections in various martial arts circles around Shenzhen.
Given that I had asked to see something “uniquely Chinese”, Nick and his
family—in characteristically considerate, polite, and discrete fashion—had
arranged it all perfectly, months in advance, without saying a word.
I
dressed as quickly as I could and rushed into the kitchen, where I was
introduced to Nick’s parents. Using my Mandarin vocabulary of “good”, “hello”,
“delicious” and “thank you”, I managed to converse my way through a delicious
breakfast of home-made noodle soup, and before I knew it was being ushered
outside to the car. It was evidently a family outing; I was grateful Nick would
be along to translate.
After
braving the aggressive traffic in Shenzhen (it made Boston’s drivers look tame
and tractable) we arrived at another massive apartment building, parked and
went inside. On the third floor, we were welcomed into a beautiful flat with
ample hardwood flooring by a sturdy, hygienic-looking fellow with a broad head, neatly combed hair
and a strong handshake. He wore a beautifully tailored wine-red suit of
traditional Chinese style—precisely the type American martial artists might
recognize from Kung Fu films, or nearly any other formal event. His wife was a
small and friendly woman with short, well-kept hair and an easy smile. I
finally shook hands with a younger man, perhaps in his early forties, in a suit of
a similar style, but formal black in color. He had a short buzz cut and stood
with tall, relaxed posture like the older of the two. From the way their arms
hung at their sides, I was already sure these were the powerful martial artists
we had come to see.
Nick
introduced me to my hosts. The stouter, shorter fellow was Hongtao Yan, the
head of the Wudang Tai chi school in the area, who teaches various forms of Tai
Chi as well as Xing Yi; both powerful internals arts of ancient origin. Nick
and his mother had clearly taken my words very seriously; I couldn’t have been
more pleased. The taller and lankier of the two, the younger fellow in the
black suit, greeted me in fluent English with a strong accent. He had a soft
voice but the same firm handshake, the same relaxed movement of the arms which
bespoke the capability for great, relaxed force. His name was Jihai Tang; he
was a recent student of Master Yan’s. I learned later he had learned English
while studying biochemistry at Harvard University.
Still
exhausted from the night before, I let my guard down a little at the informal
and initially casual nature of our meeting; Master Yan’s family—including a
teenage daughter, aunts and uncles, a grandfather and several young
cousins—were bustling about the apartment as we spoke, and the sounds and
smells of lunch being prepared had lulled me into a state of ease. The party
around me had commenced conversing in fluent mandarin, and my mind wandered as
I examined a rack of Chinese training weapons mounted neatly on a nearby wall.
“Charles,” Nick began, gesturing
toward the open floor space of the room in front of the weapon rack and shrine.
“Sifu says he would like you to demonstrate your Vietnamese martial arts.” Head
reeling with exhaustion, I did my best to seem awake and attentive, and obliged
cheerfully; I had no intentions of seeming disrespectful when my hosts—both
Nick’s family and Master Yan’s—had taken the time to arrange this meeting.
I
performed Long Ho Quyen and Khai Tam Quyen, making occasional adjustments for
the size of the room, and bowed nervously to cheerful applause. I was then
hurriedly ushered to sit by a beautiful hardwood tea-table, where Master Yan,
Nick, Mr. Tang and I enjoyed repeated cups of ceremoniously-poured tea. Master
Yan told me about his training and his school of martial arts, and showed an
instructional DVD his teacher had made perhaps a decade before. I sat and drank
the fine teas—I would later find out from an expert friend that these were some
of the most expensive teas in China—as I watched, finding that my cup was
stealthily refilled every time I looked away.
We discussed training philosophies
and insights, or previous teachers, how long we had been practicing, why people
study martial arts, and so on.
As all
conversations about martial arts go between martial artists, more than half of it was spent standing. Inevitably, Master Yan, Mr. Tang and I were on our feet, they demonstrating a set of Xinyi movements, a
form, and finally a form from Chen style Tai Chi, and myself some of the internal breathing exercises I had learned from my Aikido training. Watching Master Yan, I could recall learning the forms he demonstrated from a friend and fellow martial artist in my early years of college,
but I had never seen the movements performed so powerfully. Master Yan’s
techniques were executed with a precision, control, and unity of body that made
me feel increasingly ridiculous for the applause I received after my earlier
demonstration. When he stomped the ground at the beginning of one form, I felt
the whole apartment quake, and when his fists and feet lashed out in various
kicks and strikes, a rush of air would follow the crisp snap of his suit’s
broad sleeves.
Through
Nick, I spoke my praise of Master Yan’s forms, and explained that I had always
wanted to see a master of these internal arts in action. Through Nick once
more, Master Yan asked if I would demonstrate some forms from Aikido.
Hesitating, I replied that Aikido did not have "forms" per se; it always required
a training partner. This was my first mistake.
“No
problem,” I heard Master Yan say in Mandarin—one of the phrases I had picked up
since my arrival—and soon Nick was relaying the rest of the message. “He says
you should try to throw him.” My heart leapt. This wasn’t going to end well.
Seeing
no point in delaying the inevitable, I closed the distance between Master Yan and I and, in the style of
chi sao or double pushing hands, I put our forearms together and
began trying to create an opening to unbalance him. With the sensitivity I had
picked upfrom years of Aikido training, I could already feel the impossible
rootedness and power behind his stance and posture; I could hardly budge him,
and his arms were pliable and flexible, blending with my movements yet with
each shift drawing me further outside my own balance. Growing desperate, I
began to make more frantic, less “Aiki” (internal, blending) and more “jutsu”
(technical, external, physical) movements in an attempt to unbalance him. I
advanced, changed our spacing, tried to step around his guard, and even tried
to trip him with a foot reap; nothing worked, and before I knew it he had
trapped my arms and redirected one of my more ambitious shoves into a push that sent me hurtling back toward the
weapon rack. Sparring with MMA fighters, state champ high
school wrestlers, Judoka, and other experienced grapplers I had found myself
able to shrug off most attempts to cast me off balance, a simple shift of this
man’s waist had sent me hurtling out of control; it was the type of feeling one
gets when thrown from a bicycle at about 20 miles per hour. Just waiting for
impact, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
But,
with equal power, a hand seized my wrist and yanked me back on balance before I
could bring Master Yan’s apartment to ruin. He re-established the positioning
of our hands. I looked at his face briefly, and could see the calm seriousness
of his features; dark eyes had shifted to Nick beneath furrowed brows. He spoke
something in a soft and commanding voice. “Sifu says you should just throw him.
Just use a real throw, you know, a Judo throw.” I grunted, feeling my face
flush; despite myself I was embarrassed and frustrated to hear my best attempts
at good Aikido being considered something other than “real”. Using what I had
learned of Judo from friends in the past, I slid around Master Yan’s guard,
gripped the material of one sleeve and his collar, and yanked hard to one side
to pull his weight onto one leg. I would follow with a leg reap, and send him
flying to the floor.
But I
didn’t make it to step 1. As I shoved hard to take his balance, I felt like I
was pushing a wall. A meaty palm collided with my side and sent me spinning off
balance and subsequently to the floor. Master Yan laughed good-naturedly at his
easy dismissal of my technique, and said something in Mandarin to Nick. I
struggled to my feet, and catching my breath stated my astonishment at Master
Yan’s skill, through Nick. “Sifu says perhaps you should try on his student,
instead, you can take him off balance.” Said Nick. I glanced at Mr. Tang, who
even in calm politeness had a gleam in his eyes; it was the look I’ve seen at
many martial arts schools I’ve visited… the gratification of showing an
outsider the skill of one’s school, especially the hard way. It is not a
malicious intention, and can be quite good natured, but it seems ever-present
to me.
I met
the same fate with the younger, thinner, and less experienced Mr. Tang. We
locked arms as before, and though he did not feel nearly as solid or immovable
as Master Yan, the result was inevitably the same. I managed to blend with and
neutralize some of his more ambitious attempts to unbalance me, but I was
thoroughly outclassed; if at any moment my best attempts to stay balanced and
maintain a unity of body form I strayed just slightly from a powerful stance, I
was swept immediately off my feet and went careening to the hardwood floor
below.
This
went on for some time, with much laughter all around—my own included, I did my
best to remain humble despite the obvious humiliation—until Master Yan decided
there might be ways to further demonstrate the power of their training. Calling
Mr. Tang, he made a fist and gestured a straight punch, then waved my way and
continued in Mandarin. I looked between the two, puzzled, until Mr. Tang spoke,
stepping toward me. “Hit me.” He said in the same overpowering accent. I
glanced at Nick, who nodded, adjusting his glasses and waving an open hand
encouragingly. “Sifu says you should punch him in the abdomen.” I hesitated as
Mr. Tang adjusted his posture, then gave a smooth, relaxed, but light hook to
the body with my right. It bounced off harmlessly. “Hit hard!” Mr. Tang
said emphatically, straightening his posture further. I ratcheted it up to
about 50%. “Harder!” Mr. Tang almost yelled. Keeping with the rhythm, I put
more of my body behind it. It felt like I was punching an overfull balloon; my
fist bounced off in a way it didn’t when striking the heavy bag. “HARDER!” Mr.
Tang yelled this time, and before I knew it I was landing full-force punches.
Now,
I’m no professional boxer, and probably if anything a mediocre puncher, but
I was hitting him with about as much power as I could muster, and
hearing nothing but “HARDER!” in response to each strike. Next, he patted his
shoulder casually, unphased by my punching, and said “Kick me.”
After 5
years of Tang Soo Do, some Karate, and now nearly a year of Muay Thai, I take
my kicks a lot more seriously than my punches. But even these seemed hardly to
effect him, and I got the same treatment. Kicking as hard as I could muster, I
drove my hip through him and sent a fierce left round kick his way; still each
time he yelled “HARDER!”, as I got more winded. Nick’s mother cried out in
surprise when I started kicking full force, but Mr. Tang handled it without
batting an eyelash
and, after ushering me back to the tea table and shaking my hand,
went on to display other feats of internal strength, like pushups on the tips
of his thumbs, and a sort of inverted headstand. With regards to his earlier
feats, “breathing” through my onslaught of kicks and punches, Mr. Tang reminded
me of a
video I had once seen on youtube of practitioners of Systema (a Russian martial art with internal training
methods) who had done the same thing. I find this tremendously impressive; my
only understanding of it is the type that comes from having experienced it and
knowing it is truly possible.
The
“tea party” continued in the way a tea party is likely to go between martial
artists. After a few minutes of exchanging viewpoints on martial
philosophy—Master Yan was apparently impressed with my thinking on the subject
of styles and the difference between “Western” and “Eastern” martial arts
training—we were back on our feet again. This time, I was on the
observing and receiving end of a number of chin na, wrist-locking
techniques, and throws from Xin Yi and movements of Tai Chi; all of which
coincided exactly with Aikido techniques I had been learning or trying to
employ earlier in the afternoon. Naturally, Master Yan’s movements were far
more refined and powerful than my own; I was nearly thrown into the wall at least another
dozen times.
We
returned to the table for another few cups of tea. Master Yan had me reiterate
my views on different styles of training. I had been explaining that I viewed martial
arts training along a continuum, from the close-minded and competitive to the
open-minded and cooperative. I argued that ideally we seek the “middle ground”
between the two; where overly competitive training requires too many rules to
prevent serious injury or death, and thus constrains realism in practice and
the use of valuable techniques for self defense, and overly cooperative martial
art, where movements are strictly pre-arranged and, if there is a training
partner, they do not resist or react in any way, leads to an unrealistic view
of an entirely cooperative opponent and techniques that may not “really work”. In
order to get this “middle ground”, I explained it was best to have trained at
both ends of the spectrum, and to practice taking the mindset of one while physically
doing the other. Master Yan agreed emphatically, and explained calmly that I
was truly talking about Yin and Yang forms of training, both of which form a
cohesive whole for good practice. He called them “the two rivers”, and
explained that both needed to be navigable to really reach one’s destination in
martial arts training. There were other rivers, too, all related, and these we
discussed in depth as well; particularly “Eastern” vs. “Western” fighting
forms, and internal vs. external.
Before
long, Master Yan’s family served us an enormous and luxuriant lunch; Nick
explained it was in the traditional style of Shenzhen. I was persuaded to drink
half a dozen glasses of strong rice wine with Master Yan and Mr. Tang as a show
of mutual respect, and struggled with the combination of that and blisteringly
hot peppers in the soup I was eating.
After
lunch, Master Yan gave Nick and I formal lessons in assuming several postures
of Xin Yi, and making the first few movements of a Chen-style Tai Chi form. His
attention or detail and scrutiny of our posture and form was acute; my legs
were burning with exhaustion from staying in a back stance for close to ten
minutes while he constantly readjusted my hands, elbows, neck, jawline, hips,
then returned to find that my fingertips had wandered off, and my shoulders
grown tight while I made some other adjustment.
He took
pictures of us in the postures we were learning, and finally took a number of
pictures with us and his family. I was also honored to stand beside he and Mr.
Tang in a photograph of the traditional style of martial arts teachers and
their students; I recall seeing pictures of Bruce Lee and Yip man taken in the
same fashion. Master Yan told me that if I ever come back to Shenzhen, that I
should train with he and his students. I told him I would do it in a heartbeat,
and hoped the metaphor translated reasonably well.
After
we had said our goodbyes and were lurching and screeching back through
Guangdong traffic, I found myself reflecting on the whole experience and how it
compared to my experiences in Vietnam. What had at first been an intimidating,
if not even belittling experience had, after a show of mutual goodwill and
through much conversation, become incredibly inspirational. After spending the
last 8 months or so training mostly in external arts like karate and Muay Thai,
I had gained a steadily more restricted and simplified view of fighting; it was
all crosses and hooks and leg-kicks, and much of the complexity of the
classical street-fighting or battlefield attitude had been lost. Though I’m a
huge fan of kickboxing as a sport and martial art, it had certainly begun to
drain some of the flavor from fighting.
With
Master Yan and Mr. Tang, I was shown glaring evidence that external power and
striking alone would not suffice against traditional techniques. Internal
power, sensitivity in movement and trapping were all crucial, not to mention
the less “sportsmanlike” techniques like knee-pushing, foot-stomping,
eye-gouges, strikes using the fingers and different parts of the hand (not
possible with boxing gloves), etc. Master Yan had almost literally knocked some
sense back into me, and returned my standing on the martial arts to a more balanced, centered, and holistic one. The MMA and Muay Thai training and I had enjoyed before my time in Vietnam, and the forms and kata I practiced with Sifu Duc were all different and necessary parts of a "whole" experience in the martial arts. Returning to the United States, I kept in mind that in my continued journey I should be sure to spend time on each of the two long rivers of martial art.