Loaded magazine visits the Shaolin Temple to learn kung fu from the masters

story by Will Storr, photos by Antony Medley

Five men hold a screaming six-year-old down on the floor of a schoolyard. Laughing they bent his legs so far that his feet touch his ears. His choked, desperate wails travel through the air and into my brain, where they do a violent breakdance inside my mind's own hyperstimulated dread centre. Because, for the next three days, this will be my school. And, like the tortured kid, I'll be being trainined in advanced Wushu kung-fu, the martial art of choice in China's legendary Shaolin village. Which would be fine, if I knew anything about kung fu. And if I didn't have the suppleness and agility of a '60s tower block. And if I spoke Mandarin Chinese with a Hennan dialect. Yes, then I would be fine.

But I'm not. This became apparent half an hour earlier during a meeting with the school's headmaster. I was introduced to him by "Henry" ("that's my English name"), who speaks a smattering English. Also present was my teacher, his evil little eyes and broken nose giving him the physical appearance and menacing presence of a cornered bulldog. "He ha chi fa ka tang. Hwa," barked the headmaster. I think. "He asked what you want to learn," said Henry. "Kung-Fu." "Yes, er,"he looked bewildered, "how much kung-fu you know?" "None," I replied. "None whatsoever." A silence, born of confusion and disbelief, descended into the room and onto the faces of everybody in it. This is probably because I was standing in front of them with a shaved head, the wooden staff and the bright orange robe of a Shaolin monk - a master of the art. It's also because, usually, the only westerners that travel here to train with the masters do so because they are so advanced that they can learn no more in their home country. The situation I'm standing in is akin to Bob Dylan walking up to Kate Moss and asking her for a masterclass in supermodelling.

It's ludicrous, it's misguided and it's totally impossible. Still, I've paid upfront and I want to be a Shaolin monk. And that means freedom from desire and a shit-hot upper-cut. Probably quite a lot to ask in three days, but these boys should be able to handle it: they've been doing it for a while.

It was in 495 AD that the first temple was built in Shaolin, for the Buddhist monk BaTuo. Thirty two years later a chap called Ta Mo came to the temple and he toddled off to live on Wuru Feng, a nearby mountain, for nine years, keeping himself fit by meditating and by imitating the movements of animals. When he finally moved into the temple he was horrified to find the monks so weak that they'd fall asleep whilst meditating. He taught them his animal exercises and they became the basis for Shaolin Kung Fu.

Since then, the monks have been seen either as a source of support or a terrifying threat to the rulers of the country. The temple has seen repeated sackings by uneasy Chinese rulers, most recently in 1948 when communist leader Chairman Mao took control of 13,000 acres of the monks' land.

It's only been since 1982 that the government has begun to relent, although there are strict controls. "Wushu" kung-fu is a recently created and much more competitive form of the original. Basically, it's Shaolin kung-fu with the philosophy taken out - a far more palatable idea to a government that reacts violently and decisively against any idea that does not conform to the party line.

Which leaves my chances of finding my calm zen centre and returning to England with a detached sense of wisdom and peace completely jeffed up. It's government approved "Wushu" that I will be learning and that means fist-work.

The moment it really dawns on me that myself and photographer Tony are the most physically inept and spiritually bankrupt to have walked the dusty streets of Shaolin in the last millenia and a half comes 20 minutes later. I'm standing in the training room of the kung-fu school. We are warming up, part of which involves my placing the foot on top of a radiator, which puts it at a 90 degree angle to my body. The only way I'm able to do this is by physically lifting my leg with my hands and grimacing with the strain. Whilst I'm struggling to achieve this, a troupe of men march into the room, their legs lifting so high that their feet actually slap against their foreheads.

Tony starts to snigger. My instructor starts to growl. He's right, this isn't funny; it's demanding, it's humiliating and it's smarts. After half an hour, every joint in my legs feels like it has been ripped from the root, blisters are flaming up on my feet, and the sweat that's forming in the 38 degrees (approx. 105 degrees F) of heat is running down my head like rivulets of blood pouring from the ears of a car-crash cadaver. Thirty minutes down, three and a half hours to go.

After the warm-up, my teacher glides fluidly through a kung-fu move and signals that he wants me to copy him. I stand, static in my confusion, as a feeling of embarrassed incompetence rushes up my withered body and gathers in my face in the form of a ballooning blush. He does the manoeuvre again. It looks like an impossibly difficult boy dance move. He watches archly as I bend one leg, straighten the other out and do a kind of crouch. Puzzled, he puts one hand on each of my hips and pushes down as hard as he can. He simply cannot believe that I'm this unsupple. Stubbornly, I remain, wobbling and shell-shocked, still in position. He tries again, this time by booting me in the ankles. My body responds by falling over. Beside me, another student is tying his shoelace. He is bent double, his face literally centimeters away from his trainers. Another one goes flying through the air, his two swords flailing with the savage accuracy of a freestyling nuclear Magimix.

Two hours later, I tumble, exhausted, into my room and turn the tap on. Nothing. I turn the other one. A deep growl precedes an intermittent spattering of water. After a weary sink wash I stagger to my bed, bandage on my feet and fall into a comatose sleep. Four hours later, I attempt to stand up. My legs buckle and I collapse onto the floor.

The main street that runs through Shaolin village is remarkable for many reasons. The shops that sell lethal kung-fu weaponry, the barbers which double-up as brothels, the overwhelming honk of heat-stewing piss. It's at its most startling though, at around 6pm, when 10,000 young kung-fu students pour out of their respective schools and onto the large track of land that sits behind the street, where they'll spend the night watching each other in crudely lit fights.

They're sent here from all over China, their heads filled with dreams of a future in films or VIP bodyguarding. The sound of their training echoes through Shaolin valley from the 5am sunrise to well after midnight.

"Hello! So, Will, how was your first …hello!…day of training? Hello!" Tony asks as the kids stream past us.

We're sitting on a pavement table, supping bottles of the local brew (corporate slogan: "Zhengzhou Beer is nice to drink because of it's nice quality") and trying to have a conversation. Unfortunately the novelty of seeing to westerners has proved too much for the endless parade of kung-fu munchkins. On sight, they all wave cheerily and chirrup, "Harrow!"

"Well, Tony….hello!…my legs….hello!….have stopped….hello!…..working, and….hello!….I can only walk….hello!…..using a stick."

We peruse the menu, unsure about the English translations, "Spicy Ass Meat Slices", "Fried Slice Frogs In Beer", "Pungent Cabbage", "Strange Flavored Chicken".

"I'll have…hello!….rice….hello!….please."

Twenty four hours later, I'm in pieces. A further day's training in this heat, with my legs as stiff as pill-box concrete, was agony. I'm also increasingly disturbed by the cruelty dealt to the other kids in the classroom. One teenager got the legs-bent treatment, but this time the teacher decided it would be useful to kick the poor bastard in the head and ribs whilst he was stretched Later on, a seven-year-old fluffed his routine, which involves crossing the room with a series of legs-to-head forward rolls. His nuance of a mistake earned him a torrid beating with a six foot stick. All this leaves me with conflicting emotions - I simultaneously find myself proud that I've pulled myself through another impossibly arduous day, but also ashamed that I'm a pathetic, weak willed and soulless western chump.

After much discussion and Zhengzhou beer, Tony and I decide that there is only one honorable - and possible - course of action. I get to work on a letter. "Dear Shaolin Master, Will cannot come in to kung-fu today on account of his bad legs. Nice one, Mrs. Storr."

We slip the note under the headmaster's door and return to our drinking. The next morning we find we have a problem: our rooms are in the same building as the training center and escaping involves sneaking past the headmaster's office. It doesn't work. "Hwa ya tantou shing tan ki stupid western shitter tang shi!" "Er…the headmaster…he is very angry," Henry translates. "Didn't you see my letter? I've got bad legs." "Cha Tomfang Zhengzhou ti nits twat so!"

It doesn't help. I turn, lean heavily on my stick and move slowly, wincingly out of the door. And up the nearest mountain.

Wuru Feng is 750 meters high (2,300 ft.) and is the axis of all zen power in China. It's where Ta Mo, the father of Shaolin kung-fu, spent his nine years copying animals and meditating. It's also a great hiding place.Those jumped up PE teachers won't be able to get us up here. We can see everything: the school, the troupes of students, the bustle of the main street, we can even hear the faint throb of gangster rap coming from those cheeky barber's shops and the thwacking and "oofing" of sparring martial artists that has filled this valley for the last 1,500 years.

It would be easy to meditate gloomily on the lack of discipline my western upbringing has inflicted on me. The kids down there can do incredible things. They have single-mindedly devoted their lives to becoming masters of their art. Not for them the boozy weekends, the TV marathons and the bad adventures with women that have characterized my youth and yours. But I'm not going to sulk. I like watching EastEnders, poisoning my brain with disco refreshers and eating enormous cheeseburgers. Who needs a calm zen center when you've got a home cinema and microwave in your bedroom.

That said, I will be taking one small element of Shaolin doctrine away with me. The monks in the temple always preached the Buddhist ideal of freedom from desire. And I can tell you that I'm now free from the desire to have anything to do with martial arts ever again. -

Loaded Magazine, August 2001, www.uploaded.com