Ma Jian - Red Dust

I sit down at a snack stall on the corner. The plastic-covered table is set with white bowls, vinegar and a greasy roast chicken that still has hairs on its bottom. After weeks of noodles, I could do with some meat.

‘How old is this bird?’ I ask.

‘Killed it yesterday.’

I pick it up and sniff. Not bad — it smells like the chickens sold on station platforms. I pay the stallholder three yuan and tear off a thigh. As I bite into the meat my body comes alive. I order a large spring onion and dig in.

There is sand in the air but the sky is still blue. In the middle of the traffic island a statue of a flying apsara plays a lute behind her back. She twists round with a beatific smile, one leg in the air, as horse-drawn carts, bicycles and buses circle around her. Apsaras are Buddhist nymphs who float through the air trailing garlands of diaphanous silk. Unlike Christian angels, they do not need wings to fly. The bright banner suspended between two telegraph poles behind her says FIRST CHILD: COIL. SECOND CHILD: ABORTION, THIRD CHILD: HYSTERECTOMY. The blood-red characters turn my stomach.

The next morning my throat is so sore I can hardly speak. Fortunately, I am not in a mood to talk. My Hong Kong roommate is sitting upright on his bed waiting for me to open my eyes. Through his face mask he tells me in broken Chinese that he saw ghosts last night.

‘Flying apsaras?’ I croak.

‘No, imperial warriors. Down there in the yard. Hundreds of them. Beating drums, marching in circles. Looked like they were preparing for battle.’

I look out of the window. Two hens scuttle in the sunlight. The wire tied from the basketball post to the brick building behind is hung with shirts, trousers and nappies. A woman in a red skirt bends over a tub of laundry. Her bottom looks huge.

‘It’s an ordinary yard,’ I say.

‘But it was full of soldiers last night.’ He pulls down his mask. His girlish, innocent face is contorted with fear.

‘Perhaps you were dreaming. Or maybe you have been reading too many travel books.’ I remember the legend of the Singing Sand Hills. An army of imperial warriors camped in the desert one night and a sudden sandstorm buried them alive. They say that if the wind is blowing in the right direction, you can hear the soldiers’ ghosts wailing from inside the dunes.

‘I never have dreams, and I don’t believe in ghosts either. When I heard the noise last night I thought they were making a movie.’ He fixes me with his terrified eyes.

‘How much are tickets for the Mogao Caves?’

‘Ten yuan for foreigners, one yuan for Chinese.’

I slip into my shoes and make for the door. When I see he is still staring at me I say, ‘Don’t worry, ghosts are just like buddhas — they only exist if you believe in them.’

Although I have taken the lay Buddhist vows, I still feel confused. I often wonder if the Buddha exists or where his Pure Land is. I question whether I am searching for faith or merely a sense of security. But now that I am a rootless vagabond, perhaps the Buddha is guiding my way. Perhaps it was he who told me to leave my family, friends, desires, ambitions, and to abandon myself to fate. Where would I have found the courage otherwise? Dunhuang is an important place of pilgrimage. It marks the entry point of Buddhism into China. I am here now. Maybe there is something waiting for me.

Before me stands the cliff face of the Singing Sand Hills, honeycombed with the famous Mogao Caves. From the fourth to the tenth centuries, communities of Buddhist monks hewed these cave shrines into the cliff and decorated them with murals and painted statues. I have seen countless pictures of them in art history books. I know the walls are painted with graceful apsaras, scenes from the life of the first Buddha, Shakyamuni, and portraits of the Silk Road merchants who sponsored the building of the caves to ensure a safe journey across the desert. I know that one cave holds a thirty-three-metre-high statue of Amitabha, the disciple of Shakyamuni, whose radiant wisdom transforms cravings into infinite light. I have seen a photograph of the huge reclining buddha who waits for death with a smile on his face. His tranquil expression touched me more than the tortured look I have seen on images of Christ. Buddhism teaches man to transcend the material world and view life and death as trivial. Christianity urges man to cherish life and fear death.

I buy a Chinese entrance ticket and turn right. Foreigners take the path to the left. I follow the stream of tourists, ticking off each cave as we pass. Most of the caves are locked and it is forbidden to peep over the railings. People in front and behind are talking and eating. Some carry cassette players and play tapes of revolutionary anthems, those who have run out of batteries tune their radios to a programme on the Yellow River. Four caves are open to the public, but there are no lights inside, so I cannot see the frescoes. Over the centuries, the temple caves have been eroded by the wind and stained by the woodsmoke of generations of squatters. It is hard to sense their sanctity. All I see are crumbling walls. The statue of wrathful Vajrapani glowers with rage, but his broken lips give him a ridiculous air. When we reach the cave of the nine-storey-high seated Amitabha, the crowds converge. Men and women from the Japanese tour group wear white hats and hold red flags. Blond Americans with cameras hanging from their shoulders circle the buddha and peer up with open mouths.

I look at Amitabha too: delicate brows, almond eyes, an air of sublime compassion, and I feel tiny and insignificant. When I chanted his name in Jushilin Temple, I sometimes felt my spirit rise from my body and enter another realm. The sense of calm and emptiness was liberating.

I must sit down. I am a Buddhist. My mind should be focused at this point. I have read the scriptures, and understand the concept of reincarnation and the law of just retribution. I have come here to still my heart and rid myself of worldly concerns. I glance at the mural of Amitabha’s Western Paradise, but the scenes of clothes growing from trees and apples flying into mouths do not fill me with a wish to be reborn there. Tourists babble like monkeys as they climb the steps, gawking at the buddha who sits still and oblivious. I look at his face again and suddenly it reminds me of Mao Zedong. I drew the Chairman’s portrait hundreds of times from primary school to middle school. The more I study Amitabha the more he resembles Old Mao.

I walk out in a daze. That was the largest buddha I have seen in my life, but my mind is blank. I am more confused than when I went in. Perhaps I should buy a foreigner’s ticket and go round again. They are bound to get shown the better caves. Not today though. Remembering the Hong Kong boy’s bewildered eyes, I leave the caves behind me and walk towards the empty dunes.

Early next morning I pack my belongings, tie my damp socks to the straps of my bag, and set off for the road that runs north to Xinjiang and south to the empty wastes of Qinghai.

Trucks pass in a constant stream. The warm breeze is laced with petrol fumes — it smells like the breath of the modern world. My money is running out. I do not mind much where I go, I just hope I can get a lift to the next province.

After an hour of waving a one-yuan note in the air, a truck finally pulls up. When I climb inside the driver grumbles that he thought it was a tenner I was holding. I tell him it’s all I’ve got.

Six, seven hours later, the truck stops at Akesai, the capital of the Kazak Autonomous Prefecture, close to the Gansu — Qinghai border. I step down and look up at the icy Aierjin mountains. The jagged peaks seem to have been hacked by a mad knifeman. The slopes look bare.