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on Thursday, February 24, 2005 - 12:04 AM AST - Reads
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by Monica Rodriguez
The locals flock to her in the morning. She opens a few side doors to serve vegetarian noodles to the faithful. Facing the entrance to the temple, daily commuters and shoppers stir a frenzy of activity. I, on the other hand, try to avoid her during the day. Otherwise, the gauntlet of vendors awaits, taunting me, "Xiaojie, Xiaojie." (In one connotation, this means "Miss" in Mandarin. It's what you say to catch someone's attention, say, in a restaurant. The second connotation involves paying for female companionship.)
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After a few months in the neighborhood, I still had no idea what the vendors were trying to sell me. I had learned to ignore them and walk briskly past. Despite my exhortations of "I don't understand" in Mandarin, a few diehards pick up their pace and taunt me the entire block. An acquaintance finally explained why I was always accosted in front of the temple: they claim to be fortune-tellers divinely-inspired to read my future. Do I want my fortune predicted by people who lurk on the sidewalks? I told my friend, "Even if they could, I couldn't understand them anyway." Hence the problem of a Westerner living in a Filipina's body: in China, I am a foreigner always mistaken as a local.
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The two-storey pagoda structure of Jing'an Temple stands opposite Jing'an Park and adjacent to the newest mall in Shanghai. Its freshly painted, maize and burnt sienna exterior belie her origins from 247 AD. As the oldest shrine in the city, the locals regard Jing'an mire highly than the tourist favorite Jade Buddha Temple. The former was the site for China's first Buddhist organization in 1912, then during the Cultural Revolution, it was converted into a plastics factory. In 1983, the building was relocated and reverted to its religious functions.
On a chilly winter Sunday, I ventured into the confines of the shrine. The interior courtyard was sparse with visitors. Several were standing in the center lighting their incense sticks, rotating clockwise, and stopping every 10 seconds at each compass point to pray for good fortune. I would have joined in if I had been familiar with protocol. Worship halls housing various jade and golden Buddha statues lined the perimeter of the courtyard. In the main hall, religious Chinese were paying tribute to the rare female Buddha, the Goddess of Mercy.
On the second floor, I stepped over unpainted wooden rails and sawdust, which evidenced the $5 million renovation underway. Facing south, visitors gazed at a 180-degree view of towering office buildings and luxury hotels. You had to remind yourself you were standing in a 1700-year old shrine that pre-dated the city. Down below, would-be fortune-tellers roamed the sidewalk. The feisty American in me was tempted to shout at them from above, "Xiaojie, xiaojie", but the Asian in me thought it better to save face.
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Unlike Jade Buddha Temple, there were no robin-like birds fluttering around the trees and feeling of serenity. I hardly felt compelled to sit down with my knees facing forward and meditate on the Buddha before me. Like most things in the city, her exterior is imposing and visually appealing, but venturing closer, you find that her soul has faded away. She is mainly for show and commercialization. However, her facade will draw you in whether or not you meant to enter. But go in, by all means, for Jing'an Temple represents authentic Shanghai. And if you are disappointed, there is a Hagen Dazs down the block above Tiffany's.
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Note: Monica is a freelance writer and corporate trainer. When she's not globetrotting, Shanghai is home."
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