Mogao CavesOn any trip to Dunhuang, the Mogao Caves, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is a must see. The carved out caves feature one of the largest collections of Buddhist paintings and sculptures at a site established in 332 AD that has survived not only the withering effects of time but the actual torching of the caves by nonbelievers, looting by invaders, serving as refugee housing in 1921 for Russian soldiers fleeing the revolution along with the rampant plundering by legions of foreign, allegedly well-meaning, archeologists from Britain, France, Hungary, Japan, among others and a untold years of tourist marauders. This place is literally a trip. It was here a monk named Lè Zūn had a vision of a thousand Buddha’s glowing in the desert light and was so inspired he began scratching into the hillside in order to paint his mirage. He was later joined by another monk named Faliang and a community gathered around them of other artistic believers who also dug out caves in which to reflect and meditate, and they began sculpting and painting images on the walls of Silk Road events influenced by travelers who shared their techniques and concepts. The community thrived for over a 1,000 years. The cave paintings are a living testament to the back and forth trading of ideas and served as illustrated Buddhist texts for the largely illiterate population. Viewed in this context they can be seen as the movies of the day, documenting such things as bandits along the Silk Road, Buddha sitting among the beasts, the victories of ancient generals and the pilgrim monk Xuanzang on his journey to India. Click to view some Mogao Cave movies. I began my journey through the monk Lè Zūn’s eyes, seeing the site as a canvas to share my hallucination of the wonders of the universe. The desert has always called out to holy men and lunatics but the Mogao site is blissful. The cliff bank rises above the Dachuan River, dry now—a seasonal torrent—and is ringed with rugged prehistoric mountains, shaded by desert willows, baked brown by the constant glorious sunshine, the sandstone easy to carve, the vista inspirational, the feeling that you are at one with everything, explicit. Along the horizon, prior inhabitants had built lonely wooden shrines that I will come back to visit, thinking that from them you can clearly see forever, and I started singing On a Clear Day You Can See Forever, but not the version sung Barbara Streisand, but more the Sammy Ding Dong version that literally does go on forever, provoking giggles and whispers from the Chinese tourists. I sing in public, so what, they really do need to get over it. But, by God, what a place and I hadn’t even gone into the caves yet. The English-speaking guide was a Chinese woman of infinite patience and a fountain of Mogao Cave knowledge. The only other person on the tour was an amiable Canadian professor who asked interesting questions yet kept his sense of humor while being respectful. That was a fitting response to these caves, this walk back through time, maintaining your reverence but balancing it with your humanness. We saw Buddhas: floating Buddhas, Buddhas stepping on demons, reclining Buddhas, Buddhas surrounded by effeminate Bodhisattvas, crossed-legged Buddhas, Buddhas beckoning, Buddhas praying, but mostly, larger Buddhas surrounded by their diminished faithful followers. I know I saw at least a thousand Buddhas, so Lè Zūn’s vision had definitely manifested itself. But the one that really made me feel small and humble was the 30-meter tall (about 98.4252 feet) Buddha carved inside a hillside. It was fitting for the stature of a Buddha, and the cave echoed with the veneration of those who carved it. Outside, I was stunned and looked up to capture the last light on the cliff face. When faced with such devout holiness, what can you say? It was beyond moving yet we were only allowed to see but a small fraction of the caves. You were not permitted to take photos. Yet, like most things in China, you could negotiate to see more caves for a price. Oh, to be one of the first explorers to see this masterpiece, this hallucination, this living record of the Silk Road, these illustrated sutras, this elaborate divinity out here in the scratched out caves, the cracked baked desert punctuated by willows, by lonely hillside temples, to feel the magic wand of time connecting you to our collective past, their precious scriptures carried over mountains, deserts and buried in hollowed out libraries, to enlighten future generations, what a caring, colossal act of creation. The professor had to buy a train ticket so he accompanied me to the railway station then kept me company as I waited for my train. We talked, talked, talked, and it was so good for me to be once again in a free-flowing conversation, not having to always explain cultural references, not having to explain the joke, being understood and understanding in turn. It’s so great to meet people on the road. Then my train was here. I stood atop the stairs and took the photo below at Dunhuang’s shiny new railway station. Then, we were on our way and in the sunset sky a crescent moon appeared, the sliver of light so bright it illuminated the rest of the orb, the biggest moon I’ve ever seen in my life, as if it were gathering all my Dunhuang memories and beaming them back at me as the train raced eastward, through villages I will never know and into the deep, unfolding night.
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