by Herb Rich
Note: this article was written in 1990, and published in T'ai Chi Magazine (in an edited form) under a different title.

I sat in the early morning darkness, consumed with curiosity and excitement, unable to sleep. The hours passed slowly as I stared out the window, watching the deserted train stations pass by as we traveled south toward Honan. The three Chinese with whom I shared the tiny sleeper compartment had long since shut off the cabin light and gone to bed. The train was quiet, and cold: the silence was broken only by the clatter of the rails, and the mournful wail of the train whistle as it rolled away into the night, across the plains of central China.

I had boarded the train in Beijing, after a 26 hour flight across the continental United States and the Pacific Ocean. My destination was the city of Zhengzhou, the capitol of Honan province. From Zhengzhou, I would be met by a local contact, and we would embark on the last leg of my journey; a three hour drive northwest, across the Yellow River, to Wen county, wherein lies the village of Chen Jia Kou- the birthplace of Chen style T'ai Chi Chuan.

I had dreamed of traveling to China to study martial arts for over half my life. A student of T'ai Chi for over ten years, I had been fascinated by the Chen style from the moment I first saw it in 1979. Unfortunately, there were few instructors of the style in Boston in the 80's, and only a handful to be found across the country (although the situation has improved slightly since then). Frustrated with the paucity of instruction, it became apparent to me that if I wished to learn the Chen style, I would have to travel to China to do so. And what better place to study than Chen village?

As we drove from the train station, I was struck by the incredible differences between my home and this slice of rural China. Wen county is totally devoted to agriculture. Peasants rely on farming techniques thousands of years old, and use human and animal labor for sowing and harvesting. Looking out at the fields, I felt I had jumped a hundred years into the past.

I had arrived at the height of harvest season, and the earthen roads were clogged with wooden barrows laden with produce, drawn by oxen, mules, and men. Our car, a large Russian sedan, was forced to proceed at a crawl, allowing the locals idling in front of their mud and brick hut homes to gather around the car and stare through the windows at my blond hair, blue eyes and beard in wonderment. I have to say that I was staring out as intently as they were staring in. I had never traveled to a third world country before, and the difference in living conditions astounded me.

Over the coming weeks, I would have many instances where I thought I had become acclimated to my surroundings, only to encounter something so new and strange that I would be again reminded how alien to the culture I was (Such as the sidewalk vendor proudly displaying his wares- a collection of some fifty dead rats-on the street).

Upon arrival in the town of Wenxian, where I would be staying for the next six weeks, I was met by a delegation from the Chen Jia Kou Tai Chi Promotion Center. They had prepared a banquet in my honor. In the group of officials were three people who would figure prominently in my training; Geng Xin Hua, one of my teachers, who would become a good friend; Mr Zhang, my assigned interpreter, whose English was worse than my practically nonexistent Chinese; and Mr. Wang, the chief interpreter.

I had arrived with the belief that I would be training in Chen village itself, which is located some five miles down the road from Wenxian town. I was told that this was not to be the case. I had arrived at the height of the harvest season, and everyone in Chen village who was physically able was out in the fields, including the T'ai Chi coaches.
Also, the authorities did not consider the living conditions at Chen village to be suitable for foreign tourists (after several visits to the village, and inspection of the "dormitory" for students, I had to agree).

I later learned that the government had a policy of limiting contact between foreigners and locals whenever possible. They did their best to keep foreigners from staying in the village.My first class was the afternoon following the banquet. I was asked to demonstrate my T'ai Chi. I chose a short Chen routine I had learned in Boston.

After viewing my performance, Lao Shi (coach) Geng told me that my basics were good, and that it would not be necessary to spend much time working on them. There were a few standard basic exercises that I was unfamiliar with, which we covered over the first few days.

We then immediately began working on isolated techniques from "De Yi Lu" (the first routine, or "road") of the "Lao Jia" (old family) system; "Yun Shou" (Waving hands), "Shang San Bu" (Stepping forward three times), "Xie Xing" (Walking obliquely), "You Cha" (Separate right foot) and "Zuo Cha" (Separate left foot) .

After one week of practice, I began to learn the form itself. Each class was two hours long; one in the morning, and one in the afternoon. Geng Lao Shi would correct my movements, allow me to practice and integrate her corrections into my techniques, and, if my performance was satisfactory, then teach me new material.

Occasionally we would take a break to trade language lessons; I would teach Geng a word or phrase in English, and she would help me with my Mandarin. It was during these breaks that we came to know each other outside of the framework of martial arts. We found we shared a similar sense of humor, and became friends. For the final half hour of each class, we would practice "Tui Shou" (Pushing Hands). The normal course of study proscribes Tui Shou until the student has learned Yi Lu and practiced it for one year: due to my previous experience, and my familiarity with Yang style pushing hands, Geng started me on it immediately.

I think another reason was that she delighted in practicing Tui Shou. She was the womens' pushing hands champion of Honan province for three consecutive years, and she looked at everyone as a challenge. Despite the difference in our size and weight, Geng tossed me about easily.
In the Chen style of T'ai Chi there are five different types of Tui Shou. Due to my limited time of study, I was only able to practice the first three.

The first is called "Liang Ren Shuang Tui Shou". the most basic form, it is a stationary exercise, and teaches the student to adhere to the opponents' arm, and to sense incoming force,and deflect it. It may be practiced with one or two hands, with the hands of the players circling either parallel to the ground, or perpendicular to it.

The second form is "Ding Bu". It is also a stationary exercise: in it, the players grasp each other at the forearms and biceps, and, without changing the position of the arms, attempt to uproot and push each other. Footsweeps are also utilized.

The third form is known as "Hua Bu". It is the first of the moving forms of Chen style Tui Shou. I found the hand movements to be much more complex than the double handed Tui Shou I had practiced in the Yang style. Great emphasis was placed on Chin Na techniques, and the footwork allowed for a great variety of footsweeps, trips, and takedowns.

Indeed, there were many days that I spent more time on the floor than I did on my feet. I would study furiously to learn a defense against a particular sweep, and just when I thought I had grasped it, a mischievous smile would flash across Gengs' usually stern countenance, and I would find myself crashing to the floor once again, victim of yet another different technique. Her repertoire seemed endless.

In reading of the experience of the two American students who had previously studied at the Center, I had not expected to be shown applications to the forms. I had thought that emphasis would be placed on correct execution of solo routines, and nothing else. To my surprise, Geng was very forthcoming in demonstrating the "skill" as she called it, of each posture in the form.

She explained that there are two levels of application for each posture. The first is defensive, the second offensive. As with most forms, there are many possible applications for each movement. Defensively, the applications ranged from the simple (avoiding a blow and countering) to the complex (extricating yourself from/avoiding a Chin Na lock and countering it in kind).

I was surprised to find the amount of Chin Na contained within the routine, offensively as well as defensively. Most of the Chin Na techniques shown to me centered around the fingers, wrists, elbows, and to a lesser extent, the shoulders. Many of the hand and elbow strikes in the sequence were quite vicious, aiming for the throat, the heart, and the groin, as well as various pressure points; there are even techniques designed to break the opponents' neck. Also found in the form are various throws.

I found the most impressive aspect of the style to be the use of Chan Ssu Jing ("Silk reeling energy") in Fa Jing ("expressing energy"). Simply defined, Chan Ssu Jing is the physical method by which energy (or power) is generated in the body, and Fa Jing is the use of that energy (or power) in a movement. It is Chan Ssu Jing which gives the Chen style its' unique martial flavor, and sets it apart from other Tai Chi styles. Chan Ssu Jing may be expressed through practically any part of the body, allowing the accomplished practitioner to utilize the hips, shoulders, head and chest as offensive weapons. It is a devastating technique for close range combat.

It was a few weeks until I met my second teacher.
Shortly after I was joined in Wenxian by Greg Pinney, another American student, we recieved word that Wang Xian, Geng Lao Shis' teacher, was returning to Wenxian after a lengthy period of teaching in Beijing. I had never heard of Wang Xian in the states; I later found out that he is held in very high esteem in China.

There are considered to be four top practitioners of the Chen style in the current generation on the mainland. The direct heir of the Chen family tradition, Chen Xiao Wang, is one. Also included is his cousin, Chen Zheng Lei, as is Zhu Tian Cai and Wang Xian. Collectively, they are referred to as "Buddha's four warrior attendants". All four reside either in Wenxian county, or Zhengzhou city. Due to their skill, they are in constant demand as instructors, and travel a great deal.

A solid, compact man in his late forties, Wang Xian was unbelievably flexible. His T'ai Chi was exemplary. He studied under the famous 18th generation master Chen Jiao Pei in Chen village, and won the national push hands competition .

I had never encountered a T'ai Chi player with his level of skill. His form would alternate from soft, effortless and graceful movements to sudden, powerful actions that shook the floor and resounded through the building like a cannon shot. He would demonstrate applications and push hands with us: to paraphrase Robert W. Smith, it should have been instructive-what it was was terrifying. To cross hands with him was like standing in front of a train. I remember a shoulder stroke that he applied from a stationary position that lifted me bodily from the floor and hurled me five feet backwards into the wall. His Chin Na was superb- try as I may, I could never see the set up for his techniques. He stressed using the waist as the source of leverage when applying Chin NA I was impressed by his ability to effortlessly escape from Chin NA techniques. He claimed the key to this skill was relaxation. Whatever the secret, I found the technique difficult to imitate.

By the time Wang arrived, I had almost completed De Yi Lu. He would observe, correct, and alter my movements. I found Wang Xians' form to differ slightly from Gengs. At first this was disconcerting. In Lao Jia there are a number of techniques which can be performed in several different ways, each of them acceptable and valid. I came to appreciate this feature. It allowed the practitioner to develop a form that was uniquely their own. Observation of other teachers later showed me that, as in the states, no two instructors teach (or practice!) exactly the same form.

Which can present a confusing array of routines to the observer; in addition to the "old" style forms (Lao Jia), there are two separate "new" style systems (Xin Jia), as well as a series of forms developed in the 1800s in a nearby village know as "Zhao Pao" style. Aside from these traditional forms, there is a recent addition, known as "Wu Shu" Chen style, which has been developed by the government for competition purposes.

I was fortunate to have Wang Xian instruct me in the second routine of Lao Jia, De Erh Lu, or as it is also known, Pao Chui ("Cannon Fist").

I found De Erh Lu to differ from De Yi Lu in many ways. It is a much shorter routine; whereas Yi Lu is a predominantly "soft" form, De Erh Lu features Fa Jing in most of its postures. De Erh Lu is performed at a faster pace, and is a much more strenuous sequence than De Yi Lu. There are proportionately more hand and elbow strikes than are found in De Yi Lu. It is a more energetic form, featuring lunges, hops, and a 360 degree leg sweep. De Erh Lu is founded upon the principles and techniques contained in De Erh Lu. Therefore, the time required to learn the second routine is much shorter than that demanded by the first.

I completed De Erh Lu a few days before I was to return to Beijing. My emotions were mixed. On one hand, I wished to remain longer and "polish up" my forms. Finishing De Erh Lu had given me a sense of accomplishment that whetted my appetite for further practice.

The more I practiced De Yi Lu, the more questions I had about it.

At the same time, My knees were beginning to feel the cumulative effects of my constant training. I had been practicing for up to seven hours a day, seven days a week, for six weeks. There had been little else to do in Wenxian outside of class except practice, eat our meals and sleep. I was longing for a decent meal, something to read, some music, a movie. I missed my family and friends. It was time to go.

For all that, leaving was painful. I felt that I had made a good friend in Geng Hua. She seemed very sad to see me go. We promised to correspond. She insisted that I return, and I reiterated my frequent request that she visit the states to teach.

My last evening in Wenxian, we had a small dinner party at the guest house: unlike the welcoming banquet, there was no stiff formality, and no officials. The atmosphere was relaxed; a small group of friends enjoying each others' company. The beer flowed, songs were sung, jokes were made, and laughter shared.

The next morning was my last class. I practiced the forms one final time with Geng Lao Shi. When we had finished, she bade me to return to America and teach what I had learned. We walked slowly to the guest house, where the car was waiting to drive me to Zhengzhou, and the train that was to return me to Beijing.

In the courtyard of the guesthouse, I was formally presented with my diploma by Wang Xian, and a parting gift from Geng Hua. I made my good-byes, feeling a lump in my throat; and then it was time to go; there was a train to catch.

That night, as the train carried me north, I found myself once again staring into the night, alone in the dark save for the rhythm of the rails and my thoughts. My journal lay open and unfinished beside me; I considered the friends, adversaries, accomplishments and failures of the past weeks, trying to draw conclusions from the experience.

Such an adventure must have a lesson, I thought. But such an insight was beyond me. My journey had been frustrating and rewarding; exciting and boring; happy and sad. I was not returning home a changed man. There had been no epiphanies. It was then that a line from a film I'd seen years before occurred to me; "no matter where you go, there you are".

The tautology made me laugh, there in the darkness. That about says it all, I thought, turning from the window. I stretched out on the hard bunk, and surrendered myself to sleep.