Forgotten: a truly gripping psychological thriller by Heleyne Hammersley Page B

At least all Chinese hotel rooms have a flask of hot water and tea bags which meant that I could console myself with a cuppa (washed the mug first).
    I had a look around the town this afternoon and it seems quite small and friendly. I stopped at a roadside stall for some fried bread type thing where the woman serving me laughed at my pathetic attempt at Mandarin and tried to teach me how to ask the price properly. That’s what I mean about the Chinese being helpful. If I laughed at a non-English speaker at home it would seem rude but here it’s just part of the culture, I suppose. It’s inoffensive anyway.
    The town is full of monasteries. Literally. Monasteries and hotels. There are about thirty-five temples and monasteries in the town and the surrounding mountains, and the place is overrun with monks. It’s quite strange to walk down the street and see monks wearing baseball caps and Nike trainers with their brown robes. I think I spotted one on a mobile phone but he turned away from me when he saw me looking.
    I wandered a little way out of town, pulled by the mountains which surround the place on all sides, and ended up at a small monastery down a long track. It seemed semi-derelict so I decided to have a poke around. It was a beautiful place with tufts of dry grass trying to keep their hold on the crumbling stonework and flaking paint on the doors and pillars. I walked round the back of the main temple and discovered a monk doing his washing in a twin tub. I know it sounds unlikely. He looked as surprised to see me as I was him but he greeted me with a warm smile as soon as he’d dried his hands on his robes.
    With the help of my trusty phrase book the monk gave me a tour of his monastery. He took me into the temple and gestured for me to pray. I shook my head so he gave me a demonstration, holding his palms together, raising them above his head and then lowering them to his chest before kneeling on a cushion and muttering. I gave it a try but I felt like a bit of a fraud. The monk just smiled knowingly, I think he realised I wasn’t really nun material.
    I managed to explain where I was from and he seemed to be from somewhere in the north. The monastery turned out to be over two hundred years old and built around a sacred tree. It was totally surreal to be reaching some sort of understanding by passing the book backwards and forwards between us but it made such a change from people trying out their English on me. Why should everyone speak my language? I think we expect that. Brits are notorious for not speaking foreign languages and just relying on English with the volume cranked up.
    Despite the anarchic bus driver, it’s been a good day. I like it here in spite of the awful hotel. The town is a manageable size and I’ve found a nice restaurant. I think tomorrow I’ll have to give in to the temptation of the hills and do a little bit of exploring. I wonder if I can ring reception and order a packed lunch.
     
    September 21st – Wutaishan
    My walk in the mountains didn’t go quite as I’d expected. I knew it would be difficult to find my way out of town because the map I’d bought didn’t have any indication of scale on it and most of the monastery names were in Chinese characters. I managed to translate some of them by comparing this map to the one in my guidebook but others I knew I’d just have to guess.
    My first objective was Shouning Monastery, high above the western side of town, but as soon as I hit the backstreets I began to realise the limitations of my map. I tried accosting passing strangers. I must have made quite an entertaining spectacle as I contorted my words into all sorts of shapes in a bid to make myself understood. Most conversations went something like.
    Me: (pointing in the direction I expected to be sent) Shouning Monastery?
    Stranger: Shaning?
    Me: Shooonin?
    Stranger: Shianing?
    It seemed pretty hopeless – especially when the path forked and I had a decision to make – until I