NOW AND CHEN : MEETING THE ‘TAI CHI MASTER’.

Whoever designed the cavernous airport at Zhengzhou neglected to build a city around it. Or even a town. The echoing edifice is the landing strip that time forgot, boasting every convenience. Except customers. The intrepid Dragon Dynasty crew (host/assistant producer Winnie Wong, camera ace Michele Orlando, sound wizard Anant Samtani, myself) huddle together in the arrivals hall until we’re greeted by the cheerful form of Mrs. Cui Bing. It’s a gesture of the hospitality we’ll receive throughout our visit that she has made the two hour journey in order to accompany us to our destination : Chen Tai Chi Village.

As we prepared for our impending release of the Jet Li classic ‘Tai Chi Master’, I decided that this would be a wonderful opportunity (or excuse!) to fulfil a long-held ambition, and visit the birth-place of Chen style Tai Chi. I’ve had the happy experience of studying the art under Sifu Li Fai and several of the guest instructor’s teaching at her Sheung Wan-based Wu Shu school. As soon as we approached Shrfu Chen Ziqiang (by ‘phone), he readily welcomed us to visit as soon as we liked, for as long as we liked, and promised to provide whatever we might need… (If everyone we dealt with was as gracious, Hong Kong cinema would be in better shape than it is.)

So it was that we came to navigate the dusty country roads that lie between that gleaming bak jeurng of an airport and the archaic charm of Chen Village. We arrive just as the sun sets behind a the wooden gateway that spans the village’s main drag, and Michele grabs some ‘magic hour’ shots. ‘Tai Chi’ is everywhere. The words are carved into the gate, in the sign above the main martial arts school (naturally), above the entrance to the neighbouring temple…

Chen Shrfu himself has such a commanding presence, it takes quite a while to notice that he’s actually not that tall. His usual mode of attire is a black wind breaker, and loose black pants. He’s so meticulous in his manner, I imagine him having a wardrobe full of identical outfits. The school itself has about it the ambience and geography of a Spaghetti Western movie set, with the dust of high noon in all directions. What holds it together is the warm energy that permeates the place, generated on a daily basis by Chen Shrfu and his students.

There are usually a number of foreign students resident at the Chen Village school, and they emerge to welcome us. The longest standing of them is Joe Davey. He’s the only person in a roughly ninety miles radius with a coffee machine, so he swiftly becomes my new best friend. There’s Jalal Afhim, a Mandarin-speaking expat Briton whose unfailingly cheerful disposition gives Muslims a good name, and a young Philadelphian, Aaron Ocker, who bears a disturbing resemblance to a youthful James Taylor.

The school opens out onto a large stone courtyard, where the first training session of the day will be held the following morning. With its walls, a room to left appears to be a meeting room, and on the right Chen Shrfu’s office. There’s a framed magazine cover on one wall showing rock star and Chen Tai Chi devotee Lou Reed holding a sword. (Reed has visited the school, accompanying his teacher, New York-based Shrfu Ren Guang-yi). Beyond this is the open, airy training area, with a long red carpet running down its centre. The room is brightened by windows running along three of its walls. There are mirrors on the wall between, including, as is de rigeur for any martial arts school, a broken one.

Michele keeps looking for ‘magic hour’ shots, and Aaron tells us that we should go and shoot at the Chen Village Tai Chi ‘ditch’. He has a choice between getting his dinner and showing us where it is, and, quite understandably, goes off to eat. Michele and I fail to locate the ditch, but enjoy a fascinating stroll through the crumbling red stone homes of the ancient village. As twilight gathers, none of the sounds of this century can be heard, no car or radio, no TV. More than a thousand miles, it feels like a thousand years from the cacophony of Hong Kong. (By the way, I never actually saw the famous ditch. Michele and Anand did and told me I wasn’t missing anything…)

We are booked into the local hotel, which is called (predictably enough) The Tai Chi Hotel. We are not only the most honoured guests, but the only ones. The receptionist looks like he’s been hit in the face with a shovel. He bears on his forehead a clumpy wet bandage which looks like it’s been thrown at him from across the room. After dinner at Tai Chi Village’s best (and only) restaurant, we turned in early in anticipation of rising with the larks.