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around a large tablet left in the lobby for calligraphy, laughing. They were taking turns
dipping the brushes into an ink stone to draw silly portraits of each other.
Our room had a balcony overlooking a quiet side street. The neighborhood was a mix-
ture of new shops in old storefronts and colonial-era clubs and homes with gardens hidden
behind an old walled community. The Wenshuyuan Buddhist Temple complex had been
returned to a house of worship, with Buddhist faithful wearing designer jeans praying and
consulting with monks draped in deep scarlet robes.
I asked the concierge whether our hotel dated from the 1920s or the 1930s. Her answer
was “It was built five years ago.”
“This is a new hotel?” I asked, clearly disappointed. She answered, yes, but it was built
according to the old traditions. By this time, I wasn't sure that it mattered. Finding a reas-
onable facsimile of an old-style Chinese inn—not a grandiose theme park version of a
Tang palace—was enough for me. The promises and the deep paradox of tourism in Ch-
ina that advertises itself as one of the world's oldest civilizations was captured in this coun-
try's impulse to tear down its old buildings and replace a few of them with replicas.
It rained the next day, clean sheets of rain for the entire two-hour drive to the Leshan
Giant Buddha. We passed long stretches of rice paddies with stucco farm homes built
around courtyards, interrupted by another stretch of factories sending billowing smoke in
the air. Then another stretch of green rice fields, tethered goats, fish ponds and white her-
ons flying overhead until a series of large billboard advertisements blocked the view. We
arrived at the city of Leshan and made our way to the river.
Registered as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the Buddha was carved into a rock cliff
along the river sometime in the eighth century. Now a major tourist site, the government
has spent over $5 million to repair the Buddha and its surroundings. We were in a group
of Chinese tourists and hopped on a government motorboat tour. As the boat pulled out,
Bill and I stayed on deck. Within five minutes the truly giant Buddha came in view; it is
described as the largest in the world. The Buddha was carved sitting as if on a chair—not
in the traditional lotus position—giving him a stiff appearance that matched his height of
233 feet. The boat sputtered past him and then turned around, idling directly in front of
the statue. The young women hostesses announced on the loudspeaker that for a fee they
would take special photographs of the passengers. Many did line up to be photographed
looking as if they were praying to Lord Buddha. Then we were driven back to the quay.
The tour lasted exactly thirty minutes. Bill said that the trip was “a long run for a short
slide.”
It was also another example of how the UNESCO heritage brand can so easily become
a kiss of death, transforming a cultural landmark into a tourist trap. Good for tourism busi-
ness, not for the monument.
• • •
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