* BOOKS  IN  REVIEW *
Flying Kicks, Buddhist Monks, and the

Legend of Iron Crotch: An Odyssey in the New China

by Mark R. Leffler

"Old man, how is it that you hear these things?"
"Young man, how is that you do not?

 - Blind Master Po to young Kwai Chang Caine on "Kung Fu" TV series 1972

"You have to be f#8ing kidding me!"
American college student Matthew Polly, watching his first demonstration of Iron Crotch Kung Fu by a Shaolin master who is kicked repeated with kicks that lift him inches off the ground.

When ABC-TV broadcast the two-hour TV movie "Kung Fu", starring David Carradine as the half-Chinese, half-Caucasian Shaolin monk, wandering the American West searching for his half-brother, it was the first time most Westerners had heard of the Shaolin Temple.

The success of the TV movie led to a regular series. With later repeats and eventually videocassettes, DVD and now Youtube, new generations of boys and girls fall under the spell of the almost preternaturally wise, stoically brave and, well, kickass martial arts badness of these monks and their exotic brand of Chan or Zen Buddhism.

At a time when kids all over the world were paying to see kung fu movies at the theater, plastering their walls with Bruce Lee posters and hitting themselves in the head with nunchucks, it made sense for ABC to capitalize on the hot new fad. It wasn't their primary intention to plant the seeds of Shaolin philosophy in Western minds full of mush.

But it was on the mind, somewhat, of the author of the pilot, Sterling Silliphant.

Silliphant was a student of Bruce Lee, who before beginning his rise to international movie stardom taught martial arts to many celebrities at his home in Los Angeles. Silliphant and Lee conceived of a series about a wandering Shaolin monk in the wild, wild west, but no network would commit to produce a series with an Asian lead actor.

Exit the Dragon and enter 100% Caucasian Carradine.
Still, the program was a ratings smash.

The mystical monks and their kung fu prowess intrigued viewers. One of them, a Princeton religion major named Matthew Polly, had just finished his Junior year at Princeton University in 1992 when he decided to drop out and take the money for his final year to travel to the People's Republic of China to search for the Shaolin Temple.
Polly not only found it, he studied kung fu there for two years. Now, more than ten years later, he chronicles that time in his first book, "American Shaolin" (Gotham Books, 361 pages.

Polly packs his narrative with stories of cultural vertigo, training that makes Navy Seals seem like "fancy boys", and moments of jaw dropping martial arts prowess that borders on the miraculous. But he also has a wicked sense of humor and there are enough amusing anecdotes to fill an issue of a Mandarin Reader's Digest.

In fact, no less an authority than celebrated bon vivant, international traveler and drunk P.J. O'Rourke penned a rave blurb on the back of the hardcover edition.

Polly today is a veteran travel writer for Slate Magazine, and his other assignments have included a Playboy interview with action film superstar Jet Li. He employs his considerable skills as a raconteur and cultural observer. His tale opens with the riveting account of his challenge fight with a local karate instructor who drunkenly insists on fighting a Shaolin. The reader has to make it through most of the book to find out if he defends the honor of Shaolin, or has his American butt kicked, as he fears.

But this book is not just for martial arts fans or those intrigued by the mystical wisdom of the East. Polly observed China during the early days of its transition to free market capitalism. When he finds the temple, it's less like the forest monastery he'd expected and more like a Chinese Epcot Center, with parking lots, kung fu academies and tourist accommodations.

Its as much his American dollars as his desire to learn Shaolin Kung fu that secures his acceptance.

China in the early Nineties was still reverberating with the aftershocks of the Tiananmen Square rebellion and the brutal crackdown that left many as dead as the hopes of Chinese democracy. Understandably, Polly's parents were a little worried about their son traveling to mainland China on a spiritual pilgrimage.

Before the internet made international communications free and easy, Polly arrived at Shaolin Temple to find that his only connection to America was a long distance phone call (costing $8 a minute) and a fax machine ($20 a page).
Fortunately, he is able to arrange a steady supply of Coca-Cola from the local vendors, who scurry to accommodate the rich American.

Polly was better prepared than many who aspire to train with the Shaolin monks. He was relatively fluent in Chinese and well versed in the culture and traditions. He knew to be humble and deferential, two traits American travelers are not famous for, but which Chinese culture values like we value graduate degrees, condos in West Palm and trophy wives.

He also experiences something most Caucasian Americans never feel: racism. Not "reverse discrimination" or being crushed by the vile epithet "jive turkey" or "cracker", but honest to god dumb as a box of rocks racism. This mostly occurs in the context of his dating Chinese girls. One worries he must have AIDS since he's an American. He is often insulted by Chinese unaware that he understands most of what they're saying. Everywhere he goes people stare and gawk, stopping only after he lets loose with some well chosen Chinese curses.

For readers knowledgeable about and interested in martial arts and Shaolin Temple, the book is a treasure of delights. Polly blends historical fact and local legend with day-to-day stories of his training. According to folklore, a dozen Shaolin monks' battled scores of bandits to rescue a kidnapped Chin Dynasty emperor - said Emperor later granting Shaolin special dispensation to drink alcohol and eat meat.

Polly came to Shaolin better prepared than most physically and emotionally. He knew what he was getting himself into. He'd seen the TV show, after all. But the waking up after his first day of training, he can barely crawl out of bed, muscles screaming in agony. When his teacher won't allow him to take a day off and pushed him through his stretches, Polly imagines this is what political torture feels like. He's probably right.

One of the joys of P.J. O'Rourke's travel writing is that he really tries to get to know a foreign culture and it's history, because understanding

resent political motives is impossible without such knowledge. Polly observes China with the wide-open eyes of the

Occidental, but he processes his observations with an Oriental slant.
American Shaolin is a wonderfully entertaining and informative tale, for anyone who is interested in China as it transitions to a more Western friendly economy, while maintaining it's politically and culturally repressive atmosphere.