A Hollow Shrine

KHARKORHIN, Mongolia – A stumpa is the oldest and arguably the most reverential symbol of Buddhism. Long before statues of the effeminate, elbow-less prophet dotted Asia's temples, devout followers of the Buddha built stumpas, cylindrical shrines that come to a point like a Hershey's Kiss. They are painted ochre and gold, the colors of a bright sky. The stumpa is an expression of enlightenment at the end of the FIVE FOLD PATH – Buddha's gift to the world.

To show religious piety, rulers in nearly every town and hamlet erected a stumpa long ago. Larger, wealthier places sometimes have a couple stumpas, or even a row for pilgrims to prostrate around. But only here in Mongolia is there an entire wall made of stumpas. This is Kharkorum, the palace of The Great Khans.

Although he's heavily featured in tourist literature, the most famous Khan, Genghis, never lived here. That Khan didn't need no stinking palace to show he was boss.

Born to a broken family on Siberian plains, Khan built an land empire unmatched until the Soviet Union nearly a millennium later. When he died, his iron-clad rule stretched from the Pacific to the Mediterranean. A flick of the Khan's wrist could mean annihilation for hundreds of thousands of people in a disloyal township.

Khan relied on his cunning wit, masterful tactics and fearsome army to rule most of the known world. His power sprung from his mind, not his office. He did without much of the monarchical pomp and circumstance that fascinated other rulers. No entourage of young boys throwing flowers ahead of his horse, no harem of young virgins. This man lived in a tent.

But later Khans did not share Genghis' frugality. Kublai Khan, grandson of Genghis, forced the court to set up a permanent camp here in Kharkorum. He assembled a dream team of designers, architects and masons: an Italian engineer, Persian craftsman and Russian serfs came to the steppe. They built an opulent capital here. Or rather, they supposedly built an opulent capital, because most of what modern historians know about the place comes from "The Secret History of the Mongols," and other contemporary accounts, since very little remains of the place.

The ruins of Kharkorum are close enough to the dingy, modern town of Kharkorhin to approach as Kublai would, on horseback, but my party rumbles up to the main entrance in Battir's battered van. As I've mentioned, the dramatic wall that surrounds the palace raises expectations in its majesty. The rows and rows of stumpas rise towards the heavens like giant sentries on permanent guard.

After paying the modest entrance fee, my three companions and I walk inside. We cross the threshold to discover nothing. The fountain of mercury, the magnificent gardens and all the other wonders are gone. Instead, there are dead tufts of short grass and a few scattered patches of ice, in other words the inside of the gate is barely discernible from the outside.

Closer inspection reveals two structures on the property. One is a Chinese temple, with glazed-jade roof tiles and two dragons guarded the entrance. The door is bolted shut with a rusted padlock, with a "Do Not Enter" sign in English, Mongolian and Russian.

In the northwest corner we find a small Mongolian temple. Inside a young, bald monk offers to sell us a Genghis Khan figurine or a postcard of the steppe. I decline, and go to the outside of the temple, where there are a few prayers to turn. We soon are killing time: Cing takes a few pictures. Caleb smokes a cigarette. Myriam waves to small dog. In all, we spend half an hour in Mongolia's greatest palace, and that seems like 20 minutes too long.

As we head toward the van, I'm left to ponder the legacy of Genghis Khan. It makes sense the Mongolians' greatest ruler would be a nomad. People here are born in a land without natural barriers. They are raised in an wide, open expanse. Every few weeks all families take town their home, and look for someplace better. Genghis Khan took this quest for self-betterment to its natural conclusion – empire.

It also makes sense that those who tried and alter the landscape, to built and settle in one place, failed. The Mongol empire crumbled as quickly as it was constructed, and soon the country slipped into 500 years of foreign domination. The Khan's palace is lost to time, reclaimed by the endless steppe. I wonder if someday the steppe will reclaim the tatty town nearby. Even if it does, I doubt that Genghis Khan, and his tent will be forgotten.

The Day the Music Died

BEIJING - At the back of the Dongyue Temple in Beijing's Chaoyong District, there is a lovely courtyard. I wish I could give period dates or accurate descriptions of its features, but alas I never got around to studying imperial architecture in college.

Nevertheless I can say this is the Chinese courtyard as imagined by young Sinologists all over the world, with shiny blue curved roof tiles and large red lanterns hung every meter on the outside of the crimson-colored hallways.

The Dongyue Temple admission ticket includes entry to this courtyard, which is located behind the main Daoist statues and relics of the temple. My ticket - normally 30 RMB, but just 5 RMB with a student card - says this is the "Beijing Folk Museum," and is the only place in Beijing where large folk performances can be held.

Behind the final statue hall, roughly in the middle of the courtyard, is a large, tacky stage that is used for performances. It's brand-new, and designed in the Chinese "shiny red thing" category. All over China these tacky balloons and pixelated background montages are ruining historical sites and downtown shopping malls alike. The Dongyue Temple was no exception.

But despite the intrusion of the tacky, I still had a wonderful experience in the courtyard during my visit last summer. I visited the temple on a hot, sunny afternoon by myself, wanting to kill a couple hours before meeting an American friend in a language program. As I entered the courtyard, I heard music coming from a back corner. Three young musicians were playing Chinese instruments. One was the erhu, the other two I didn't recognize.

I went upstairs and stood next to where they were playing. The music was lovely, the perfect antidote to the broiling hot weather. I sat down and listened for over half an hour, nearly falling asleep to the sounds.

Yesterday I returned to the temple with a couple friends, and went back to that courtyard. There were no sounds, and no musicians in sight. A few workers played cards, uninterested in the few people at the temple. I again climbed the stairs to the second floor, and walked in the room where I heard people playing. There I saw a couple instruments, and three young Chinese, dressed in traditional but ill-fitting costumes.

I asked one with long curly black hair (recent perm?) when the music was going to start.

"Today's there's no music," she said.

I asked her if there was ever music. She said on Chinese New Year sometimes there were performers, other times no. I protested that I had heard music there nine months ago. She seemed confused, and called over a colleague. Yes, he said, there used to be musical performances, but now no longer. The music had died.