Taiwan Today

The contestants, dressed in immacu­late, ancient-style loose jackets and baggy trousers, walked to the center of the arena. They faced the referees and bowed in respect, then faced each other and were acknowledged by applause from the audience.

This was the opening round of the Sixth World Union Karate Organization Championships, held this year in the Republic of China.

The three days of competition, November 26 to 28, involved 40 teams with more than 800 contestants in three­-grade women's competitions and seven-grade men's competitions, plus "shape" competitions, all staged in the Taiwan cities of Taipei and Taichung.

Contestants in the first-grade women's competition (weighing less than 100 pounds), looked, at a distance, like children. But the determination on their faces and their controlled cat-like movements told a different story.

Unlike Western boxers, who wear heavily padded leather gloves to cushion blows to the head and body, these contestants had only about half an inch of foam rubber covering bare knuckles. A solid blow to the head could do a great deal of damage, as the contestants well knew.

The lightning-fast footwork of one female fighter ended in a shoulder-high kick to the upper jaw of her opponent, who stumbled about, trying to stay on her feet. The referee stopped the bout, and nurses rushed to the stage.

Karate originated in Asia, and then spread throughout the world, as the rep­resentation in this year's tournament in Taiwan demonstrated.

The Chinese team won two silver medals and three bronze medals, all ex­cepting one bronze in the women's section.

Chinese ace Lin Chi-min, 26, won a bronze medal in the men's fourth grade competition after engaging three con­secutive fierce fighters.

Winners in the men's groups were: First-grade—Vayrynen Junkn of Finland, Vallee Rudolpi of France, Ramon Castillo of Venezuela. Second grade-Suzuki Yuichi of Japan, Carcangiu Giorgio of Italy, Jaeda Toshiaki of Japan. Third grade-Nishimura Seiji of Japan, Mannwen Mika of Finland, Bernardi Paffaele of Italy.

Jacques Delcourt, chairman of the World Union of Karatedo Organizations, characterized the Taipei world karate championships as "the largest and most successful" since the founding of the union.

On the eve of the tournament, the ROC sponsors held a party at the China Sports and Cultural Center to welcome the contestants. A famed Chinese singer, Yang Mei-lien, took part in an en­tertainment provided by karate competi­tors from South America.

Throughout the three-day contest, all participants generally managed to control their tempers, although tension was high. When one contestant, protesting the judges' decision, rushed toward a referee with clenched fist, cool-tempered officials knew how to smooth things out. "We expect a certain amount of this," one referee commented. "These young men have trained hard all year, and they put their hearts into the tournament. Of course, at times, they lose their compo­sure. It is a sign of youth."

The ultimate goal of the tournament was best expressed by Wang Ching-hsu, president of the Chinese Martial Arts Federation of Taiwan:

"There are three main values in karate: art, rhythm, and martialism. Beautiful, graceful actions combined with coordinated movements yield rhythm. By cultivating calmness and serenity to coordinate mind and muscle, one learns to strike home with the power of both."

According to Wang, the karate arts originated from Shaolin Chuan (boxing), which is understood in terms of the inter­action of Yin and Yang. The feminine (negative) Yin is represented by the moon and the earth, while the masculine and positive Yang is symbolized by the sun and the heavens.

Shaolin Chuan is a martial art for self-defense originated some five centuries ago by a Taoist named Chang San-feng, who is said to have lived for 300 years. The story goes that he was inspired by watching a snake follow a bird until the latter became exhausted and fell easy prey.

Shaolin Chuan develops maximum circulation of the inner energy or chi. Muscles are flexed, and breathing is natural. The movements are flowing; the rhythm is slow but as continuous as the cycles of the earth. There is no force of movement. The Shaolin Chuan boxer takes advantage of his opponent's strength to reinforce his own.

Shaolin Chuan later spread to Okinawa and Japan, and emerged as the art of karate, Wang said.

Karate means "empty hand" in Japa­nese. The name emphasizes the fact that no weapon is used. Instead, karate con­verts the hand, fist, finger, elbow, or foot into a weapon to aim at an oppo­nent's weak spots. Great coordination and long practice are required to perfect the blocks and jabs which are used. The person mastering karate utilizes the parts of the body to ward off an assault and to kill or injure the attacker by striking him a severe blow in some vulnerable place. Karate blows are so deadly that trainees practice them without bodily contact with an opponent. Masters can make spectacular demonstrations of karate's power by smashing boards, bricks, and stones with a clenched fist or the edge of a hand.

The art is taught in the Marine Corps of the Republic of China, and also in many private classes. It is also seen as a beneficial exercise. Wang believes that anyone can derive benefit not only from the salutary effects of such an exercise on the nervous system and muscles, but also from the development of abdominal breathing.

The real winners in the tournament, he said, might well be those who thus practiced their fighting, learned some tricks from opponents, and then graciously withdrew on recognizing a rival's superiority. The Japanese, he said owed their proficiency to this technique.

To Wang, and most of the contes­tants, the show of brotherhood among the contestants was the most important thing to emerge from the tournament.

Lu Wen-ching, a master teacher of aggression, & yung chun chuan

When I first met Lu Wen-ching, I was less surprised by what I saw than by what I didn't see. Here was one of the great living masters of the Chinese mar­tial art known as yung chun chuan, a man whose uncle had been kung-fu film star Bruce Lee's teacher. No one in the ROC compares with him when it comes to mastery of the art, I was assured; indeed, he was the only person qualified to teach it. So I expected to meet something like a cross between a Sumo wrestler and Rocky Balboa.

Not true-Lu Wen-ching, or shih-fu ("fatherly teacher") as his Chinese students respectfully call him, is the most unassuming man you could imagine. Short, balding, and favoring heavy-frame glasses, the 50-year-old Lu looks more like he belongs in a bank than in a train­ing hall.

But don't be fooled by appearances. Lu is quite qualified (if not willing) to rip apart anybody twice his size. He regularly spars blindfolded with open-eyed students (some of whom weigh half again as much as he does). And even if you have never looked upon chopsticks as deadly weapons, you might care to step aside when Lu hurls one with enough force to pierce a piece of board an inch thick.

However, showmanship is not the point of yung chun chuan. "Kung-fu (Chinese martial arts) consists of two parts: art and technique," explains Lu. "'Art' means the gracefulness of the move­ment; 'technique' means you can use the kung-fu to protect your life or attack an enemy. In order to shorten the time of study, yung chun chuan does not stress gracefulness."

What yung chun chuan does stress is aggressive fighting. "If you're standing on a beach and are constantly on the defensive (against an opponent), perhaps you'll be thrown into the sea," Lu illus­trates. "But if you keep attacking your enemy, maybe you can force him away from the beach to a more favorable location."

Yung chun chuan has a short but distinguished history. The first master (or mistress) of the discipline was a woman named Yen Yung-chun, who lived toward the end of the Manchus' rule. Reportedly very beautiful, the youthful Yung-chun was constantly being harassed by unwelcome males. A Bud­dhist nun is said to have taken pity on her and taught her the essentials of the kung-fu variation which later came to bear her name.

As in many Chinese disciplines, the masters of yung chun chuan have been reluctant to spread their highest teaching to more than a few trusted students, partly for fear that it would be misused by people with bad intentions. Until the last several decades, yung chun chuan re­mained a largely unknown discipline practiced by a tiny cadre of dedicated en­thusiasts. But when Lu's uncle, Yen Wan, started accepting students in Hong­kong, and especially when Bruce Lee started making his famous kung-fu films, yung chun chuan gained a world following. Now, Lu estimated, there may be as many as 400,000 students around the world.

Born in Hongkong, Lu fled to Canton when the Japanese invaded the colony, and stayed in Canton for the remainder of the war. When he returned lo Hongkong, he started seriously studying yung chun chuan with his uncle. At first, Yen Wan was unwilling to teach the discipline, but later he acquiesced, needing the money to support himself, and believing that anything he could teach to strengthen the Chinese people after the carnage of World War II was his duty to bring forth. Lu studied with him until 1960, when he came to the ROC.

Lu was not the only one interested in what Yeh Wan had to teach. Bruce Lee also begged to be his student. The story goes, says Lu, "that Lee was walking along the road one day with his good friend Chiang Chiu-ching, who happened to be studying with Yeh Wan. All of a sudden, three ruffians appeared and started trying to pick a fight with Lee. Unlike the Bruce Lee of movie fame, Lee's only concern then was how to get out of the vicinity as Quickly as possible. But Chiang Chiu-ching told him: 'Don't worry. This really isn't very serious. You stand aside and I'll take care of it,'" recounts Lu with evident relish. "And in a very short time, Chiang Chiu-ching had beaten up all his opponents."

Not surprisingly, Lee was fascinated by the ease with which his friend had overcome three enemies, and he pleaded with Chiang to introduce him to Yeh Wan. The rest is history.

Bruce Lee has long since passed from the kung-fu scene, but several of Lu's students also have stories about un­lucky ruffians who tried to jump them. Wu Man-hua, 20, a stocky, quiet young woman who has been studying with Lu for about a year and a half, describes the physical condition of the unfortunate wretch who tried to steal her purse at knife-point in an alley one evening. "I guess his nose was broken, and I think both his hands were, too," she says, as if unsure of the extent of the damage she inflicted.

The essence of yung chun chuan, which Lu believes can be learned satisfactorily in 3 to 4 years, is compressed into five stages, which each student of the discipline must pass through. The first stage, called hsiao lien tou, or "basic beginning training," concentrates on teaching the students "mindfulness" and elementary hand and foot movements. The second stage of hsun chiao, literally "find the bridge," is designed to teach the student how to force the opponent into close combat by grabbing his arms (that is, making a "bridge"). In stage three, fancifully named pien chih, or "dart fingers," the student is taught how to use his fingers, grouped into a sharp unit, to decapitate an opponent. In stage four, students combine what they have learned in the previous three stages, and begin working out with the mu-jen chuang, ("wooden-man post"), a device with appendages roughly approx­imating arms and legs used to simulate an opponent. And in the last stage, stu­dents begin tzu-yu tui-ta, or "free fighting, with opponents."

As in any artform, yung chun chuan can look deceptively simple to the untrained observer. For example, the fluid, often ballet-like parries of chi shou ("stick hands") looked to me like an ad­vanced form of patty-caking. But the reflexes this exercise refines are invaluable to the kung-fu fighter.

Many years of constant practice have made Lu's reflexes formidable weapons. At one point in my visit he offered to close his eyes and let me take a good whack at whatever part of him looked ap­pealing. Taking him at his word, I aimed a big blow at his solar plexus. But before the punch landed, he had grabbed my right arm in a vise-like grip and was in a fine position to break the bones, had he wanted to.

Lu's house is overflowing with trophies and pennants, the fruits of past kung-fu victories, and the admiration of those who come to see him. He is especially proud that a number of important dignitaries have sent their children to study with him. He showed me a letter from the Guatemalan Ambassador cer­tifying his son's progress. And President Chiang Ching-kuo's nephew also studied with Lu for a short period of time.

You would think that, with his repu­tation, Lu must have done a lot of advertising for students at one time or another. But Lu has always preferred a low-key approach, preferring to accept only those students who have been intro­duced personally to him or with whom he has had a chance to talk for a while. "My thinking is the same as my uncle's was," Lu explains. "He never posted an advertisement, because he wanted to retain the right to pick those students he thought were suitable." In this way, Lu hopes, yung chun chuan will never be used by people whose main motive is to harm others.

One of Lu's most cherished hopes is to go abroad to teach yung chun chuan. Part of the reason is patriotic: "I hope that the whole world can find out about our (the Chinese people's) great accom­plishment." But he is also genuinely interested in contributing to the expansion of Western interest in the Chinese mar­tial arts. He has received an offer to teach from the University of Tennessee, but is not yet certain he will be able to accept.

It might seem odd that the practition­er of one of the world's most aggressive forms of kung-fu has as his motto: "The more friends the better; it is best not to have any enemies at all" But for Lu, who has spent a good part of his adult life practicing yung chun chuan, the true goal of training is developing one's own capa­bilities, not beating others in competi­tion. His teaching emphasis upon technique-instead of merely showing his stu­dents how to win contests—is probably the biggest reason for Lu's increasing fame.