Chapter 4, East Coast, in ancestral Wenchang

Rambling around my ancestral Hainan

Pages 141-160

Chapter 4

East Coast - Around Ancestral Wenchang

Jumbling up “pai ta” (Hainanese for “third day of the week”) with “tub ta” (“thirteen”), my Hainanese and Mandarin inadequacies have left Cai Hong confused over our date of departure for Wenchang. We wait for her father from Wednesday noon, the twelfth of January. At twelve-thirty, we call her, resolving the problem. Securing an urgent leave from his employer, Third Cousin turns up to drive us to Wenchang.

Adjoining Meilan County, this northeastern county was settled as early as 110 B.C. Originally called “Ziben”, it acquired its current name in 627 under Tang rule. The name “Wenchang” consists of two characters: “wen” (文) and “chang” (昌). “Wen” means “writing” or “culture”; “chang” means “flourishing” or “prosperous”. Interestingly, the second character is itself made up of two identical characters, a “sun” resting upon another “sun”, implying a double brilliance. Was this shire “flourishing” with “culture” before it gained its new name? Were many learned residents, distinguished scholars, and statesmen residing there prior to 627?

Could it have been christened after Wenchang, the God of Literature? I have earlier scoured for an explanation of the name and its origin in Myths and Legends of China, written in 1922 by E.T.C. Werner, who was “His Britannic Majesty’s Consul” in Fuzhou and member of the Chinese Government Historiographical Bureau in Beijing. Two millennia ago, the God of Literature was closely associated with a starry constellation. Back then, people in many civilizations worshipped the sun, moon, and stars as gods. One of the constellations visible at night throughout the year in the northern hemisphere was the Ursa Major. Its stars were perceived by them as points on a bear’s body. Thus, this constellation was commonly known as the “Great Bear”. Some of its most brilliant stars were also identified as points on a big dipper; thus, they formed the “Big Dipper”.

Being the constant and most brilliant constellation, the Great Bear, or Big Dipper, also became the object of veneration by Chinese scholars preparing for imperial examinations. A myth arose. A celestial being inhabits the Big Dipper. After his seventeenth and last reincarnation, King Wenchang (Wenchang Wang) was conferred the title “God of Literature” by the Jade Emperor, the supreme god of Chinese pantheon. The result was his worship by scholars praying nightly for excellent results that would subsequently alter their lives as well as lives of their families. Because of the favours received from him, this county might have been named in his honour.

Over time, myths multiplied. According to one, the imperceptible distant star-god re-embodied himself in the person of Zhang Yazi, which explained his subsequent brilliance and fame as a renowned scholar of the Jin dynasty (265-420 A.D.). A natural explanation, however, is that his friends and followers venerated him with a temple after his death. Gradually, veneration turned into worship, and the genius was treated as the reincarnated God of Literature. Divine Wenchang later reincarnated as Zhang Ya - a native of Zhejiang living at Zitong in Sichuan and who went on to become the Tang Minister of Ceremonies - and finally as facially deformed scholar Zhong Qui during the Song dynasty.

If “Wenchang” refers to “flourish in culture and writing”, then it is apposite that the Wenchang pronunciation of Hainanese is promoted by Hainan authorities and broadcasters as the standard spoken Hainanese. This “standard” Hainanese is readily recognized throughout the island. As I will later discover, the identity of my ancestral town is easily detected and determined by my listeners in Hainan from the very first few Hainanese words I utter.

Besides Lehui (which was absorbed into Qionghai in 1958), Wenchang was one of the counties that contributed to the bulk of outflowing migrants during the last two centuries. Hainanese had migrated overseas for various reasons but mainly because of wars. Estimates on the number of overseas Hainanese vary, ranging from more than two million to more than three million in some fifty countries. They constitute a minority among the fifty million or so overseas Chinese (华侨; hua qiao) in 2012. More than ninety percent of overseas Chinese reside in Southeast Asia. In Singapore, the 8,319 Hainanese formed 9.6% of the Chinese population in 1881. Increasing to 9,451 in 1901, they, however, constituted a smaller 5.8%. In 1947, their number rose to 52,117, most coming again from either Wenchang or Lehui. Today, in 2010, the 177,541 Hainanese residents form the fourth biggest Chinese dialect group.

Over the last half century, Hainan received an increasing inflow of Chinese from overseas and from the mainland. Millions of overseas Chinese fled their adopted homes like Indonesia and Vietnam after being unfairly targeted for the socio-economic plights and upheavals caused by government corruption and mismanagement of their national economies. A million Chinese returned to Hainan and many made Wenchang their new home. Their principal occupation was the production of coconuts and related goods, which formed one of Hainan’s major exports. After the establishment of its provincial status, some forty thousand mainlanders moved permanently to Hainan. Their number was small in comparison to the earlier immigrants but is increasing.

With a coastline of two hundred and seven kilometres and an area of two thousand four hundred square kilometres, Wenchang became a prosperous county until the boom in Sanya led to its stagnation in tourism. Wenchang was elevated into a county-level city - Wenchang City - in November 1995. To avoid confusion, I shall refer to the main city of Wenchang City as Wenchang town.

Remembering Huiwen villages and kin

At downtown, we book into Longyuan Hotel, a new 3-star hotel. Its nightly rate is 175 RMB ($35), which is inexpensive for a double-bed room. Quickly unloading our heavy luggage in the clean and spacious room, we head for Xiayang Village. At three in the afternoon, lunch is set on a square table. The prawns were caught by First Cousin Guo Ping, the vegetables freshly picked from Guo Dian’s garden, and the rice harvested much earlier from their adjacent family field. The big fish was, however, bought from the market. Groundnuts are home grown. They have been dug up and stored in a cool place. When needed, they are roasted. Life here is simple; the food is sufficient, and without much variation.

After lunch, we inspect the cement-paved compound. A long, separate building has five rooms. At one end is the bathroom. What is the toilet like? I sneak a peep. My apprehension is allayed. A flush system is in place. And the seated toilet bowl omnipresent in the West is there too. Fortunately, the “hole”, the squatting toilet, so common in Asia is nowhere around. The bathroom amenities are basic. The washbasin is a steel tub with sufficient space for placing a cup, toothbrush, and towel. Running water flows from a tap, not manually gathered from a well. I look around in vain for a hot water heater. For a warm bath during the winter months, one must, inconveniently, mix a kettle of boiling water with a bucket of cold tap water.

Next to the bathroom is the store for firewood and gardening tools. The third and biggest of the five rooms is the kitchen. The wok is huge – a metre in diameter. It sits on a stove that is equally huge. My wok in Sydney is only half its size. I suppose cooking for a large extended family requires that sort of utensil. Jo lifts up the lid. The leftover dishes are neatly stacked for reheating in the evening. We feel embarrassed for our excessive consumption.

Fruit trees, including lychee (litchi), longan, and jackfruit are spread out in the public ground outside the compound wall. When the villagers have lived side by side for generations, there is no fear of fruit thief. Indeed, every family owns fruit trees. I check out the “well”. To my surprise, it is not a well. A metre in diameter and three-quarter of a metre in height, the concrete circular basin is used, First Cousin explains, for soaking raw pepper seeds to remove their thin layers of flesh. After a few days, the rotted detritus is flushed off when a small drainage at the bottom of the wall is unplugged. The remaining heavier naked seeds are collected and dried in the sun. Much of it will then be sold.

About five in the evening, Third Cousin drives us and Mum to my paternal village. There is still sufficient daylight left for us to visit. As the car turns from the main road into the track, I notice a small concrete panel at the corner. Plastered with white ceramic tiles, it is three metres in length and two metres in height. On it is prominently stamped the name of the village in traditional Chinese characters 厚嶺村 (Hou Ling Cun) in black within a red rectangular “frame”. I immediately notice a difference between the Mandarin characters of the “hou” on the wall and the “hou” listed on Google map. On the latter is written 后, which currently means “after” or “behind”. I am bewildered. Which is a misnomer: “Village after the Mountain Range” or “Thick Village on the Mountain Range”?

A short distance later some houses enter our sight. Third Cousin parks his car by a small square shed. Directly behind it is the row of ancestral houses of close relatives like the three sons (eldest: Pang Tee Seng) and three daughters (eldest: Pang Juet Tien) of Feng Zhen Hua (冯振华). Also from the Feng Cong Mei lineage, they were once living in rural Changi on the eastern sector of Singapore during the nineteen-fifties. But resettlement programmes by the government saw them dispersed throughout the island.

In front of the shed is a water pump, partly disguised by the thin branches and leaves of a sapling. A century ago, the well below this pump was the lifeline of the few villagers among whom were also the extended families and kin of Great-grandfather such as his brothers (Feng Yun Kui 冯运魁 and Feng Yun Sheng 冯运生) and cousins (like Feng Yun De 冯运德). Yun De’s son Feng Zhen Li (冯振理) also migrated with his family (older son: Pang Tee Liang) to Singapore. Now, with the advent of tap water, the well has been sealed with concrete to prevent mishaps.
On the right of this shed and well is my ancestral house. It is one of the eight buildings constructed with bricks, within a rectangular walled compound measuring about thirty metres by forty metres. These solid buildings were built several decades ago to replace the disintegrating wooden structures. The four residential buildings are in the middle, parallel to one another. Each has its front door facing the back door of the building in front of it, with the front door of the first building facing the front gate of the compound. Two long and narrow, fundamentally non-residential, buildings are on either side of the residences. Their back walls form, as it were, part of the left and right walls (or borders) of the compound.

Parked at the rear of the compound, we enter through a gated entrance near the shed, the narrow gap between the two non-residential buildings. (This gate is on the “right” wall if one goes into the compound through its front gate.) The first of these two border buildings has a small room, occupied by a person presumably unrelated to the Pang clan. How and why he is living there is an issue I have no time to raise with Mum. He could have been allocated a room during the era of the Cultural Revolution. Having a long corridor, the second border building houses the toilet and tool shed. The remaining two border buildings consist mainly of kitchen, bathroom, stores, and so on, although one small room is locked and occupied too. Black blemishes darken the lower part of a border building’s external front wall. Its paint, once bright, has faded. We can assume that it is old, more than fifty years in existence. With some renovation and repainting, the attractiveness of the buildings here will be enhanced. Already flowering, pelargoniums (or geraniums) in the two or three small garden beds are pleasing to my eyes. But fruit trees are absent, which is disappointing. I expect some fruit trees like mandarin or mango. Or even a jackfruit tree. On the other hand, the penetrating roots of these trees are potentially destructive to the foundations of the houses. Or the falling branches during a typhoon could kill someone.

My ancestral house is the fourth residential building, at the back of the compound. The single-storey house is roughly ten metres in length, ten metres in breadth, and three metres in height. Made of bricks with one row of dark-red tiles running around the base, it is like most traditional Chinese houses; its tiled roofs are straight-inclined to facilitate the flow of rain water and prevent the accumulation of leaves. The rooms are locked.

Only Pang Hee Jong (冯启荣; Feng Qi Rong) and his wife live in the ancestral house. Eighty-three years old and also slightly deaf, Hee Jong is a distant cousin of mine; we belong to the same generation. Because their house near the coast was burnt down many decades earlier, they were accommodated by my paternal grandfather. They have gone to Singapore in November 2010 to visit their youngest daughter Joanna, and they are on their flight back today (January 12, 2011). We will miss each other by a day but we have met earlier in Singapore. They are a happy couple, always smiling.

Joanna Pang Chun Juan (冯春娟; Feng Chun Juan) married a Singaporean in the early nineteen-nineties after the latter, a Hainanese, visited Hainan. Their only child, a seventeen-year-old daughter, has just received her “O-level” grades two days ago. Joanna works as a cashier in a food store. Jovially she remarked that, had she remained in Hainan, she would have been a farm girl, cultivating rice and vegetables. Much to my startle, she has brought her elderly parents on a rigorous four-day coach tour to Malacca and Kuala Lumpur.

Joanna’s three sisters are in Hainan, although her third sister’s teenage son is studying in Singapore. Today, we are met by Joanna’s second sister, who has returned earlier to unlock the door to our ancestral house. But she does not have the keys to the rooms. She is there with her twenty-four year old daughter. During the introduction, mutual compliments flow. Her daughter dutifully boils a kettle of water over a stove of burning wood. To do justice to her, I gulp the cupful of freshly brewed coffee. It is sweet and satisfying. In the bright light, I gain a better conception of the house and its surroundings.

By the time we return to Xiayang Village to drop off Mum before returning to our hotel, it is reaching seven and dark. Third Cousin declines an invitation to dinner because of his hour-long trip home.

We roam the streets in the vicinity. They are crowded but not as crowded as the mall opposite our Haikou hotel. Longyuan Hotel is located along Wenxin Road in the heart of the sparsely-inhabited town, which had a population of only one hundred and fifteen thousand in 2006. My parents and niece, who have previously stayed two nights in 2010, recommended the dim sim (a banquet of prawns, beef, and pork dumplings and other tasty bites) that was available during breakfast. Room service was even provided, which young Gloria fancied. Dim sim breakfast in bed: that is living in style!

Tonggu Ridge and the deep blue South China Sea

Nearby is the café where we can select from the viewing rack our own ingredients for cooking by the chef. Their prices are cheap, ranging from 1 RMB (20 cents) for vegetables to 4 RMB (80 cents) for seafood and pieces of meat. My first selection is the famed Wenchang chicken, a small, free-range chicken. Because it has less fat, its flesh is drier but healthier, which many locals prefer. Oblivious to the imperative of dietary restriction, I stare ravishly into my large bowl of noodle, garnished with sliced beef, chicken drumstick, cuttlefish, prawns, and vegetables. That generous serving, which sets me back by only 25 RMB, is also our early lunch on Thursday morning.

Although small, Wenchang town is fairly crowded, presumably with temporary returnees like me seeking their roots. At the park behind Longyuan Hotel, some middle-aged people are playing Chinese chess while others are sitting on stone benches, gazing at passersby. Around its stagnant square pond are temporary stalls set up by enterprising ladies and men selling clothing, shoes, fruits and nuts, and watches. Some people are buying; some are mere spectators. Back at the hotel, we are delighted to observe the ungrudging assistance of the young receptionists in response to our request for a taxi to bring us to Tonggu Ridge and Qinglan Port. It will cost 200 RMB, one says, as she eyes me while holding her corded phone. Yes, we accept, I reply. She conveys our consent over the phone. Promptly, a cab appears.

Driving in the northeasterly direction along Wenxin Road, Touyuan Road, and 203 Provincial Road, Chen Ru Xin (陈如鑫) takes us through the rural region of Wenchang. We pass several rice fields, and the thousands and thousands of coconut palms swaying singly or in discrete clusters along the kerbs.

At our request, he agrees to transport us to the Soong sisters’ ancestral home and Wenchang Railway Station for an extra 100 RMB. The sign before Wenjiao Bridge and Wenjiao River declares “Wen Jiao Cun”. The “cun” (“village”) is, however, now a town (“zhen”).

The school here was built through a generous donation from the husband of famous Taiwanese film actress Lin Ching Hsia (林青霞), Chen points out. Born in this suburb of Wenchang, Michael Ying Lee Yuen (邢李㷧) was the sourcing agent for American apparel company Esprit in 1971. Later buying its rights to Asia and Europe, the enterprising Hainanese, like Charlie Han before him, soon became a self-made billionaire. Running his property empire from Hong Kong, he is regarded as one of the twenty richest persons there.

Near the tip of Tonggu Peninsula recently stood Gusong Village (古松村), an ancient fishing village whose fishermen had prowled the deep sea for centuries. Resting only during the typhoon season, they sold their catch to neighbouring towns and villages.

Three kilometres west of Gusong Village is Longlou town (龙楼镇), also known as Abalone Town because of its abalone farms, which annually produced about one hundred thousand abalones whose quality was highly praised by tourists. For intrepid divers, wild abalones were free for the taking from the shallow rocks off the coast. Besides abalone, local seafood restaurants also offered crabs, fish, and sea urchins to titillate visiting taste buds.

Founded between ten and fifteen kilometres east of Wenchang central, both town and village have however been acquired by the central government for the development of Hainan Satellite Launch Centre. With this significant space complex, Wenchang was unexpectedly thrust into world prominence. The six thousand one hundred villagers were adequately resettled and construction began in November 2008 on the levelled site of twenty square kilometres. The command centre, rocket assembly laboratory, rocket-launching site, and space-science theme part of four square kilometres costing thirty billion RMB would offer employment to the uprooted inhabitants.

Hoping to be among the first to see the space centre, I enquire if we could drive close to it. To our dejection, Chen tells us that the area is restricted and fenced for security. As we proceed to Tonggu Ridge, I am amazed at the quick pace of construction work - the bulldozers, the cranes, and the workers - at Longlou town. The undulating land has been flattened; the road is wide and donned with transplanted palms, shrubs, and trees.
On both sides too are newly-erected residential blocks, their mainly beige exterior walls projecting a cleanliness that blends in with the rural environment. The flats are occupied, presumably by villagers from demolished homes. Many other blocks are still in various phases of construction. Several roadside workers are putting their final touches to the new flowering perennials. It is hard to imagine that this place was once pockmarked with swamps, hills, and brooks that coursed along the paths of least resistance. The contrast with downtown is staggering. Emerging here is a first-world suburb, which will soon be the beacon of Wenchang City.

So winding is the ride to Tonggu Ridge, whose peak is three hundred and eighty-eight metres in height, and so swift is our driver that my heart is in my mouth. Ascending on the right side of the single-lane concrete road, which would allow barely sufficient room for descending vehicles, our taxi is hugging the hillside. I dread to think of the journey down, when we will be on the side close to the precipice. Although Chen has taken visitors up this road about twenty times, I utter a silent last prayer.

We overtake a group of three hardy walkers. They have begun their pilgrimage a couple of hours earlier. When we reach the designated parking bay near the top, I am temporarily relieved. We have made it safely. What about the drive down? When I pass the casual remark about the winding road, Chen says something that does not inspire confidence in me.

“No coach driver has the courage to drive up here.”

Is that the reason why the three young people are walking, instead of driving? After he has parked, I inform Chen that we will be taking an hour or so for the walk. I anticipate a stroll along a long track of, say, five hundred metres or even more, and a lookout where I can scan the surrounding area, including the site of the space centre.

“You do not need an hour; half an hour will do.”

I am puzzled. Is he trying to rush us? We slowly climb up the steep flight of steps. I cling tightly unto the safety chain on my left with both hands. His reason soon becomes apparent. Contrary to my presumption, the paved two-metre wide path at the lookout site is sixty or so metres in length only. We are somewhat disappointed. But we are glad that admission is free. Laid with stone slaps, the walkway is barricaded on both sides with low cemented stone walls, which prevent accidental falls and function as seats for tired visitors. The local government is farsighted and thoughtful enough to provide this amenity.

A steady stream of hikers flows through. Since the wintry day is slightly foggy, we are not rewarded with a clear day for photography, which is a shame. The redemption is we have a good notion of the crescent beach and deep azure South China Sea. The distant long beach invites us for a walk or sun tan. However, the inland site of the space centre is secluded behind the ridge. We content ourselves with photographing the indistinct scenes around and below us. In summer, the view may be more gorgeous when the bright sun evaporates the mist and the blue sky fully reveals the unpolluted environment. I should like to see the whole northeastern coast of Hainan then.

As we descend the flight of steps, we become aware of the track that leads to some imposing buildings. These are offices occupied by the Chinese military. When I look up with my hands poising my camera for a shot, a guard standing far behind a railing politely shouts a warning on the prohibition of photography. We scamper down to the car park, where Chen is waiting. I fear that this whole area may eventually be rezoned into a security area, closed to the public. But for us, the memory of that green nature reserve will live on.

During a later trip with my brother Hee Hung, Zhang Guo Hao has to park his car mid-way up the winding road because of a temporary obstruction caused by construction work on the hill slope. Although the landscape of the valley below is breathtaking, this new hotel is for the brave and foolhardy. The gradient is too steep for timorous me. The three of us are forced to slowly walk the rest of the journey, a kilometre. But we are richly rewarded with an array of botanical wonders and medley of melody from songsters.

I am unfortunate; I can hear but cannot see them. But my brother captures a clear image of one, which Liang Wei later identifies as a Daurian Redstart. About the size of my open palm, it is a common bird in East Asia, feeding on insects. Its black face and wings, grey crown and nape, and orange chest, abdomen, rump, and tail, make it truly a singing beauty. It resembles a Tri-colour Shrike. Phoenicurus auroreus belongs to the family of Muscicapidae (Old World Flycatcher).

Charlie Soong and his eminent Soong daughters

Returning to 203 Provincial Road, my wife and I head north for the ancestral home of the famous Soong sisters. We are excited because we have read books about them. The house is the birthplace of their father Han Jiao Zhun, better known as Charlie Soong. “Charles Soon” was the anglicized version of his given name “Jiaozhun”, adopted after his conversion by Methodist missionaries in America, where he had gone at the age of twelve. The “g” in “Soong” was added later.
Two kilometres before hitting the suburban town of Changsa, our car turns left into the long bitumen by-road to Charlie’s home. Dense rows of tall trees on both sides mesmerise and transport my mind back one hundred and fifty years earlier. This road was in all probability a sandy country track back then and the village was remote and populated by few families. How did Jiaozhun the Hainanese country kid of nine draw the courage to leave the security of his close-knit family in an isolated village and accompany some relatives to a world that was alien to him, first to Java and then to the U.S.A.? Passing through this narrow, fairly deserted modern road, I can now fully sense and appreciate his audacity and unyielding spirit.
Born in 1866 according to Western records (which I am using, or 1863 in others), Han Jiaozhun was taken with his older brother to Java at the tender age of nine. His three-year stay, apprenticed to an uncle, was an unhappy one; for he gladly accepted an offer to accompany another uncle to Boston. After a year or so of menial work for his uncle, who rejected his plea for an education, the adventurous fourteen-year old teenager bravely became a stowaway in a cutter, despite his poor grasp of the English language.

Jiaozhun led a charmed life; its captain was a practising Christian, who charitably employed him on deck and later introduced him to his fellow brethren. Envisioning him as a native missionary to China, they became his benefactors. He was baptized. Soon a rich industrialist and philanthropist, Julian Carr, gladly opened his residence to the boy and wangled a favour from Trinity College (now Duke University) to matriculate him, despite his failure in fulfilling all entry requirements. After a year, Jiaozhun transferred to Vanderbilt University, where he graduated with a theology degree in 1885. The following year, he was delegated to Shanghai as planned.

China was undergoing the throes of the dying Qing dynasty, debilitated by continuous wars sparked by opportunistic foreigners: the two Sino-British Opium Wars from 1839 to 1842 and from 1856 to 1860, and the Sino-French War of 1884-5. The Sino-Japanese War of 1894-5 and the 1900 Boxer Rebellion would explode.

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Following Imperial Commissioner Lin Zexu’s (林则徐)

destruction of British opium cargoes in 1839,

China was invaded by the British, French, Germans, Japanese, etc,

for 100 years
钦差大臣林则徐, 他破壞了英國鴉片貨物於1839年
后来, 英国，法国，德国，日本和其他人侵入中国100年

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Twenty-year old Charlie was catapult into that fiery cauldron. Missionary life was not easy, especially since he had started a family with his newly-wedded wife. His first child (daughter Ai-ling) was born in 1888 and his second (daughter Qing-ling) in 1893. He left to become a businessman, starting a small printing firm as well as engaging in clandestine activities against the Manchu government. His third child (son Tse Ven; Ziwen) was born in 1894.

Fate saw him meeting twenty-eight year old Sun Yat-sen during a Methodist church service in Shanghai in 1894. The following year, the Guangdong-born Sun participated in a failed revolt in Guangzhou. With a price on his head, he fled overseas, where he remained for sixteen years. He spent much of his time in London, raising money for the republican cause. When he first landed in London, he came under the surveillance of Qing secret agents, who later kidnapped and held him in the Chinese legation. Fortuitously, his friends were alerted. British political pressure and public furore forced the Qing government to release him.

Charlie Soong was safe; his role in the Guangzhou plot was unexposed. His third daughter Mei-ling was born in 1897, followed by two sons, Tse Liang (Ziliang) and Tse An (Zi’an). Knowing too well the benefits of a Western education, Charlie sent his three young daughters to Wesleyan College in Georgia, the eldest in 1903 and the other two in 1907. After her graduation in 1909, Ai-ling returned home to a China ruled by three-year old Puyi, chosen by the Empress Dowager on her deathbed the previous year.
Absent for several years, Sun Yat-sen too returned to China. Through her father, Ai-ling became Sun’s secretary. In 1911, the Qing dynasty was collapsing. Representatives from provincial supporters made Sun the provisional President of the Republic of China. To prevent the potential disintegration of the fragile republic by the actions of emerging provincial warlords, Sun and his followers, who controlled little military power, cut a deal with a dominant warlord, the recently ordained Qing prime minister.

Succeeding in effecting the abdication of the young emperor, General Yuan Shikai thus received the presidency of the republic in 1912. Meanwhile, having completed her studies, Qing-ling also returned. Power supremacy gradually unmasked the president’s latent ambition. His autocracy surfaced. The nascent republic faced a new threat, a dictator. Sun and Song Jiaoren, a leading United League member, formed the KMT. Widespread protests and opposition against Yuan sprout. Life was perilous.

The following year, after an unsuccessful revolt, Sun and the Soong family fled to Japan. When Ai-ling married Bank of China director Kung Hsiang Hsi (Kong Xiangxi), Qing-ling became Sun’s secretary. Young and fresh from college, she soon fell for the charismatic revolutionary. By the end of 1915, Yuan declared himself Emperor. Three months later, he died, sparing China from a regression into the feudal age.

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Patriot Soong Qingling with Sun Yat-sen
爱国者宋庆龄与孙中山
Soong Qingling, Honorary President of China
宋庆龄, 中国名誉主席

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Safe from persecution, the Soong family returned to China. Despite her father’s objection, Qing-ling subsequently embarked on a journey to rejoin Sun. Although she was initially disowned by her father, their relationship was later restored through the siblings’ intervention. But Charlie’s ties with his married friend remained severed. Without an effective central government, military leaders once again manoeuvred to carve out their tufts. China seemed doomed to political disintegration and self-destruction. To reunify the country, Sun returned in 1917. Charlie died the following year, aged fifty-two (or fifty-four), and was buried in Shanghai.

Sun speedily established a military government in Guangzhou to recapture the rest of the country. He was supported by Tse Ven (T.V.). His death in 1925, however, led to a struggle among the factions for control of the KMT, in which Chiang Kai-shek emerged the winner the following year. Chiang married Mei-ling in 1927, and Tse Ven served as his Nationalist Government’s Finance Minister from 1928 to 1933 (and also acting premier from 1932 to 1933) and Minister of Foreign Affairs from 1941 to 1945 (and concurrently as deputy premier from December 1944).

After the post-war civil conflict, their families fled to Taiwan while Qing-ling remained in mainland China. Later feted as Honorary President of the People’s Republic, the widely-adored widow of Sun died in 1981.

Siblings who had studied at the same college at the same time stood on opposing sides of a long civil war. Little did they or father Charlie anticipate such a cruel fate. I ruminate over the strange twist of events that engulfed them, as I pay the modest admission fee of 15 RMB and wander around the cultural park created and funded by the government during the nineteen-nineties. Charlie’s ancestral house is still well-preserved. The garden is well-designed and spacious.

A small tree perks my interest. The white marble tablet reads: “石栗生态园 Castanea mollissima tree (candlenut tree) ecological plantation”. A candlenut tree? Grounded candlenuts are used in Southeast Asian cuisine. Can candlenut trees be cultivated in southern China, especially Hainan? Yes, I later find out. But, alas, after making another check, I am left perplexed. A “Castanea mollissima tree” is a chestnut tree, not a candlenut tree. Chestnut trees are propagated in mainland China. Has the wrong Latin name been imprinted?

About twenty kilometres from Wenchang town, this cultural park is not crowded on weekdays like today, except during the school holiday. But this may change when the space launch centre is functioning around 2015 and a museum built. Pei Partnership Architects is integrating into the extant park the first museum in China to commemorate “the legacy of Charlie Soong and his six children and their spouses”. This consultancy was founded by Chien Chung and Li Chung Pei, the sons of internationally-renowned Chinese-American I.M. Pei (Ieoh Ming Pei). The “high priority project” was approved by the Central Government.

Until he left home, Charlie Soong and his older brother grew up within a walled compound that is compact, measuring - in my estimation - about twenty-two metres in length and ten metres in breadth; for his father Han Hongyi, who died in 1893, owned a piece of land that is only 1.2 mu (a fifth of an acre) in size. In that small compound are two main residential buildings, whose walls form part of the compound’s perimeter wall. Each building is small, about ten metres in length and six metres in breadth, and has two small bedrooms. The building in the middle of the compound has two doors (the entrance and exit) while the other in the rear has only one door, the entrance-cum-exit. The smaller side buildings are tool sheds and kitchen.
Immediately, the size of the family compound and distance - more than ten kilometres as the crow flies - from Qinglan Bay suggest in my mind a relatively poor man, despite Sterling Seagrave’s exaggerated claim in his book The Soong Dynasty that Han Hongyi was a “prosperous merchant, boat builder, secret society elder, and smuggler” at the port. Laura Tyson Li hits the mark when she says that Charlie’s father “worked on the docks” there during farming off-peak seasons.

Charlie was born in a rear bedroom that is small, about three and a half metres in length and two metres in width. It is also windowless. When the door is shut, it is dark and unventilated. A sign tells us that this is the room he was born in. The other rooms are similar. Without headrests, the beds are basic and purely functional, made of hardwood planks nailed together and without any form of decoration. They are typically found in any peasant’s household. Protecting the human bodies from being accidentally impaled by splinters from the wooden beds are the thin “mattresses”, covers of matted coconut leaves that will also keep the bodies warm at night.
As we walk around Charlie’s ancestral house, we do not find it to be exceptional. The hall is about three metres by four metres, just sufficient space to accommodate the small square dining table in the middle and the eight chairs placed against the two longer walls and, if they are rich enough, also a dining room cabinet. A large wooden plaque nailed onto the rear house wall, which faces the door, briefly traces the ancestry of Charlie to a Han Xian Qing, the “Satrap” (太守; taishou) of Lianzhou. The prefect, or regional inspector, moved to Hainan in 1197 during the reign of Southern Song emperor Ningzong, five decades after the death of exiled Zhao Ding.

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Charlie Soong’s ancestor moved to Hainan in 1197
宋嘉树的祖先搬到海南在公元1197

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Curiosity nudges me to scrutinize the names of Charlie Soong’s descendants. Laurette Soong, a daughter of T.V. Soong, is married to Ivan Y.T. Feng. “Feng”: my eyes then focus on its Chinese character. It is identical to mine. Is he a descendant of emperor Feng Ba or Feng Hong? Is he a descendant of Feng Bao and Lady Xian? I silently ponder. If he is, then a descendant of the Northern Yan emperor is married to a descendant of the notable Charlie Soong. That makes for an interesting after-dinner conversation. Tse Ven was the former Premier of China while Feng Tzecheng, the groom’s father, was the Chinese Ambassador to Mexico in 1952.

Exiting the walled compound, I notice a white marble slab embedded on a granite base. On it are engraved English words in red. I draw closer. They say that the Japanese soldiers, who captured Charlie’s village in 1941, wrote in pulverized lime “Song Ziwen’s house” on the greyish external brick wall. Their victorious warning to the KMT adherents has since faded through the passage of time.

Nearby is a small shelter harbouring a millstone. Here, I surmise, is where the Han family pounds and separate the husks from the rice grains and also grind their rice grains into flour. A few metres away, some of Charlie’s ancestors laid buried, shaded by the dense clumps of leafy tropical trees.

A huge white marble bust of a smiling round-faced Qing-ling in her seventies stands conspicuously on a square pedestal about 1.6 metres in height before a flight of steps leading to the Soong Exhibition Halls. In the courtyard is a similar but smaller bust of her husband Sun Yat-sen. In the halls are photographs and newspaper cuttings of the notable events in the lives of the Soongs.

Near the car park is also the inescapable white marble bust of Charlie Soong, the patriarch. In his letters to his Western friends, Charlie identified his village as “monshou County” in Guangdong. His English transliteration of the Hainanese sound “Boon Sio” (or “Boone See-o”) proves his Wenchang ancestry, and Hainan was part of Guangdong Province then.

During a later trip with my brother, I nip along the woods behind Charlie’s bedroom. A simple single-storey or even double-storey building about a hundred metres long and sixty metres wide could easily be constructed there to house a museum commemorating the Soongs.

Qinglan Port and deep sea fishing, Dongjiao coconut palms

Qinglan Port, where Charlie Soong’s father had laboured a century ago, lies eight kilometres northeast of my ancestral Huiwen. This ancient fishing port is located at the narrow mouth of Bamen (Eight-Gate) Bay.

For over six hundred years, if not more, local fishing trawlers have sailed from this port at year-end to Paracel Islands (Xisha) to collect sea cucumbers and other marine products. After a voyage of less than four hundred kilometres, they return before the onset of the May southwesterly monsoon.

During the Japanese invasion via Haikou, many Hainanese fled through this port. Their fishing junks took them to Southeast Asian destinations like Vietnam, Thailand, Malaya, and Singapore. I wish to see this historic port. But not knowing my peculiar interest, Chen is more disposed to showing us the best and the fabulous.

Travelling along the main Wenqing Avenue that runs south from Wenchang town, Chen turns right into Qinglan-Baijin Road, at the end of which is a resort by the shore of Gaolong Bay. The public car park is close by and the small park is not too crowded. Operating since 2007, HNA Resort is a four-star hotel. Capped with reddish-brown tiled roofs, its two visible blocks of rooms on the six floors are splendidly painted in pink; and, unfenced from the general public, they may be easily mistaken for luxurious private condominiums.

The driveway between the blocks is beautifully laid with stone pavers that form geometric designs in shades of beige and brown colours; it is also decorated with ornamental palms, flowering plants, and large sea-horse statues. Coconut trees around the blocks and everywhere in the area add to the picturesque background. Needless to say, Jo and I are awed by this new development. I gather from Chen that the rooms are not expensive, starting from $50 per night.

For the comfort of hotel patrons and visitors, a restaurant and a sheltered kitchen are provided at the small park. A huge boulder is painted with these red Chinese characters: 海鲜街. “Hai Xian Jie” means “Seafood Street”. Four others are: 白金海岸. “Bai Jin Hai An” literally means “White Gold Sea Shore” or “Platinium Seashore”. But the translation on the stone is: “Beauty Beach”. Beauty Beach is four kilometres south of Qinglan Port and Bamen Bay. I should be able to enjoy a bird’s-eye vision of the bay and port from the balcony of the highest hotel room.

“Qinglan” means “Clear Waves”. That is an ironic name for the port and the region. Typhoons hit this coast regularly, and the turbulent waves are noticeably not clear. Jo and I slowly walk towards the jetty. A hundred metres to our left, about twenty-two single-seat wind-powered sailing yachts are at the beach, some have just landed while some are about to land. Twenty or so people are milling around the landed vessels. While some may be spectators, the rest are learning to sail. I squat and feel the texture of the beach sand; the particles are slightly coarse. I step forward and feel the water; it is cold. At the end of the jetty are two simple pavilions with matted coconut-leaf roofs.

Far away, a tiny solitary boat lethargically floats from my left towards my right. After fifteen minutes, it has moved barely an inch. The distant sky is blue, tinted with white clouds hovering above the undulating ridges of the mountain range. The waves are rough. The visibility of the seawater is about half a metre. I would love to drop a fishing line here. Are there big fishes?

We turn and glance at the coast. Dense forest of coconut trees stand in rows as if in strict military precision. Tall and upright, some are even more than thirty metres in height. I have seen scattered coconut trees along the coasts and villages. But there is nothing like the pageant I am witnessing. The green stalks of leaves radiating from the tops of several trees sway at the touch of a gentle breeze.

Capable of surviving severe wind and drought, these humble plants thrive along salty coastal strips. Not surprisingly, some extremely large coconut plantations and forests are found in the neighbourhood. The well-known Dongjiao Coconut Groves is just across the bay. Apparently, it has half a million coconut trees, which come in several varieties like “Red Coconut”, “Green Coconut”, “High Coconut”, “Improved Dwarf Coconut”, and “Water Coconut”. Besides other products, Haikou Canned Food Factory at the Groves exports coconut jam.

So ubiquitous are the coconut trees that, according to one estimate, more than thirty million coconuts are produced annually in Hainan. This figure of course pales in comparison to the quantity produced in Indonesia, a larger territory. Its yield of fifteen and a half billion coconuts constitutes twenty-eight percent of the world’s total. Providing a major source of income for the local Hainanese people, the maintenance-free coconut tree gains my deep admiration and respect. No wonder, an International Coconut Festival is held annually in Haikou in late March or early April to celebrate the value and significance of this fruit. It is reportedly the largest festival on the island, attracting international participation and visitors.

As we saunter around the park, we are careful not to tread under a coconut tree. The impact of an unwanted gift on the head can be catastrophic. Some fallen fruits are lying undisturbed on the ground. Some have germinated, showing two or three emerging upright stalks. It is tempting to take one home. The fruits are in different stages of growth. Some are small and green while others have shown their age. The latter are ripe for harvesting – by hand. And that is a laborious task.
A thought flashes through my mind: Beauty Beach is only about five kilometres northeast of my ancestral villages. I could easily adapt to the land. I could sink my roots here. The fishes in the ocean are free. I can harvest the fallen coconuts. The fruits provide refreshing drink; their young gelatinous meat is nutritious. Besides, the fruit yields the durable shell, which I can shape and present to friends as gifts. Or sell as souvenirs. I may even convert coconut juice into coconut wine and become an instant millionaire....

Wenchang Railway Station and the high-speed trains

It is shortly before six in the evening when Chen drops us off at Wenchang Railway Station. His taxi meter, which has been running, shows a fare of 400 RMB. The 300 RMB we pay is a good discounted price for the five-hour personalized tour. We have been given a good deal.

Wenchang Railway Station has an imposing building. Although the fast-train service commenced operation in December 2010, the three-hundred-metre section of road leading to the station has only been prepared for bitumen surfacing. This station is one of the fourteen stops along the railway track of three hundred and two kilometres on the Hainan eastern coast under the joint project started in 2006 by the Chinese Ministry of Railways and Hainan provincial government. More than eighteen million passengers are projected to use the system annually. At the cost of RMB 18.19 billion (about US$2.24 billion), it links Haikou and Sanya and cut travelling time to eighty minutes.
In comparison, a flight from Haikou to Sanya takes about forty-five minutes. Operating since 1994, Sanya Phoenix International Airport is the second largest in Hainan, catering to internal and regional flights. Currently, more than 3.6 million tourists visited Sanya annually. Other infrastructure improvements have been made during the last five decades. The Central Highway cuts through the central highlands, thus linking them to the coastal regions in the north and south. Using this highway, a car from Haikou takes about three and a half hours to reach Sanya. Previously, it took twice as long.

We check the billboard for the train timetable and fares to Sanya. But we resist booking the tickets in advance; for we may change our travel itinerary. Wenchang downtown is less than two kilometres off. A bus runs close to the town centre; its fare is 2 RMB each. The stop is not far from our hotel and the Confucius Temple.

Constructed from wood, without any recourse to iron nails, during the eleventh century, the latter has been renovated and expanded since the Ming era. It is one of the biggest ancient architecture in Hainan. Fortunately, it was not destroyed during the 1966-76 Cultural Revolution. It is the only major tourist attraction in Wenchang town. Sadly, we need to give it a miss; for we must organize our journey to Sanya the next day.

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