Chapter 7, Haikou once again

Rambling around my ancestral Hainan

Pages 231 - 262

TRIP 2
2011 MAY
SUMMER

Chapter 7

Haikou once again

The aristocratic Feng family

Three months of research reveal more insights into the fate of some of Feng Ang’s descendants, hastening my burning quest for further information on the family that could possibly be my ancestors. Before he died, the Tang general could not have anticipated the severe and unjustified punishment that would be inflicted fifty years later on a grandson and his family by Wu Zhao, the scheming concubine of both second and third Tang emperor, during her untrammelled regency and ensuing reign. If he had been alive then, the general’s affected son would have been emotionally crushed by the capricious twist of history.

Chinese have a proverbial saying: a family’s fortune does not last more than three generations. It is generally true. The reason for the demise of the Feng family’s status and wealth becomes clearer to me when I examine the political tumult and tension during the second half of the seventh century, the period when an insecure concubine viciously clawed her way to the pinnacle of national power.

Upon his ascension in July 649 at an impressionable age of twenty-two, the third Tang emperor appointed Xu Jingzong as Minister of Ceremonies. Around this time, Xu was accused by some officials of accepting an excessive bestowal gift from Feng Ang for the marriage of their daughter and son respectively. As a result, he was demoted to be the prefect of Zheng Prefecture (modern Zhengzhou, Henan). He would be rehabilitated as Minister of Armoury Supply three years later.

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3rd Tang emperor Li Zhi (Gaozong; Wade-Giles: Kao-tsung)
took his father’s concubine Wu Zhao into his own harem
第三届唐皇帝李治（唐高宗）
拿他父亲的妃武曌带入自己的后宫

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Meanwhile, besotted by his young step-mother’s beauty and enticements, emperor Gaozong threw Confucian etiquette and caution to the wind, taking her out of the nunnery the following year. Inducted into a harem where each of the five preceding consorts was protective of her self-interest and limited influence, the twenty-five year old charmer soon mastered the art of manipulation and became its expert.

Her weapons were her four sons and two daughters, of whom three would be thoughtlessly sacrificed. Born in 652, Li Hong would be made crown prince in 656, displacing his disfavoured half-brother, but would die in 675, allegedly poisoned by his mother because of their constant conflicts. Younger by a year, Li Xian (李賢) would be given the position but he would be forced to commit suicide in 686. They were not their mother’s first victims.

Concubine Wu’s first victims were childless Empress Wang and mother-of-three Consort Xiao. Wu’s third child, a daughter born in 654, was the earliest familial sacrificial lamb. On friendly terms with the mother, the unsuspecting empress visited the baby. After she had left, the new-born was found dead by her mother, apparently distraught. Given her subsequent cruelties, even towards her own sons and grand-children, later historians inferred her role in her infant’s strangulation.

Tainted with innuendos, the empress and Consort Xiao were eventually accused, stripped of their imperial titles, and imprisoned by the bewitched emperor for their purported conspiracy to poison him, despite remonstrations from anti-Wu ministers. The emperor’s compassionate visits sealed their fate; they were brutally murdered on the newly-installed empress’ orders.

Wu’s list of victims included the former empress’ relatives, consorts, and officials who had opposed her royal elevation. Ex-empress Wang’s uncle Chancellor Liu Shi was dismissed. Restored to his post as Minister of Ceremonies, Xu Jingzong now became Wu’s principal ally. The empress’ next target was Consort Liu’s son, crown prince Li Zhong, who was deposed in 656 and replaced with three-year old Li Hong. The axed heir was ultimately exiled and forced into suicide. A eunuch, who had dobbed in Empress Wu for her witchcraft dabbling, was falsely accused and executed.

In 657, at Wu’s instigation, Xu and Chief Secretary Li Yifu accused three ministers of conspiracy, resulting in their demotion and banishment from the capital. As reward, Li Yifu was promoted to be the deputy head of the secretariat and Xu to head the examination bureau. The subsequent year, the latter was promoted to lead the legislative bureau. The screw tightened. In 659, Xu implicated Army Supreme Commander Zhangsun Wuji and the three banished ministers in a plot to seize power. They were exiled. When the emperor authorised a reinvestigation into Zhangsun’s alleged connivance, Xu delegated an official to coerce Zhangsun’s suicide. One of the exiled ministers was executed on the emperor’s directive.

Pandering to Wu’s whim, the third emperor commissioned a new “Record of Surnames and Clans”, which naturally exalted the clans of his empress and consorts to the highest rank. When his health was deteriorating around 660, thirty-five year old Wu amassed even more influence. In 662, the ailing emperor made Xu chancellor and adviser to the young crown prince. The following year, Li Yifu, who had succumbed to extreme corruption, was exiled.

As she aged, her husband philandered. Forty-one year old Wu discovered Gaozong’s affair. Her potential rival, the daughter of her deceased older sister, was poisoned during a banquet, the blame pinned on her (Wu’s) disrespectful cousins. The food, allegedly adulterated by them, was intended for the empress but had inadvertently killed their niece instead, it was claimed. They were executed. In 670, Xu retired; he died two years later. Empress Wu sought new allies.

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As Wu Zetian aged, her husband Gaozong philandered
当武則天老大时，丈夫唐高宗有婚外情

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Successfully petitioning the emperor to release his older half-sisters, who had been under house arrest on his mother’s instructions for two decades, the kind-hearted twenty-three year old heir apparent Li Hong mysteriously fell ill and died in 675. Wu’s second son Li Xian was appointed as the new heir. Serving only four years, he too fell out of favour. Accused of concocting a coup, he was imprisoned, his rank revoked. Exiled later, he was compelled by his mother to commit suicide. His supporters and sympathetic officials were banished.

In 680, third son Li Zhe was slotted as the crown prince. Born in 656, his original name was 李顯 (Li Xian). But homophonic to his older brother’s name, it was changed to prevent confusion.

Emperor Gaozong died in co-capital Luoyang at the age of fifty-six in December 683 from an illness that had left him blind. Empress Wu was fifty-nine. January 684 heralded the reign of a new emperor, the fourth Tang emperor. When twenty-eight year old Li Zhe manifested signs of independence, making his father-in-law the chancellor, his fall was inevitable. Emperor Zhongzong’s reign lasted barely two months. He was accused - falsely - of treason: intending to surrender the throne to his father-in-law. Imprisoned, he was soon exiled by his mother. Eight years earlier, his first wife (posthumously honoured as Empress Zhao) was accused by his callous mother of some crimes and imprisoned. When she died of starvation, her parents were exiled.

Li Dan was only twenty-two when he was installed. Emperor Ruizong was merely a puppet. His sixty-year old mother was the de facto ruler, terrorising the empire with a spy network directed by Lai Junchen (來俊臣; Wade-Giles: Lai Chun-ch’en) and Zhou Xing (周興; Wade-Giles: Chou Hsing). In the dynastic history of biographies, these two officials from the Board of Justice and Censorate were classified under the category of “Evil” officials. Forgery and torture were their tools to elicit convictions against critics of their paymistress. With them around, the dowager was safe enough to pursue a clandestine affair with a Buddhist monk, who was showered with awards.

Officials fiercely loyal to the Li clan were incensed by the dowager’s shenanigans. Her conferment of the “Prince” title upon her deceased Wu ancestors violated Confucian tradition, thus aggravating their wrath. One of the discontented Li loyalists was Xu Jingye, Prefect of Meizhou (modern Meishan, Sichuan). Demoted to be military adviser to the prefect of Liuzhou (Guangxi), he gathered a group of supportive bureaucrats, together hatching a plan to overthrow the dowager. Their avowed aim was to restore the throne to Li Zhe, the rightful heir; their strategy was to initiate their operation from Yangzhou (in Jiangsu). Adhering to the plan, an assistant imperial censor travelled to Yangzhou on the official duty of investigating conspiracies there.

Under the protective cover of that official assignment, the conspirators framed and executed the unsuspecting Yangzhou military adviser. Claiming to be the new adviser, Xu gained access to the military depot. On the pretext of an imperial military action against Feng Ziyou (冯子猷), who was the tribal chief of Gaozhou and an alleged rebel, the actual rebel swiftly raised an army of conscripts. (Hong Kong Chinese University historian He Xi identified Ziyou as the grandson of Feng Ang through the latter’s eldest son Feng Zhidai.) After recruiting a hundred thousand soldiers within ten days, Xu openly demanded the restoration of the deposed emperor. Due to poor co-ordination, the rebellion faltered and failed. In December 684, the fleeing Xu was assassinated by a subordinate.

Another group of conspirators had their own plan. If they had combined forces with the Li loyalists, perhaps Empress Wu would have been overthrown. But the Li descendants were fearful that Xu might seize the throne after Wu’s deposition. The first Tang emperor’s grandson lead a rebellion four years later (688) but his forces were easily vanquished by Wu’s stronger and more experienced army. She then continued her systematic extermination of the Li royal family. Earlier in June 687, Deputy Head of Secretariat Liu Yizhi (刘祎之; Wade-Giles: Liu Wei-chih), who had initially supported her during her eviction of her third son, committed suicide under her behest. His mistake was to express an opinion to a colleague on the suitability of restoring government to Li Zhe.

Emperor Xuanzong’s confidante,

Eunuch Gao Lishi

China’s only female “Emperor” (皇帝; Huangdi) ascended the throne in 690 when her fourth son abdicated under her coercion. Ruling in her own right until 705, sixty-five year old Wu Zetian even invested in her own Zhou dynasty. (For convenience, I shall refer to her as “Empress”. Chinese historians, however, treat her merely as a regent for her son, as an empress-dowager.) Her fifteen-year reign was one of terror.

With the entire Li family antagonistic towards her, Wu promoted her Wu clan relatives as a security measure. The two sons of her deceased half-brothers were made Prince of Wei (and chancellor) and Prince of Liang. The former schemed to become the crown prince and, in the process, destroyed officials who stood in his path. His deviousness proved too much even for her. In September 692, he was removed from power.

Successful in securing the death of Li Dan’s wife and a concubine (the mother of future emperor Xuanzong) for practising witchcraft, Empress Wu’s trusted maid audaciously attempted even to implicate Li Dan himself in 693 for treason. Investigated by spy chief Lai Junchen, the crown prince was saved by a courageous retainer who sliced his stomach to show his “sincere” heart during his court testimony to his master’s integrity. The loyal servant was miraculously saved by a physician.

Wu Zetian was brutal and merciless. She had a chancellor beaten to death in the Hall of Audience for his collection of brocades; she had two officials publicly sawn in half for visiting the crown prince.

Fear of conspiracies clouded her life, kindling her dependency on the ruthless spy chief. Under him and his coterie, purges continued relentlessly. Rebellions against Wu’s savagery arose. Compounding her woes, the wars against the invading Tufans (Tibetans) and the Khitans (Qidans) in 696 were unsuccessful. During a purge in 697 against the alleged conspiracy of Liu Sili (Wade-Giles: Liu Ssu-li), thirty-six landowners were killed and more than one thousand of their relatives and friends exiled and then murdered.

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Qidan (Khitan) established the Liao Dynasty (907-1125 A.D.)
契丹人建立了辽代 (907-1125 公元)

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A secret agent claimed that the royal exiles and their supporters in Guangdong and Guangxi were planning a rebellion. Lai’s henchman (Wan Guojun) hurried to Guangzhou, rounded more than a thousand of them, and drowned more than three hundred. The empress then dispatched more of Lai’s henchmen to the south. To boost his prestige, one investigator exterminated seven hundred alleged conspirators. Another slaughtered five hundred. Three others murdered a total of over three hundred. The indiscriminate killings appalled provincial officials and even the hardened empress, who prudently called a halt. With no more victims, the spies soon became preys of one another; Lai and Zhou Xing received their just desert.

If royalty and kinship could not save many from the tyrant’s machinations, what hope did past loyalty and the living mortals have? Feng Ang, the commander-in-chief of Gaozhou, had been dead for almost five decades. Two of his thirty sons were prefects of Gaozhou and Enzhou. Another was the prefect of Panzhou (Pan Prefecture, now Maoming City in southwestern Guangdong Province), whose post was inherited by Feng Junheng (冯君衡). Feng Junheng was the father of Feng Yuanyi (冯元一), better known in history as chief eunuch Gao Lishi (高力士).

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Feng genealogy: Feng Zhidai, Feng Ziyou, Feng Junheng, & Gao Lishi
冯家谱: 冯智戴, 冯子猷, 冯君衡, & 高力士
Feng Junheng and Feng Yuanyi (Gao Lishi) statues in
Gaozhou Lady Xian Temple,
Gaozhou City, Guangdong Province
冯君衡和高力士雕像
在冼太夫人庙, 高州市广东省

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Although Feng Yuanyi’s date of birth was recorded in historical biographies as 684 and death in 762 at the age of seventy-nine, his recently-unearthed epitaph stated, perhaps more accurately, that he died in 762 at the age of seventy-three sui. Since the age “sui” begins at conception, and not birth in Chinese reckoning, Feng Yuanyi was born in 691, in Pan Prefecture, about one hundred kilometres northeast of Haikou. That was the home and administrative centre of Feng Bao and his wife, Lady Xian.

During the 697 purge, Prefect Feng Junheng was framed in a survelliance commissioner’s secret report, which lead to his execution and the enslavement of his family members. Feng Yuanyi, the youngest of his three sons, was castrated by the local military commissioner and sent to the imperial palace as tribute that year. As I delve into Wu Zetian’s era of excesses, I feel outraged. Feng Yuanyi, who could be my ancestral kin, was only six years of age. His world crumbled around him. First, he lost his father and siblings; then he was castrated. It must have been the most terrifying and traumatic experience for the young boy.

The origin in China of this hideous practice is uncertain. As early as the Zhou Kingdom, castrated slaves were labouring in palaces, the emperors obviously fearing being cuckooed by unfaithful empresses and concubines. After restoring the Han dynasty, emperor Guangwu (25-57 A.D.) insisted on castrating male attendants of palace ladies, thus entrenching the practice. During the closing years of the Ming dynasty in the mid-seventeenth century, the court had more than ten thousands eunuchs, an extravagance compared to only the thousand at the end of the Qing dynasty.

Historian Sima Qian (c. 145-86 B.C.) chose castration over death. His father was Western Han emperor Wudi’s chief librarian. Wudi reigned from 141 to 87 B.C. Aspiring to follow in his father’s footsteps, Sima became an imperial official. His folly was to contradict the emperor, who blamed General Li Ling for surrendering to the Xiongnu warriors during an unsuccessful campaign against them.

His nuanced comment interpreted as an outright insult, Sima was sentenced to death, a sentence commutable by castration or a hefty cash payment. As a mendicant employee, Sima walked the humiliating path to fulfil his father’s dream of completing a history book, although an honourable death was his preference. In Confucian China, castration meant the inability to perpetuate the family lineage, a disgraceful and despicable act. Many were involuntary eunuchs, sold by poor families. Some, however, chose that route, with the favoured and talented few rising in rank, power, and wealth.

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Han emperor Wu (Liu Che) sentenced Sima Qian to death
for an allegedly insulting remark
汉武帝（刘彻）因司马迁所谓的侮辱性言论，
判处司马迁死刑

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At six years of age in 697, the barely recovered Feng Yuanyi arrived timidly at the palace. By then, Wu Zetian had pranced as “emperor” for seven years. She would continue for eight more years. The young slave was briefly introduced to the seventy-three year old vixen, the ogress indirectly responsible for his plight. She allotted the frail and distressed kid a new name “Lishi” (“guardian”), and permitted him sufficient time to recover before putting him to work. To ensure his efficiency, the lad was taught martial art and literary studies. An empress’ servant, Feng Lishi would have spoken to every royal family member who entered the inner sanctum. He would one day serve one of them, the son of Li Dan.

The following year, the repulsive empress was unable to attract and enlist recruits to fight the Khitan armies from Mongolia. At the urgings of her officials, she recalled forty-two year old Li Zhe and appointed him as crown prince, thus replacing his younger brother Li Dan. Given rein over the army too, the popular third son easily mustered fifty thousand men.

Because of a minor infraction, Lishi was beaten on the wicked empress’ order and then expelled from the palace. Fortunately, the frightened boy was adopted by a benevolent senior eunuch. Gao Yanfu (660-724) recommended his adopted son to his previous master, Wu Sansi, the nephew of Empress Wu. The Prince of Liang was an extremely powerful man. He was the Minister of Rites in 695 and the head of the Legislative Bureau (the de facto chancellor) in 700 (for a year).

A year later, the infamous empress recalled Lishi, who - being more judicious - eventually rose in rank. He cautiously served her during the last five years of her reign, proximately observing palace intrigues while breathing in fear and awe of the elderly granny whose spies had executed his father, enslaved his brothers, and indirectly castrated him.

In 701, one of Li Zhe’s sons was carelessly gossiping with his sister and her husband about the empress’ strange relationship with two advisers; the two brothers were her latest lovers. Another self-promoting son overheard and relayed the gist of the conversation to the Casanovas, who transmitted it. Fuming from the slight, the heartless grandmother commanded the suicide of the three unfortunate royal offenders and banishment of the stirrer. Few dared to oppose the two courtiers, whose greed and nepotism was well-known, except for the brave and popular chancellor. After a show trial, they successfully obtained his banishment.

Commoners and royals were now firmly united against the two. Slowly and surely, the officials fired the first salvos: they brought corruption charges against the culprits’ brothers, who were consequently banished. When the empress fell ill in early 705, the new chancellor and some officials seized the golden opportunity. After killing the two aides for treason, they coerced her abdication.

Third son Li Zhe resumed his interrupted reign. Ousted by his mother after a fleeting moment in power seventeen years earlier, the former fourth Tang emperor was probably relieved. She had executed his first wife twenty-five years ago and had, in a fit of anger, recently killed two of his children. Perhaps in his mind, she was a deranged woman, who deserved her belated death in the second half of 705 at the age of eighty. Did the young fourteen-year old Gao Lishi, who lived through the harrowing last eight years of her erratic rule, mourn her political plunge?

Emperor Zhongzong died suddenly after five years, allegedly from poisoning by his adulteress and domineering wife. Her only son killed by Wu Zetian nine years earlier for making snipe remarks, Empress Wei secretly enthroned sixteen-year old Li Chongmao, the emperor’s son through a concubine, and appointed herself as regent, aspiring to be another backroom despot.

However, with the assistance of sympathetic officials, Prince Li Longji (the son of Li Dan) and Princess Taiping (the sister of both Li Dan and deceased Li Zhe) seized the throne and re-instated fifty-year old Li Dan. Emperor Ruizong resumed his reign, creating twenty-four year old Li Longji as his heir. Having previously cultivated a friendship with Li Longji, the nineteen-year old eunuch Gao found himself as the crown prince’s trusted servant. Two years later, the fifth Tang emperor, believing in peaceful succession, abdicated.

Li Longji became the sixth Tang emperor. (Wu Zetian’s usurpation and rule was one of regency, not reign, in the eyes of Chinese historians.) At the very young age of twenty-one, Gao was entrusted by the new emperor to manage the Palace Domestic Service. The trust was perhaps founded on an unspoken bond between them, a bond that lasted through the forty-four years of Li Longji’s reign. Both shared a common sadness: both had lost a parent from Wu Zetian’s cruelty. The emperor lost his mother Consort Dou; the slave, his father.

Like her mother Wu Zetian, retired-emperor Ruizong’s younger sister Princess Taiping yearned for power. In 713, rumours of an impending rebellion by her and her supporters reached Li Longji, who preempted with the aid of his half-brothers, some officials and generals, and also eunuch Gao. Most of the conspirators were executed. When Ruizong publicly supported his son, the fleeing and cornered princess committed suicide.

Gao Lishi was duly rewarded for his role. Made General of the imperial guards and the acting head of the Eunuch Bureau, he was the first eunuch to reach the third rank in the Tang dynasty’s nine-rank system. In 714, Ruizong died.

Built around 670, the imperial Fengxian Monastery and the Great Vairocana Image Shrine of nine colossal figures in Longmen Grottoes (twelve kilometres south of Luoyang) were damaged by a devastating flood from the overflowing Yi River in 722. The subsequent year, emperor Xuanzong instructed the monks to shift temporarily to Longhua Monastery. During the refurnishment, the court eunuchs took the opportunity to add forty-eight smaller Amitabhas around the nine giants.

On a stele at the site was engraved a dedication by Xuanzong and a list of one hundred and eleven donors, all from the Palace Domestic Service. Leading the list was Gao Lishi. His position was given as “General of the Palace Gate Guard of the Right, in charge of the affairs of the Palace Domestic Service, Supreme Pillar of State, and Dynasty-founding Duke of Bohai Commandery, Palace Servitor Gao Lishi”.

After twenty-five years of service in the palace, including twelve years to Xuanzong, the once slave had achieved the rank of royalty: “Duke of Bohai Commandery”. According to Amy McNair, Gao Lishi was “the first eunuch in the Tang Dynasty to attain a position of real power and the first for whom emperor Taizong’s rule about eunuchs not being appointed to offices above rank 4 was broken.” Gao achieved the highest office possible for a eunuch. In 748, Gao was even conferred the honorary first-rank military title “Grand General of Calvary” (骠骑大将军; Piaoqi Da Jiangjun). Historians rank him as one of the two most powerful eunuchs during Xuanzong’s reign.

When the emperor grew wary of General Wang Maozhong’s influence, Gao advised a preemptive strike. As a result, the general and his friends were exiled in 731. Wang was in due course forced to commit suicide. According to court histories, Gao received all the petitions and made decisions on those of minor significance. That the chief eunuch could even do so on the emperor’s behalf reveals the extent of the latter’s faith. Yet, apparently, his decisions did not anger many officials. The emperor praised, “With Lishi working for me, I can sleep soundly.”

Honorary-General Gao was extremely wealthy. With power, status, and wealth he was able to acquire a family. It was not unusual for eunuchs to marry. His wife was Lady Lu, whose father rapidly rose in rank. They had two adopted children, a daughter and a son. He did not forget his adopted parents. He was generous to them. He successfully searched for his biological mother Lady Mai, brought her to the capital, and provided for her.

Gao Lishi’s advice, which indirectly contributed to his downfall, was on the issue of succession in 737. The emperor had about twenty-two concubines. Through them, he sired thirty sons and twenty-nine daughters. His favourite Consort Wu was promoting her son, Prince Li Mao, who had married Yang Yuhuan (better known as Yang Guifei) two years earlier. In her endeavour, she accused Crown Prince Li Ying and two other princes of treason. The trio were forced to commit suicide. Although the consort died shortly in 737, her plea was reiterated by the chancellor.

The emperor was torn by indecision; for he favoured Prince Li Yu (renamed later as Li Heng, the future emperor Suzong). Gao’s advice was: choose the oldest son. Thus, Li Yu became Crown Prince. Gao shielded the heir apparent from palace skulduggery, and was highly respected by the other princes.

Emotionally devastated by his favourite concubine’s death, the sixth Tang emperor was most vulnerable. Three thousand beautiful ladies comprised his harem; yet he became enamoured with his young daughter-in-law when she was led by Gao Lishi into the palace. Historically hailed as one of the “Four Beauties of Ancient China”, Yang Yuhuan was born in mid-719. Her father, a minor official, died when she was young, and she was raised by an uncle. At sixteen, she was married off to Prince Li Mao. The emperor compelled his son’s divorce, and Yang was ostensibly meditating in a nunnery for five years.

Secretly, she was in and out of the imperial chamber. The trusted chief eunuch was the obvious intermediary. When she was twenty-six, the sixty-year old emperor publicly made her a concubine, a concubine with the highest rank of “Guifei”. To the dismay of other concubines, he gradually heaped honours on members of her family. Eunuch Director Gao often attended to Yang Guifei’s wishes. He was the conciliator whenever the royal couple had tiffs.

Gallivanting extensively throughout the country from his home town in Gansu and later Sichuan, a forty-two year old poet landed at the capital in 742, and was interviewed for a job by the emperor. At the newly-established Hanlin Academy, where he stayed for three years, wine connoisseur Li Bai (Li Po) composed some impromptu love verses alluding to the romance between the infatuated monarch and his favorite concubine. Unfortunately, during an effusive moment in the emperor’s presence, an inebriated Li instructed Gao to take off his (Li Bai’s) shoes.

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Li Bai (Wade-Giles: Li Po) and Du Fu,
two of the Tang Dynasty’s most famous poets
李白和杜甫, 两位唐代最着名的诗人
Eunuch Gao Lishi takes off poet Li Bai’s shoes
while Yang Guifei (Concubine Yang) holds ink-stone
太监高力士起义诗人李白的鞋子，而杨贵妃持有墨水

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Naturally, the highest-ranking eunuch, who had been treated respectfully for three decades under Xuanzong, were offended. In revenge, Gao insinuated to Consort Yang a different interpretation of one of Li Bai’s poems: “Pray who in the glorious Han palaces/Can we compare to our own Emperor’s Lady/Save Flying Swallow in all freshness/Of her incomparable loveliness?” Lady Flying Swallow (Fei Yan), the famous beauty to whom Guifei was compared, deceived the Han Emperor and fell into disgrace. Guifei complained to her lover. Denied an expected promotion, Li Bai quitted the Academy in frustration. During his subsequent travels, he encountered fellow poet Du Fu twice.

Meanwhile, a military commander from the northern region visited Chang’an in 747. Of Turkic descent, An Lushan ingratiated himself with the emperor and his favourite consort. In 751, he revisited, to attend a feast held in honour of his birthday. His gaiety delighted the ageing emperor, who even made him a prince, while the young consort playfully adopted him as her “son”. The following year, Guifei’s cousin Yang Guozhong was appointed chancellor after the incumbent’s death. When his troops and Wang Hong’s failed to crush a mutiny in the capital, Gao Lishi successfully led a eunuch calvary. Accused of complicity in the cabal, Wang Hong and his brother were executed.

In 755, the Turkic general started a rebellion, which caught the court unaware. From his base (the seat of modern Beijing), he advanced and easily captured Luoyang, the eastern capital. He then marched towards the western capital. In danger of being besieged, Xuanzong and his retinue secretly fled in July 756, leaving Chang’an unopposed to the enemy.

On their way to Chengdu (in Sichuan Province), the dispirited troops slew the prime minister for his corruption and incompetence. They also demanded the death of thirty-seven year old Guifei for her “adopted son’s” rebellion. The emperor was reluctant. But confronting the overwhelming mutinous troops was not a viable option for bodyguard Gao Lishi. He was now sixty-five and helpless. His priority was to guard the life of his emperor and the lives of the royal children and grandchildren. That was the aim of his early training. He persuaded his master to yield.

How and whether Consort Yang died is still a mystery. She could have been strangled by her constant mediator, as instructed, at the nearby temple or she could have hung herself. When he brought her lifeless body before them, the appeased soldiers dispersed. She was hastily buried in Mawei (modern Xianyang in Shaanxi). But her body could not be found after the war. At this juncture, the crown prince separated and left for Lingzhou (modern Lingwu, Ningxia) while the others continued on their journey. On reaching Chengdu, the grateful emperor made General Gao the Duke of Qi.

Over in Lingzhou, Li Heng proclaimed himself as emperor. Receiving the news, the exhausted and defenceless Xuanzong announced his retirement. Emperor Suzong only managed to re-capture Chang’an at a price: an alliance with the Mongolian Uighurs, who exacted a heavy tribute for their military assistance. After his success, Suzong invited his father to their old capital. There the retired emperor rewarded Gao with a further title for his loyalty.

The war against the rebels dragged on for ten year until 766, even though An Lushan and his son had been assassinated earlier. From then on, the Tang dynasty could not recover its earlier glory. Limping another one hundred and two years, the tired dynasty collapsed.

A retired ruler had limited power and influence, and the loss of a strong political patron often resulted in a person’s ruination. The immense influence of a eunuch of General Gao Lishi’s stature naturally evoked envy in subordinate eunuchs and officials. His demise was inevitable. Suzong’s chief eunuch was instrumental in withdrawing Gao’s titles as well as exiling him in 760 to Wu Prefecture (in modern Hunan). Falling seriously ill in early 762, Suzong declared a general pardon.

Seventy-one year old Gao prepared for his return to the capital. In May, Xuanzong died, followed shortly by his fifty-one year old son. While passing through Lang Prefecture (in Hunan), the old eunuch heard the tragic news. So devastated was he that he fell ill, and died shortly thereafter. Suzong’s son, Emperor Daizong posthumously restored the titles to Gao and buried him near Xuanzong.

Is this notable eunuch a distant kin of mine?

Flying from Sydney to Singapore

With a weary heart, I step out of my house on Wednesday afternoon, the twenty-seventh of April 2011. I am now on my own, totally reliant on my inadequate linguistic proficiency, to embark on my second trip, a trip that will take me around the island of Hainan. For a moment, a baffling fear overcomes me. I shudder. Will I be able to extricate myself from communication quandaries without my wife’s assistance?

Many inns and businesses are now managed by mainland Chinese for whom the Hainanese dialect is alien. I am having second thoughts. But I cannot back out at this hour. An inner voice urges me forward. When I was younger, I knew no fear.

Hitchhiking from Kuala Lumpur to the Genting Resort in Cameron Highlands should be an interesting test of my character, I repeated to myself. Thus, during my tertiary semester holiday, I valiantly declined the offer of a comfortable bed for the night after enjoying a dinner hosted by maternal uncle Kia Kuang and his family in an outskirt restaurant of the Malaysian capital. As it was getting dark to thumb a free ride to anywhere, I deferred my intended journey to the following morning. I tried sleeping on a wooden bench near an open field.

This is adventure, I reassured myself. But the unabating breeze was crisp, forcing me to search for a cheap room. At the third or fourth motel, I met a young Singaporean thrillseeker making the same enquiry. We agreed to share a double bed, each paying $15. In retrospect, I realized I was foolish. I could have been robbed or, worse, strangled.

Walking along the route to Cameron Highlands, I was fortunate to receive a ride from a kind lorry driver, who was delivering sand to a construction site half-way up the rugged mountain slope. I thanked him profusely in my pidgin Cantonese. I suppose he regretted having me for company since my mastery - perhaps the wrong word - of his mother tongue was atrocious. Another truck driver generously conveyed me to the top, our common destination.

Especially enchanting was the foggy mist, the descending clouds. The air was chilly and the view of the valley, beautiful. I dawdled aimlessly around the confined hotel lobby and car park garden. Attired in my sweaty T-shirt and pair of jeans, and carrying a backpack, I felt indecorously exposed among the well-dressed guests and patrons. Defeated by the extremely cold weather while attempting to slumber again on a park bench for the afternoon, I dejectedly caught the regular bus down to the capital for a night in a motel room adjacent to a noisy sleazy bar before I headed for Penang in the morning.

Now, doubts and vulnerability of old age are battering my once-resilient inner self-confidence. A muddled head and mixed heart has led me to instinctively perform house chores earlier in the day. Landing in Changi Airport, I am in a daze, and I am glad to hear from Hotel 81 Star the availability of a vacant room for three nights. Lorong 18, off Geylang Road, is brightly lit at night, not reminiscent of other red-light lanes. Room 804 is reasonably clean, although small but adequate for a single person or a couple. $60 is a fair nightly rate. The Geylang Road bus stop is only fifty metres from the hotel, and the Aljunied MRT station is four hundred metres off.

At the rate of S$1 to 5.262 RMB, I purchase 24,000 RMB for S$4,560 from one of the Raffles Arcade licensed money exchanges. The new rate is favourable to me. In January, it was S$1 to 5 RMB. Packing and re-packing my backpacks and suitcase is my usual travel routine. After re-distributing the packages of coffee-mix bought from a local supermarket, I have some free time left for the evening.

Facing Lorong 18 is the Highpoint Social Enterprise Ark’s car park and narrow pavement. There, six ladies, suitably garbed for the night, stand separately, about a metre apart from one another, silently inviting. Five are Chinese while one is probably a Thai, given her darker facial complexion. One Chinese sports a low-cut blouse, flaunting her ample assets. Two are so beautiful, prompting me to reflect: why do they engage in such a sordid business when they can easily find a rich life-partner? Lightly touching my sweaty forearm as I pass, one asks in Mandarin, “Do you want?” Politely, I thank her, and walk on.

At one corner of Lorong 20 and Geylang Road, the restaurant is closed, which is surprising because it is Saturday night. Business should be good here. It was closed the previous night too. Nine girls are mingling in the faint darkness, which feebly conceals their identity from the few sexual predators and spectators. Just opposite, at the brighter corner, is a coffee shop, where sixty or more customers are seated within and outside slowly sipping their coffee or tea. Are they voyeurs, fantasying? Or are they participants, patronising when midnight draws nigh?

First of May is, fortunately, a fine sunny Sunday morning. I leave with three backpacks and a suitcase, filled with three puffy windbreakers and many packets of coffee mix and biscuits. Considerately set by the airport administration near an entrance, the unobtrusive weighing machine reveals a slight overweight, causing my frantic disposal of four pieces of well-worn clothing into the nearby bin. Still overweight, I re-shift my belongings into my carry-on backpack. Although my check-in bags still add to 23.4 kilograms, the girl accepts them, relieving me of my worry.

Four young stewards and stewardesses are busy shuffling cabin bags into the overhead compartments of the Jetstar plane. My brief survey reveals that seventy percent of the seats are occupied. Adults constitute approximately two-thirds while the young constitute the remainder. Students are still in school.

As the plane taxis along the turning paths, including crossing the bridge over the East Coast Parkway, to the main runway, we pass a few wide runways. Changi Airport is huge but not crowded with planes. After twenty-five minutes of meandering, the jet begins its quick ascent at the “W10 02L 4000 m” sign and the dark-blue “SASCO” building on our left. My second journey to Hainan begins.

Introducing himself as “Winston Tan”, the pilot clearly announces the usual service facilities and safety regulations. As I sit back, I contemplate over my impending trial. I have come so far; little did I know a decade ago that I would be embarking upon such a momentous step to track down my biological root. This trip is no longer novel; yet its length is. Indeed, I almost exceed the time permitted in the visa. I am staying the full thirty days permitted. I cannot be sick on the last day. At times, I feel anxious at that possibility.

The food trolley soon appears. As Hainanese chicken rice, followed by “Pulot Hitam” (Black Rice) dessert, has titillated my taste buds during the first trip, I request that combination. Putting aside his copy of today’s edition of the Straits Times, the gentleman on my right goes for a can of Coke. He seems to be an engineer by profession because he dives into a technical discussion with another passenger about the performance of the Rolls-Royce engine that powers our Jetstar jet.

At five in the late afternoon, the plane begins its descent. The sky is cloudy, and the ground temperature is reported as thirty-two degrees Celsius, the same as in Singapore. Occasionally, a village slides into view, then a field and some hills. Amidst the acceleration of my excited heartbeat, the jet lands smoothly not far from the single-storey airport terminal and its familiar “Haikou” sign. Only one other plane is parked on the runway. Except for a moving car and a stationary van, little human activity is evident. The place is virtually deserted. Welcome back to Hainan, the land of my birth.

With few passengers, Customs clearance is quick. The officer asks - I think - for the reason of my visit, to which I haltingly enumerate the famous tourist sites I intend to see. Cai Hong is waiting in the arrival hall with her husband and daughter. Suddenly, a change disrupts the calm weather. As scattered droplets hit us, we briskly transport my bags and luggage to the spacious car-park across the entrance. Few cars are parked in the lots. Busy with appointments, Xue Xin drops us at Longquan Hotel (海口龙泉花园酒店).

Completing my check-in formalities, we have dinner at the restaurant beside the hotel entrance. It is crowded because of the school holiday season, and it is also hot, the air-conditioning system incapable of cooling the summer heat and hot bodies of customers jostling to their reserved seats after placing orders at the counters. As Lin Ye (林烨) is restless, they return home immediately after dinner.

The golden cow at Jinniuling

In the morning, I recharge my China Mobile account with 50 RMB cash at a small store by the side entrance of Mingzhu Shopping Plaza. But I receive only 38 RMB credits of calls. (I would receive 50 RMB worth when I make a similar transaction at a China Mobile branch beside Longyuan Hotel in Wenchang.)

Jinniuling (Golden Calf Hill) Park at Haixiu Middle Road is four kilometres west of my hotel. A direct bus trip should take only twenty minutes. But with part of Haixiu East Road being one-way, the bus from the hotel entrance detours, resulting in a journey of thirty minutes. The fare is only 1 RMB. When I alight, I cannot see the Golden Calf, which is hidden behind high-rise condominiums. A young man kindly points the direction. When I cross the road, the brilliant yellow statue looms.

Since no covered café or restaurant is in sight, I walk towards the open-air food outlet for an early lunch. Near a tall banyan tree with numerous dark-brown dangling roots, the seven wooden tables have all been aged from constant use, some enjoying the shade of the overhanging green canopy. After picking my selections from the aluminium trays of cooked foods, I sit at an empty but unshaded table, where the sun is harshly beating down on my head and shoulders. The pig’s ear has a strong pungent smell, my first culinary experience repelling me. I finish only my tin bowl of rice, chicken pieces, and long beans.

Pasted on the window of the admission office is a list of fees. Meekly, I enquire if I am eligible for a Senior Citizens’ discount. The receptionist generously replies that nothing is mentioned about the ineligibility of non-citizens. Thanking her profusely, I whip out my Australian driving licence from my wallet. Being over sixty years of age, I pay only 10 RMB for admission. The big park is too humid for me to take a walk and it cost only 5 RMB to ride on the eight-seater tourist trolley vehicle. The slow drive takes about ten minutes, suggesting a square-kilometre tract.

Disembarking at the entrance, I then stroll to photograph the Golden Calf. Unfortunately for souvenir hunters who may desire to leave with a literally rewarding memory, this three-metre tall statue is, alas, only painted in gold. It was erected in 1996 to commemorate the heavenly beast of burden that left, as the legend goes, the transcendental realm of bliss to help alleviate the pain and sufferings of the farmers and peasants, who were undergoing the prolonged and severe drought and famine afflicting their vast land. The construction and layout of this park hints at the local government’s prescience in providing a green and rejuvenating space for the expanding urban population in Haikou.

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The Golden Calf at Jinnuiling (Golden Calf) Park
金牛岭公园的金牛犊

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Hundreds of cicadas are singing their deafening mating calls; the melodious harmony of creaking is sharp and continuous. Knowing their skilful camouflage, I inspect the trunk and strain my eyes at the overbearing branches and leaves. Try as I may, I fail to detect any movement. They are small but loud. And they are invisible. They do not need any technological “invisibility cloak” to escape from predators. After inspecting two trees, I give up my search. I walk on, my footsteps failing to alarm any grasshopper among the grass. Like most of the trees elsewhere, the bases of all tree trunks here are each ringed with a white band of fungicide.

Several species of plants have educational name labels. Among them are: Artocarpus altilis (with broad leaves and some immature breadfruits), Caryota ochlandra (a palm with strings of small green fruits under the canopy of leaves), Garcinia subelliptica (a short tree with upright branches covered with green healthy leaves), Lannea coromandelica (a tall and slender tree with thin wide-spread branches with few leaves), Moringa thouarsii (a tall and slender tree with few branches which has radiating twigs of leaves), Pandanus tectorius (a short tree with branches which, from afar, resemble clumps of pineapples), and Tectona grandis (which, despite its name, has a slender trunk and thin branches with scattered leaves).

That bulbul with a prominent red crest on its head is extremely nervous and shy. Moving from tree to tree in synchrony to my approaches, it then flies off to perch on the edge of the single-storey building. Bulbuls are one of my favourite birds. Three or four frequently repose on my neighbour’s television antenna, singing to one another in courtship.

Jinniuling Martyrs’ Cemetery is only two or three hundred metres from where I stand, and I regret having no time to explore. This cemetery is dedicated to those who died in Hainan, resisting the Japanese and Kuomintang during the Second World War.

Within the park is a mini-zoo, the Haikou Golden Bull Ridge Park & Zoo (海口金牛岭公园和动物园). As I peer at the exhibits near the entrance, I deliberate: to enter or not.

Haikou has another zoo. Located by Dongshan Lake about twenty-seven kilometres south of downtown, the Hainan Tropical Wildlife Park boosts more than two hundred species of birds and animals. Three hundred and thirty hectares in area, it is also a botanical garden, displaying tropical trees and plants like the banyan and vines. Since I may not have the time to visit it, I decide to enter. As a senior citizen, I pay the discounted fee of 10 RMB.

Among the birds are a pheasant and a white heron in their cages, and a pair of Mandarin ducks and some ordinary ducks and geese in their huge pond with artificial “islands” for their kernels. Also in separate cages are some macaques and two dogs, one of which is an Alsatian. Dogs are rarely seen in Haikou. Many, I suppose, have ended up in restaurants decades earlier when times were hard.

David’s Deer (“Elaphurus davidianus”) and Sambars (“Cervus unicolour”, says the sign) wander freely in their separate enclosures. The lonely wild Yak trots off, rejecting my attempt to record its unique face. The zoo is small and the exhibits few, which may disappoint foreign visitors. Only a handful of locals are wandering around. The busy residents have very little time for casual activities.

That might be the reason for the failure and closure of Yazhou Ancient City as an entertainment draw. Lying three hundred metres northwest of Golden Calf Park, it was a memorial temple before its redevelopment about three decades ago by a private Hebei investor. Initially, the city-fort was a popular tourist attraction, especially for inquisitive young school children. But interest dwindled. I want to gain a conception of what life might be like in earlier times from this modern Yazhou fort because a fort, possibly with a similar dimension or even larger, was built in Yacheng, Sanya, in 1198.

“Yazhou” (“Cliff Prefecture”) was originally the name of an ancient prefecture in the territory now known as Haikou City. Where is the capital of Yazhou? The tag “Yazhou Ancient City” suggests that the ancient capital was established at the location of that entertainment complex.

However, recent research strongly proposes Longtang town (龙塘镇) as the site. Flourishing about twenty kilometres south of the Nandu River mouth (and approximately the same distance southeast of “Yazhou Ancient City” and Jinnuiling Park), the modern town sits on the left river bank. If contemporary scholars are right, the ancient capital was well-supplied with fresh water and agricultural produce from the fertile surrounding soil.

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Longtang town (龙塘镇), Qiongshan District,
the probable site of Yazhou Ancient City
珠崖遗址在琼山区龙塘镇

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Although the once popular tourist landmark is situated along Xiucheng Road, a mere hundred metres from the main Haixiu Middle Road, I cannot find my way even with the aid of the map, despite its proximity. Two young men in their mid-twenties are residents; they kindly guide me. To the left of the tourist icon is a crammed food court. Many people, mostly men, are seated around their tables, gaming or sipping their cups of tea. I suppose they have finished their morning chores. As I photograph the fort and its exterior white wall, which is covered with a thin veneer of greyish weather stain, they stare curiously at me. I feel uneasy, although I am safe. We are not in an untenanted nook.

About one hundred and twenty metres in length and one hundred metres in width, the parameter wall is twenty metres in height. Secured by a brown wooden door, its open main entrance is narrow and arched, with a depth of about two metres; it is flanked by two slightly smaller but shut entrances. Built upon the wall of these three entrances is an open-air residential building with a traditional Chinese brown-tiled sweeping roof. If this fort-city were the ancient Yazhou capital, the building would have functioned as a guard-house or tower for soldiers protecting the fort and the surrounding city, a kilometre or two from the northern Haikou coast.

Above the main archway is a large sign announcing the name: 崖州古城 (Yazhou Gu Zhen). A lorry transporting cargoes is reversing into the compound. I follow it. Once inside, I am overwhelmed by its small area. To my immediate left and right are flights of concrete steps leading to the top of the left and right walls respectively. The distance between these two walls is only about thirty metres.

Forty metres ahead is a concrete platform. Its distinguishing feature is its maroon facade with white stone reliefs of an official seated between two dragons. On either side of the platform is a flight of steps. From the platform another flight of steps leads to the top of the back wall, on which is a double-storey temple with a double-tiered curved Chinese roof. Before its open door are three censers, each with three large burning incense sticks. The maroon colour of the platform facade is replicated on the temple walls.

Climbing up the entrance steps on my right, I slowly grasp the shape and size of this fort. Standing before the soldiers’ lookout on the front wall, I can see that each of the left and right walls is in fact about forty metres “thick”. Within these two walls are two huge halls, which now serve as warehouses. I sigh heavily with regret. If attentively spruced up, Yazhou Ancient Fort-City should attract numerous tourists once again. It did draw thousands of Hainan students when it was built.

On top of these two side walls are two long single-storey buildings. The building on my right is spacious. It is open because it has no door. I walk in. It is empty. Debris like small pieces of wood and broken bricks is strewn around at two corners. The cool air flows freely because the surrounding walls have large window openings. Looking more like an empty car-parking lot, this building has no dividing walls. In ancient China, such a hall would have been subdivided with wooden walls, its rooms serving as dwellings for the soldiers and administrators. If the building is demolished, the ground on which it stands is spacious enough to create four or five basketball courts.

I walk to the prominent temple on the rear wall and then to the building on my left. At the corners of the four walls are small pavilions, which would protect lonely soldiers from the elements. What would be their thoughts when they glanced down at the hundreds or thousands of village huts they were guarding? The temple’s presence in the fort is not inapt. Religion played an important part in Chinese life for more than three thousand years. The prefectural or district military governor would conduct the proceedings during the seasonal festivals. Today, other than two persons walking outside, no worshipper is inside the temple. Probably residents of the nearby homes, the two are talking.

The second building is subdivided and occupied by perhaps the temple’s caretaker and his family or the warehouse staff. It is boarded off to exclude prying visitors. Clothes are hanging on a line tied to two pillars. In antiquity, the building would probably be the living quarters of the officers and troops. Life was difficult for them in an environment far from their familiar ancestral homes.

According to my map, Fort Barbette (秀英炮台; Xiuying Paotai) in Xiuying District is only about two hundred metres northwest of Old Yazhou Town. But it takes me forty-five minutes to emerge from the mind-boggling intervening maze of narrow streets. The result is disappointing. The fort has been closed for some years, says a hawker standing by her two baskets of fruits. A Chinese couple and their teenage daughter are also looking forlornly at the gates. Occupying about a third of an acre, this fort on Paotai Road was built in 1891 by the last dynasty to defend the island against French naval forces during the Sino-French War.

Zhang Zhidong, the governor of Guangdong and Guangxi, inspected and approved the location on the hill two hundred metres from the coast. The fort overlooked Qiongzhou Strait, thus menacing any enemy fleet sailing through. Stationed parallel to the coastline by the Hai He estuary, the five cannons purchased from Germany were each riveted on wheeled platforms that could rotate on circular tracks, thus permitting them to be turned around to blast enemies creeping from inland. Originally, the military compound occupied thirty thousand square metres of land and housed a command post and a barrack.

Three other Fort Barbettes were constructed in China: Humen Fort Barbette in Guangdong, Wusong Fort Barbette in Shanghai, and Dagu Fort Barbette in Tianjin. They were designed to repulse the French at the end of the nineteenth century. Today, the French and their champagne are feted with open arms.

Egrets of Dongzhai Mangrove Natural Reserve

On Tuesday morning, I hop onto a No. 41 bus from nearby Wuzhishan Road, intending to drop off at Wugong Temple and hire a cab to Yanfeng town (演丰镇). The bus fare to Wugong Temple is 1 RMB. All seats are occupied. The journey is short, only about four or five kilometres. Midway, I ask the conductress on the availability of buses that run from Wugong Temple to Yanfeng town. Yes, you can catch a bus from “San Gongli” (三公里, Three Kilometre), she kindly informs me. During that momentary elation in discovering a cheaper way of reaching my destination, I fail to investigate further. I willingly pay her the extra 1 RMB for the journey to the mysterious suburb.

At San Gongli (which I eventually learn is Xindazhou Avenue), the conductress directs me to board the bus that has fortuitously stopped beside us. The fare to Yanfeng town is 6 RMB. It is a small bus carrying about ten passengers and the smiling conductress in her late thirties assures that she will arrange for me to alight at the right place. With that reassurance, I recline comfortably and alone on the seat nearest to the door. After travelling for some time and stopping intermittently to drop and pick up a couple of locals, the bus skirts close to Meilan Airport. That is the information on a road sign. Shortly, we should be reaching Yanfeng, I whisper to myself.

By now, a gentleman in his mid-forties, occupying the double-seat to my left, is talking to the conductress, who has settled on the row behind him. Their conversation does not interest me. I am engrossed in my own thoughts – the beautiful rustic sceneries that we have just passed through and the coastal birds in the approaching mangrove forest (Dongzhai Harbour Mangrove Nature Reserve; 东寨港红树林自然保护区).

Yanfeng town is about twelve kilometres east of Meilan Airport, and twenty-eight kilometres southeast of Haikou. The view of Hainan Meilan Golf Club on my left jolts me out of my thoughts. This international championship golf course with twenty-seven holes and nine-hole lighting system was designed by Australian golfing legend Graham Marsh. Nearer the small town, the road narrows to two lanes, and weaves through isolated farms and houses. It is a typical country road, which could benefit from some upgrading.

At the main intersection of a quiet village, the bus lets off a few passengers. This cannot be Yanfeng town, I say to myself. Even though I am sitting obliquely in front of her, the conductress is still engaging the gentleman. I have been occasionally asking, “Have we reach Yanfeng yet?”

After the bus has accelerated, her conversation partner suddenly remembers my destination. Conductress apologises profusely. Should I laugh or cry? Oblivious to my plight, the driver does not stop for me to get off, a proposition which I am also adverse to, but continues to the next village, where fortunately I do not have to wait to catch the bus travelling back to the town I have missed. For the short distance, the 2-RMB fare is unreasonable. I shrug off the price. It is only forty Singaporean cents. And not much time has been lost.

Looking briefly at the few streets and liveless shops of Yanfeng “town”, I estimate a population of twenty thousand or less in the region. If there is not much life and activity during the day, do the inhabitants go immediately to sleep after dinner? Retiring here is out of my consideration. It might be too boring for me!

Waiting at the intersection, the sole motorized-trishaw driver, a Hainanese, quotes 5 RMB to the nearest ferry point. Not knowing the distance, I offer four. Along the way, he discloses the cost of a mangrove-swamp cruise at the nearby ferry jetty. It is 300 RMB. He offers to take me to a cheaper joint, which charges only 100 RMB. It being further, he quotes a higher fare of 8 RMB. Is he pulling a scam? With no way of knowing, I will just have to trust him.

As his trishaw slowly rolls along the secluded road, a jittery feeling arises. Is he fixing me for an extortion bid? I mentally rehearse all the karate moves that I have practised during my younger days. I will surprise him with a kick to his groin, followed by a hand chop to his neck and two rapid punches to his ribs. He may be in his forties, but this old man is still a formidable force to be reckoned with!

My camera is in my backpack, which I hold dear to my chest. He points to the covered entrance of the first jetty at the end of the short lane to our right as we ride past. I cannot see the jetty or river, which is hidden behind dense shrubs and trees. A motorcyclist zooms by in the opposite direction. My ungrounded fear increases. Perhaps he is Trishawman’s accomplice. My feeble attempt at a conversation is agonising to me. I soon forget its content. The tall swaying coconut trees as well as trees with overhanging branches on both kerbs shield the sunlight, darkening the surrounding. The road becomes narrower, turning into one lane. The solitary brick building brings relief. I can shout for help if necessary.

At last, the presence of a mini-wharf and an open-air restaurant by the river bank evokes an inaudible sigh of relief in me. He has delivered me safely. Three round stone tables are surrounded by round stone chairs under the shady intertwining branches of three very old mangrove trees. These trees are over twenty metres high. One, with its trunk hidden within tightly packed aerial roots, has a diameter of a sedan-car length.

I see no customers. Perhaps lunch time has just ended and the patrons have left. Or perhaps a weekday lunch at a far-out locality is not enticing. Three or four buildings are in the compound. One is a house. Another looks like the kitchen.

“You ren ma?” (“Is there anybody?”) I call out as I near the kitchen.
No reply. I walk to the house, which has the red national flag and a light-blue flag, and call out again. No reply. Within the hut near the restaurant’s sign, four persons are playing mah-jong.

“Lao ban?” (“Proprietor?”)
“What do you want?” a lady asks, as she interrupts her game with three others around a table.
I make known my request. She comes out. She gives me a quote.
“The charge is 100 RMB.”
“How long does the boat cruise last?”
“About twenty minutes. Do you want?”
“Yes.”

For a short ride, the price is exorbitant. But I have no choice. When I reluctantly agree, she makes a phone call and returns to her game after getting a name card of the restaurant for me. Its Chinese name, with my later pinyin translation, is 红树林连理枝渔家乐 (Hongshulin Lianlizhi Yujiale; Mangrove Forest with Twin-tree Interlocking Branches Fishermen’s Family Delight).

Trishawman says he will wait for me. He too has no choice. He has no other fare. Six small boats are tied to poles driven into the riverbed. They are fishing boats or boats for conveying light cargoes.

A motorized boat capable of safely seating six to eight persons on its three lengthwise planks soon shows up. The owner is friendly, steadying the vessel and helping me embark. He is also safety-conscious, handing me an orange-coloured life-jacket. I feel safe with him.

When I am seated, the boat navigates upstream and winds its way around the several bends of the narrow estuary, which ranges from about thirty to seventy metres across. The rising high tide is covering much of the bank, leaving only a few short stretches slightly exposed. I expect sandpipers wading on the soft mud at these edges as well as mangrove tops cluttered with nests of screaming egrets; for often these trees are homes to them and other coastal birds like eagles and herons. Sadly, I see none. I do not expect to see pelicans, so common on the Australian east coasts.

“Why are there no birds?” I ask.
“A colony of egrets is at the next cove.” The boatman reassures me as he steers his boat towards it.

Lush mangrove trees on both sides of the river thrive so well and undisturbed that their dense hanging roots are like vertical prison bars, preventing anyone or any animal from going through. Anchoring their roots deeply into the malleable mud, they also break the momentum of the regular tidal waves, thus preventing soil erosion. Mangrove trunks are slender, an indication of their youth. By reclaiming the banks, the newer plants are narrowing the river. Perhaps this estuary may even vanish, replaced by a marshland.

Many ducks are swimming merrily near the bank to our right. A duck farm is somewhere in the vicinity. Apparently, the meat of sea duck is tastier than the meat of land duck.

Two persons are on a boat about four metres long and three metres wide by the fringe of the bank. Nearing them, I can determine that they are a middle-aged couple. They are carefully placing the final sections of a lengthy rectangular fyke net onto the muddy flat. One, about five metres in length, is in position by the edge of the water, ready for the coming tide and prize. The net is held in shape by a framework of steel wire mesh. Its width is an elbow’s length, and its height around twenty centimetres. Is the couple trapping small fish or prawns? Besides us, they are the only ones here.

Luck is running out on me. The anticipated colony does not materialise. The birds are probably enjoying their afternoon siesta in shadier thickets. Or perhaps they have not returned from their fishing expeditions.

Boatman says that they should be here in the evening, around five or six. But I cannot wait. In fact, more birds could be seen in the cooler months around the beginning of the year, he unwittingly teases. That information only arouses regret in me.

Much to my disappointment, a Chinese egret flies off from our intended sighting niche, bound for the open sea. (孤独的白鹭飞向大海) Its movements are slow but graceful. Although it is very high above our heads, it cannot be mistaken for any other bird. It is big. Gently flapping, its extended wings are pearly white. Its long neck is tugged in to reduce air resistance while its equally long legs are stretched out and apart like rudders to stabilise its motion. Its bill is light-yellow in colour. Excluding its legs, it is sixty or seventy centimetres in length. I quickly snap a photograph.

Rippling along the slow incoming tide is a small amount of debris like broken polystyrene foam bits and plastic bottles; otherwise, the water is jade-green and translucent. Occasional fallen leaves drift by. Boatman steers the boat around, propelling to the concrete platform opposite the restaurant. Just before the platform is the same couple in their boat. They have crossed to the opposite bank.

Wearing a straw hat, a red T-shirt and a pair of brown trousers, the husband is looking into the mouth of a fyke fishing net partially submerged in the sea. He is inspecting to see if he is fortunate today. Protected by a similar straw hat, his wife is attired in a light-blue long-sleeved shirt and a pair of brown trousers. She is bending down, searching for something in the boat.

We dock at the platform and leisurely straggle along a thoughtfully tiled pathway among the mangrove trees. Listed as a nature reserve in 1987, this mangrove forest covers some four thousand hectares of the river bank. Within this vast zone are approximately thirty-four species of mangroves. Of the eighty-one species in twenty-three families that flourish globally, Hainan has forty-one species in the twenty-three families. Transparent plastic signs stating the Latin botanical names and Chinese names are tied to the branches of some trees. As I stare in wonder, I take note of some.

Excoecaria agallocha L. is commonly known as milky mangrove because its sap is milky and also poisonous. Although the specimen in front of me is only about five metres in height with a trunk diameter of about ten centimetres, it can rise to twenty metres. It belongs to the Euphorbiaceae family. The natives in some Pacific countries use its sap to stun fish and also to tip their arrows for hunting small animals or birds. Clerodendrum inerme (L.) Gaertn belongs to the Lamiaceae family. It can develop as a vine or as a shrub up to six metres high. The plant here is a vine with a confusing network of intertwining branches. It has pretty little flowers. A member of the Rubiaceae family, the Randia spinosa (Thunb.) is a small tree with edible fruits and flowers.

Many small birds are chirping and singing. They are amongst us. But I cannot see them. It is so frustrating. Sunlight brightly lit the pathway because the trees and shrubs are not very tall. I try tracing the source of the songs but in vain.

Hearing my expression of disappointment with the few visible seabirds, the boat owner then takes me further out to the mouth of the estuary, the Dongzhai Bay.

Another duck farm is prospering on the estuary bank to our left. Its owner has advantageously fenced off a small section of the water with mesh-wires. Within that safe “swimming pool” are hundreds of ducks swimming and quacking. They cannot fly out; neither can land predators enter to devour them. A vision flashes though my mind: I see delightful dishes of Peking Duck for my dinner. The lucky owner!

Our boat powers ahead. Three hundred metres in front are bamboo or wooden stilts evenly spaced in a straight row that stretches between two and three hundred metres. A white bird is resting on one of the stilts. As we approach, I realise that it is the same egret that has flown over us. A hundred metres is too close for comfort; the shy bird takes flight before I can capture its beauty on my digital film. It gently lands and delicately balances on another stilt further away. (白鹭正在养鱼网上.)

Two types of fishing nets are tied to the stilts. With my eyes undulating to the dance of the rocking boat, I swiftly count about seventeen pairs of hoop nets hanging at regular intervals from the longer stilts or poles. Each net is about two metres in length with one end tied to the top of the pole, the other end submerging in the water. Grey in colour, they will probably be lowered during the evening to trap feeding fish the following morning.

Between them are the small lift nets, just below the surface. They are tied to the shorter stilts. Their size suggests the absence of any large fish here in this bay. No shark is lurking beneath to attack me.

Boatman offers to bring me in pursuit of the elusive egret. I politely decline. It deserves some breathing space. I am happy just to have a glimpse of it in its home environment. Too much stress might shorten its life. I want no part in that. Before we land, I hand the boat owner a 20-RMB tip for which he is very happy.

But Trishaw Driver is unhappy because he has noticed. He complains of the protracted wait, which is true. When I tentatively offer him 20 RMB, which implies a 4-RMB tip, he replies that it is on the low end. Only when I have raised it to 25 RMB is he assuaged. On the way back to Yanfeng town, he happily stops to let me inspect some artificial ponds, look at the first cruise jetty, and photograph some birds, which Professor Liang Wei later helps to identify.

Each of the five or six ponds to my right is about half the size of a football field. Filled with seawater, each has two paddlewheel aerators, buoyant on blue-coloured surfboard-shaped floats. These small one-horsepower aerators are powered by electricity or gas. One in the second pond is in motion, vigorously splashing the water with its rapid rotating paddles to oxygenate the seawater that is holding a rich collection of prawns. Unfortunately, even as I stand by the bund of the nearest pond, no prawns are jumping out of the water to amuse me. And I cannot see any swimming near the surface. They are probably lying placidly in the muddy bottom, shielded from the hot sunray.

Trapezing on the overhead electrical cables are three Chinese Bulbuls (白头鹎). Nearby is a Crested Myna (八哥). The bulbuls are playfully chasing one another. When they stop, they sing rather triumphantly. Theirs are among the sweetest songs I have ever heard. These songs are possibly the same songs sung by their hidden relatives in the reserve. Not surprisingly, these singers are priced on an American internet website at US$225 each! I am extremely glad that the kind Hainan Normal University professor has put a name to these magnificent birds for me.

Unlike the Red-whiskered Bulbul which has a small beautiful fan of red whiskers under its eyes partly covering a larger white patch on its cheeks, the Chinese Bulbul only has a white patch behind its eye. Both have white patches under their throats. Unlike the red and yellow vents of the Red-whiskered Bulbul and Yellow-vented Bulbul respectively, the Chinese Bulbul is also known as the Light-vented Bulbul because of the white or very light-brown colour of its vent and underside. The Chinese Bulbul has light-brown wings and back. About fifteen to twenty centimetres in length, its head is black. It is resident in East Asia, and its natural habitat is mangrove forest and scrublands. It flies in flock and feeds on fruits, insects, and seeds.

Crested Mynas are native to Southeast China and Indochina. They are related to the Common Mynas in Singapore, both belonging to the family of Sturnidae. However, unlike the Common Mynas, they have a tuft of feathers on their dull-white beaks between their eyes. Their glossy black plumage and yellowish-orange legs do not make them attractive as caged pets because black is associated with death and mourning. Like their Singaporean cousins, which are always hovering around the tables of hawker centres and begging for their daily handouts, the Crested Mynas in Hainan are fearless of humans. They are about twenty centimetres in length, and feed on fruits, insects, and invertebrates. They spread even to Taiwan.

Despite my failure to see a flock of egrets, I have fulfilled a dream of seeing a mangrove forest in Hainan. Trishaw Driver confirms that I need to be there in the early morning or late evening to capture the fabulous spectacle. That is fair enough. Nature does not wait; it glides on rhythmically. We, humans, must stay in tune; otherwise, we will miss out. Dongzhai Mangrove Nature Reserve is a place I would like to revisit. I profusely thank Trishawman, the gentleman whom I needlessly fear as a bandit.

At Yanfeng town, the lady driver says that the bus will stop at Wugong Temple, my familiar landmark. I pay the 7 RMB and, during the hour-long journey, quietly relish the joy of having visited the river estuary. I now have an idea of a pristine region in my ancestral home. My wish is for it to remain that way.