Page 141-150 Chapter 4

Rambling around my ancestral Hainan

Page 141 - 150

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”.

Ancient people, including Chinese, worshipped the stars like the Big Dipper
古代人，包括中国人，崇拜月亮和星星像北斗七星

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.

King Wenchang, icon in the Temple of the City Gods in Yu Garden, Old Shanghai City
文昌王雕像在文昌殿, 上海城隍庙, 豫园, 上海

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.

Hainanese language book “Hainan Language” (1993)
海南话的书 “海南话” (1993)

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.

Mum’s family home in Xiayang Village
我母亲的家在文昌下洋村

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.

Mum’s family home: fruit trees and butterflies
我母亲的家: 果树和蝴蝶

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.

Sketch of my ancestral house in Houling Village, Huiwen town, Wenchang
草图: 我的祖屋, 后嶺村/厚嶺村会文镇文昌

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.

Communal well at Houling Village
在厚嶺村里的公用井

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.

My brother Hee Hung (left); my cousin Hee Jong (in striped shirt) and some of his family members
我的弟弟Hee Hung (左边); 我的堂哥启荣(他穿着条纹衬衫)和他的一些家庭成员

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!

View of the park behind Longyuan Hotel, 86 Wenxin Road, in Wenchang town
在文昌镇龙源酒店(文新路)背后公园景观

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.

Food: cheap and nutritious selection
食物: 便宜又营养丰富的选择

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.

Actress Lin Ching Hsia (photo taken from china.org.cn) and billionaire Ying Lee Yuen (photo from baidu.com)
林青霞和邢李㷧

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.

Rapid development of Longlou Town
在龙楼镇快速发展

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.

Winding road to Tongguling Scenic View
盘山公路铜鼓岭晓晖

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).