Rambling around my ancestral Hainan

More Photos added in January 2017

Page 25 - 40

Chapter 2
Hainan, The Enticing Island

 

Visiting ancestral Houling and Xiayang, Wenchang

 

Guo Tai is driving his daughter’s car because she will be engrossed in communicating with us.  Skating eastwards along the Haikou Ring Expressway, we encounter heavier rainfall.  Overhead direction signs become less visible.  This downpour is nothing in comparison to the major floods they have encountered three months earlier, Cai Hong says.  Many low-lying parts of the east coast came under one to two metres of water then.    

Typhoons regularly batter the island around September and October.  With these summer typhoons comes around eighty percent of the island’s rainfall.  The annual precipitation can be as high as 2,400 millimetres (mm) in the eastern and central regions and as low as 900 mm in the coastal southwestern regions.  The average is about 1,500 mm.  We should be safe from the aftermath of these storms.

After fifteen minutes, Guo Tai makes the wrong choice at a fork, entering the lane of the Haiwen Expressway that will bring us back to Haikou.  A couple of minutes later, he stops by the kerb and, in the rain, waves to passing cars.  One stops.  Its owner advises a U-turn.  Tonight, our destinations are the villages of my paternal and maternal grandparents near coastal Huiwen, south of Wenchang town.  The latter is the principal town of the district called Wenchang City.

Administratively, Hainan Province is divided into nine “cities” and ten counties (six of which are autonomous).  Some of the other “cities” are, for example, Danzhou City, Qionghai City, and Sanya City, deriving their names from their principal towns.  In terms of population, the biggest is Haikou City, which has 2,046,189 residents in 2010.  Officially known as “Wenchengzhen” (文城镇), Wenchang town is some fifty kilometres southeast of Meilan International Airport.

As I peer through the frosty windows from my back seat, I am amazed at the wide expanse.  Long sectors of trees flash by.  Now and again, a few houses, farms, and fields appear and disappear.  Space is surely not an obstacle for human habitation and commercial expansion here, I silently mutter.  This forsaken island is far less densely populated than Taiwan, which sustains twenty-three million people.  With only a meagre 8.6 million people, Hainan enjoys a low density of two hundred and forty-one people per square kilometre.  Environmental pollution will not be a problem.  An image of the lazy native relishing his morning siesta in a swinging hammock fettered to two coconut trunks dances through my mind.  Secretly, I smile.

An image of the lazy native relishing his morning siesta in a swinging hammock …
dances through my mind.  Secretly, I smile.
在我心目中是一个懒惰的原生的图像. 他很享受他的早晨睡觉在他的吊床. 我微笑.

 
During the thirty-minute drive, Cai Hong opens her checked black-and-white “football” the size of a golf ball, dangling from the long chain around her neck.  I have not stumbled upon such a newfangled hand phone before.  Haikou Longquan Garden Hotel tells her to call later.  Three other hotels have no vacancy for me.  As a result of a last-minute booking cancellation, Longquan Garden Hotel finally has a room for 188 RMB ($38) for the first night and a different room for 148 RMB ($30) for each of the subsequent nights.  Cai Hong explains that the three-day period from the first to the third of January is still part of the crowded post-Christmas holiday season.  Rich residents from northern China like Beijing and Shanghai are jetting into the island in droves to escape the harsh cold winter.

 

 

 

Cai Hong opens her checked black-and-white “football” ….
I have not stumbled upon such a newfangled hand phone before.
张彩虹打开她的黑色和白色“足球”…   我还没有见过这样的手提电话之前

 
Now, that is the wonder of having a relative, who can rise to one’s assistance.  I assume - wrongly - that the holiday season will be over by the second of January.  This twenty-four year old niece even has the telephone number of the Wenchang shop that stocks firecrackers.  She has them, the proprietress reports.  When our car enters the town, the street is relatively deserted and the other shops along the long row are closed.  It is still drizzling.  My first glimpse of Wenchang is fuzzy.  Guo Tai rushes in and emerges with two boxes, each concealing a long strand of firecrackers. 

Ten minutes later, our vehicle leaves the bitumen road and turns left into a country track.  We stopped after a short distance.  7 pm: it is drizzling, wet, and dark.  In front is Houling Village.  We scramble out.  In my haste, my survey of the few single-storey houses is brief.  My camera goes into action to capture what my eyes may miss.  “Thick Mountain Ridge” would be a misnomer to describe the village.  I spin around.  As far as I can see, the village is on a flat plain.  Where is the mountain or hill?

As far as I can see, the village is on a flat plain.  
至于我可以看到，村坐落在一个平坦的地面。

Houling Village on a clear day in 2012.
后岭村在一个晴朗的日子2012

 

No numbers mark the separate houses.  I suppose the postal delivery person knows each and every individual in the village through trial and error.  It will however confound foreigners trying to call at their friend’s home.  Fortunately, for us, our relatives are expecting us.  They are standing in a weathered brick house, talking.  On the table are some porcelain cups and a blackened tin teapot that has provided so well for so long.

Cousin Guo Tai hangs a two-metre roll of red firecrackers on a compound wall surrounding the Pang family’s ancestral home and ignites its fuse with his cigarette lighter.  Not only are mythical trolls and imps loitering around the four houses and two long buildings in the compound frightened out of their wits, my heart too is throbbing frantically from the explosive reverberations last felt during the early nineteen-seventies.  The din attracts the few distant relatives and friends living less than a hundred metres away; it is an easy way of announcing our presence. 

Going into one of the houses, Mum lights three yellow incenses, intones before the memorial altar of her grandparents-in-law the arrival and respect of their great-grandson, and implants the slender sticks into a small censer.  Reverentially, I stand still while my eyes scrutinise the home that I cannot remember.  The divine formalities concluded, she dutifully hands out some of the twenty crisp notes entrusted earlier to the curious babbling relatives, each fortunate one receiving 100 RMB (S$20), enough to buy five or six chickens for the dining table.  Some packets of biscuits and coffee sachets are distributed as well.  This prodigal son will be dieting over the next few weeks. 

From one teary-eyed elderly lady flows word of recognition and encouragement to return.  It is a strange feeling.  I am transfixed.  The noises from the introductions leave me befuddled.  Now, who is who?  Once more, how is she related to me?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, who is who?  Once more, how is she related to me?
谁是谁？ 再来一次，她怎么与我有关？

 

Mum proudly shows me around the small rectangular house where I was born.  Measuring approximately twelve metres in length and eight metres in breadth, it has four spartan rooms, two on each side of the narrow dividing hall.  This hall functions as a lounge and dining room, and is furnished with wooden furniture.  Each of great-grandfather Feng Yun Ke’s four sons had his own room.  I can now better appreciate their predilection to seek their fortune overseas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Each of great-grandfather Feng Yun Ke’s four sons had his own room.
每一个曾祖父冯运科的四个儿子中有他自己的房间

 

From Singapore the third son adventurously made his way to Christmas Island while the second – my grandfather – sought his fortune in northern Vietnam.  First Granduncle Feng Zhen Jia, operating a coffee-shop in Pasir Panjang Terrace, has four sons and two daughters.  Third Granduncle Feng Zhen Xing has two sons and six daughters.  Fourth Granduncle Feng Zhen Dian has two sons and two daughters.

My grandfather has two sons and a daughter.  Grandfather died during the nineteen-thirties when his children were still young.  The granduncles have long since passed on.

Because it is getting late and dark, we decide not to linger.  Xiayang Village is, fortunately, only a few kilometres distant.  The road and track in are meandering and pitted with potholes.  They are also unlit.  The headlights illuminate the uneven track that is overshadowed by the arching branches of tall trees.  Thick bushes fence its sides, preventing me from seeing beyond.  No houses are visible.  Only atheists and disbelievers are brave to walk alone without jitters of ghosts and vampires. 

Since their childhood, Guo Tai and his brothers have trampled along this deserted track to their schools two kilometres down the bitumen road.  On completion of his education, he found work in Haikou, first as a cab operator.  His older siblings now cultivate pepper vines in their own plots a stone-throw from their family home.  During the growing seasons, they also work in their paddy fields to eke out a subsistence living. 

To augment their nutrition, First Cousin Guo Ping, in his fifties, regularly rides his motorcycle to the river mouth two kilometres south of their village.   As he wades waist-high in the shallow water, he hurls his sieve net to snare small fishes and prawns.  Any excess from the harvest is dried to be consumed over the course of the week or two.  He loves fishing.  He has two children.  His daughter Bi Zhuang (碧庄) is married to Singaporean banker Andy Teo Hang Peng while his son works and lives with his family in adjoining Qionghai county.  First Cousin has a serious countenance while his wife is always smiling.

 

 

 

 

 

First Cousin Guo Ping… wades waist-high in the shallow water,
[and] hurls his sieve net to snare small fishes and prawns.
表弟国平 …  进入浅水, 扔他的网入水, 抓小鱼虾

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fish caught at the coastal river mouth
鱼抓在河口

 

In contrast, Second Cousin Guo Dian is always smiling while his wife is more serious.  Sadly, their daughter drowned some years ago in a maritime accident at the relatively young age of fourteen.  Overcrowded with villagers excited and impatient to unearth the bountiful hordes of clams embedded in the sand bank at the river mouth, the unstable boat capsized midway.  Their son Fa Fu (法富) and daughter-in-law are working in Guangzhou, leaving Guo Dian and his wife to take care of their two tender granddaughters.  The parents return annually from Guangzhou for two weeks to celebrate the Chinese New Year festival.

Enclosed within concrete walls, the Zhang family house, fronted with a huge compound of paved floors, is equally large and spartan.  Luxuries are missing.  No display cupboard or bookshelf.  The portrait of Mum’s parents hangs on one side of the hall, which serves also as a dining room.  The bathroom-cum-toilet is not sited in the house but in a long side-building, which also accommodates a storeroom of firewood (next to the bathroom) and the kitchen.

 

Enclosed within concrete walls, the Zhang family house, fronted with a huge compound of paved floors, is equally large and spartan.
张某家有墙的保护, 它有一个巨大的复合, 这是同样大而简单

 

Eldest Cousin attaches the second roll of firecrackers to a hook on the compound wall and lights it.  Again, the relatives dribble in.  Mum repeats the customary petitionary prayer at her family altar and gift distribution to the assembly.  

This holiday, nephew Fa Geng (张法耿) and his family have driven up from Qionghai town to visit his parents.  And he has invited the four of us - Guo Tai, Cai Hong, Mum, and I - for dinner.  He is waiting at a cafe in Huiwen, its name vocalised in Hainanese as “Wee Boon” (or “Boone”) while that of Wenchang is “Boone See-oo”.  This coastal town, two kilometres south of Houling Village, has a population of about twenty-eight thousand.  Astonishingly, some ninety-two percent are overseas returnees.  

Two of the six or so tables in the no-frill cafe are occupied by two or three persons each.  My recollection is hazy.  The waitress is probably the proprietor-chef’s wife.  I place my backpack containing my passport, laptop, and 5,000 RMB on the chair nearest to me.  It is my lifeline.  I clutch it wherever I go.  I do not wish to be left high and dry on my first day.  Because of pre-order, five dishes show up immediately.  A steamed Wenchang chicken, cut into mandible bites, is on one plate; three lightly fried Cod cutlets are on another.  Two crabs are fried in a sauce with transparent rice vermicelli; a plate contains a pile of fresh green sweet peas, stir-fried with crushed garlic; and sea cucumbers fried with leeks in a flour-based sauce are on the last.

 

 

 

After a long day, my stomach is eagerly gasping out for them.
漫长的一天结束，我渴望吃食物

 

After a long day, my stomach is eagerly gasping out for them.  Half of the Wenchang chicken gradually piles up on my bowl of rice.  Try as we may, we are unable to finish the sumptuous dishes.  They are enough to feed seven or eight persons.  In vain I offer to settle the bill.  Fa Geng, however, insists on paying.  After leaving him and Mum, who is spending her holiday in her Zhang family home, the three of us head for Haikou.  Forty-five minutes later, we reach Longquan Garden Hotel at half past ten.  After assisting in the formalities at the reception, they take their leave.  Cai Hong will be taking me out the next day.

Alone in my room, I unpack.  The bathroom is clean; the bed is firm; and the room is spacious.  At Kimberley Hotel in Hong Kong where we stayed three years ago, my wife and I - in disbelief - re-checked with the receptionist to verify that the small room was the “standard” room we had paid for.  Yes, replied the courteous gentleman.  But the room are bigger in the internet photo, I exclaimed.  He was unfazed.  “As you know, the apartments and rooms in Hong Kong are all very small.”  I was soundly rebutted.  We stayed four days, the twenty-four hour restaurants across the road being the compelling attraction.  For the same price, the room at the YMCA International House is slightly more spacious and convenient, located beside Yau Ma Tei train station. 

As I lie on the soft bed, I reflect on the events of the day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Haikou Longquan Garden Hotel
海口龙泉花园酒店

 

Hainan Provincial Museum and Chinese history

 

I wake up at six-thirty in the morning to loud Taiji music flowing melodiously from the playground below my first-floor window in the three-storey block directly backing the Haikou People’s Park.  It is still dark; it is winter, and the clumps of bushy trees may have also deflected the early rays of the sun.  Mercifully, the winters of Haikou are very mild.  I try to photograph the people and their activities.  But two long branches of leaves obstruct my lens.  Even with the aid of flash, my camera succeeds in recording only the outline of a badminton court that is mainly obscured by the dense foliage.  Not a soul is on the court.

Directly below me are two middle-aged men playing a game of table-tennis.  Are they still stricken by the 2008 Beijing Olympics Games fever?  Gold medals were won by Chinese individuals and teams, who had dominated the table game for a long time.  It is a cheap sport since a table, a pair of bats, and a ping-pong ball are all that is required.  I can hear people talking.  But I cannot see them.  Ping!  Another ping-pong ball hits the second table beyond my visual range.  Along the narrow path, some individuals and couples pace briskly for their morning exercise.  They are silent.  I leave them to their enjoyment.  Fortunately, no one is playing basketball or volley.

I prepare for the shift to the cheaper room in the five-storey block at the hotel entrance.  This plain but modern white building faces some shopping centres across the Haixiu East Road.  Along my side of the road are other hotels, some with more expensive nightly rates than others.  Longquan Hotel was once scheduled for demolition.  Thank goodness, it was saved.   My three-star room with two single beds will be my abode for the next nine days.  

Cai Hong arrives with her husband and brother.  They invite me for lunch at the hotel restaurant.  I expect a crowded hall; instead, we are ushered into a private room.  Sitting at a round table for ten diners, I feel uneasy, unaccustomed to such deferential treatment.  Among the six dishes of large portions are two of Hainan’s most famous: Wenchang chicken and Dongshan mutton.  Because the birds are free-range for six to nine months, the steamed meat is less fatty, more muscular, and thus slightly tough.  Accustomed to the taste of tender caged-chicken meat, I brashly voice that frank opinion, which on retrospection is not diplomatic.

But the goat mutton is tender and the sauce sweet and tasty.  It comes in a delightful mini-wok placed on its special stand with an inbuilt fuel container emitting a flame to heat the wok.  This course will certainly be on my dinner list for entertaining guests.  The others are black chicken in a bowl of herbal soup, a whole steamed white pomfret seasoned with brown light soy sauce in a plate of green peas and black mushrooms, fish fillets stir-fried with green long beans and beige cashew nuts and doled on a white plate decorated with a fresh red cherry and green corianders, and meat buns with sesame seeds.  The colours run riot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…my attempt at conversation remains stilted.  I am painfully conscious that my command of Mandarin and Hainanese is not good enough to facilitate a fluent dialogue … with Lin Xue Xin (林学新) and nephew Fa Gao (张法高).
......我在谈话的尝试仍然做作。我知道我的普通话和海南话的命令是不够好，
以方便流畅的对话......跟林学新和侄子张法高。
 

 

 

 

 

 

The Dongshan … goat mutton is tender and the sauce sweet and tasty
东山...山羊羊肉很嫩和酱油是甜可口

 

As the dishes come in quick succession, my attempt at conversation remains stilted.  I am painfully conscious that my command of Mandarin and Hainanese is not good enough to facilitate a fluent dialogue.  If only Jo is here to relieve my clumsiness, I silently lament.  Talking to Lin Xue Xin (林学新) and nephew Fa Gao (张法高) also makes me aware that the Hainanese spoken in one region of the island may be incomprehensible even to the locals in another.  Effortlessly, Cai Hong is able to switch from one form to another.  She is, thankfully, my reliable mind reader and interpreter.  While she is talking, I am trying to eat as much as I can, not realising that the remainder may be packed as takeaways.  When the waitresses have executed their final duty, I want to fade away to hide my gluttony.  After clearing the bill, Xue Xin and Fa Gao bid farewell.  They have faithfully observed the protocol, the traditional respect to their “Uncle”.

Tiny water droplets are starting to fall.  Cai Hong unfolds her umbrella.  We stroll to the hotel entrance.  A bus shelter lies ten metres to our right.  Tropical trees with out-spreading branches thrive on the Haixiu East Road pavements while ubiquitous coconut palms stand erect like sentinels along the road dividers and on the edge of the road.  I am wary.  Will there be flying fruits during a strong gush of wind?  A mature coconut weighs at least a kilogram.  Every year falling coconuts killed about one hundred and fifty people globally, thrice the number of people killed by fearsome sharks!  

With that hovering thought, I obediently followed Cai Hong as she weaves her way through the morning crowd.  Young girls follow the latest trend, attired in clothes that are bright and colourful.  Their shoes too look chic and expensive.  And their deportment does not harmonize with the deportment of many older and elderly people, who are oblivious to worldly fads and mannerism.  We clamber up the overhead bridge for the opposite bus stop.  There we wait for a No. 29 bus to bring us to Haifu Road, the right divergence of Haixiu East Road from the nearby traffic roundabout.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Haixiu East Road seen from Haikou Garden Hotel
 海秀东路从海口龙泉花园酒店看到

 

 

 

 

 

chic girls in outlandish fashion
女孩现代时尚

 

 

Like most of the roads in downtown Haikou constructed after the Second World War, Haixiu East Road and Haifu Road are straight and clean.  They are also wide and heavy with traffic.  American road rules apply: drivers sit on left front seats, drive on the right-hand side of roads, and need to be careful of not only the pedestrians in front but also the oncoming traffic when waiting to turn left into a side road.  Not accustomed to that driving system, my wife and I have decided on caution and safety.  Many of the cars are imported.  Honda Civics and Toyotas are common, testimony to the increasing wealth of people in Hainan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cars drive on the right side of the road
汽车驾驶在道路的右边

 

After a slow ride of about two kilometres, the bus passes Bailong South Road.  We alight and board a No. 39.  The fare is also 1 RMB each.  Both buses are crowded.  During the short trips, I cast quick glimpses at the streets and buildings.  Like many cities and towns in emerging economies, Haikou is a city in transition.  Aligned with Beijing’s futuristic vision of sustainable growth and prosperity, construction work is increasing.  Noise is inevitable.  So too are holes in the ground, bulldozers, and cranes.  Old greyish buildings and new white skyscrapers compete for attention in juxtaposition.  The former now cry out for a coat of paint to blend them with the surrounding bright giants towering proudly over them.  No. 39 bus terminates at Wentan Road.

Two hundred metres away is an entrance to Haikou College of Economics (海口经济学院; Haikou Jingji Xueyuan) at the end of Xingdan Road, off Guoxing Avenue.  The five buildings comprising part of the institution are like any other ordinary office buildings.  If not for the painted name of the private college in dull-golden colour on the impressive arch at the start of the unnamed internal road, a visitor may even mistake them for residential units.  The most outstanding building is the one with bluish tint windows facing me, the “Administration Building”, declared the large English words (and the Chinese equivalent) above its entrance.  Five white buses, painted on their sides with the college name in red, are parked by both kerbs of the private road that is enclosed by moveable gates operated by the security officer at the sentry box.  Four other cars and vans are also parked nearby.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Entrance to Haikou College of Economics (海口经济学院; Haikou Jingji Xueyuan)
Xingdan Road, off Guoxing Avenue.
海口经济学院入口在兴丹路, 国兴大路

 

Seven or eight students ease across the wide college road between the two college blocks; perhaps most of the students are in their classes.  I quickly speak to one.  She does not understand English.  No, this college is not part of Hainan Normal University, she responds to my question through Cai Hong.  She adds, in Mandarin, that the college conducts courses like accountancy, agriculture, economics, engineering, and English.  Cai Hong brings me here for a quick glance because it is also close to the Sports Center Tennis Court and Haikou Provincial Museum.

She hails a pedicab.  For 4 RMB, the rider pedals us first to the Sports Center, two hundred metres distant at the corner of Wentan Road and Guoxing Avenue, to snap a photograph and then to the museum a kilometre from the Sports Center.  This is my first ride on a Hainan pedicab.  Unlike some trishaws fitted with motors and propelled by electricity, this gentleman in his late forties depends on his sheer leg power.  As it is still drizzling, I peek at the facade of the new tennis court, a miniaturized version of a football stadium.  The wall of this circular building consists of hundreds of blue tinted-glass panels.  A long flight of gradual steps leads to the entrance.  An arts festival will commence later today, according to the advertisements on the three two-metre tall red boxes placed strategically on the steps for the occasion.  This Chinese New Year event is sponsored by HNA, a hotel chain.

Although its name is “Provincial”, which is accurate but may convey the wrong impression that it is “unsophisticated”, the museum is a new and imposing building at 65 Guoxing Avenue.  Cai Hong and I search for the ticket office.  Yes, there is one.  To our pleasant surprise, admission is free.  I am puzzled.  Why then have a ticket office?  The crowd is missing.  Cai Hong has not been here even though her unit off Haifu Road is less than five kilometres away.  We gingerly walk up the flight of steps, our shoes feeling the flexible texture of the spotless red carpet.  I am careful not to leave any muddy trail with my pair of wet shoes.  We feel like VIPs.  The state government spares no expense in promoting the dignity of visitors.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am careful not to leave any muddy trail with my pair of wet shoes.  We feel like VIPs.
我的鞋子都湿了。 我小心，不要留下任何泥浆。我们觉得我们是达官贵人。

 

On both wings of Level 1 are exhibition halls, one devoted to paintings while the other to ancient and modern Hainan history.  Along the corridor between the two wings is a small commercial outlet.  Stacked on its shelves and counter are many wooden teapots, a sight that is bizarre to me.  China is well known for its export of exquisite porcelain teapots, made in diverse sizes and shapes.  An inexpensive one may be purchased for only $10, or even less.  Of course, imperial pieces from the Ming dynasty or Qing emperor Kangxi’s palace have reaped millions each in international auctions.

Cai Hong explains that the Hainan huali mu (花梨木; literally, Flowering Pear Wood, a variety of rosewood with high oil content and shiny hue) is a rare wood and is practically indestructible by water and worms.  Hence their prices are steep.  Small tea pots range from 4,600 RMB ($900) to 5,600 RMB ($1,120). 

No thank you!  I expeditiously move on.  I dread the thought of accidentally dropping even a small one.

Exploring the two floors of Chinese historical artefacts, Level 2 being devoted to native culture and also ancient relics, is exciting and fun, especially with less than ten other visitors competing for standing space.  Excavated from different sites on the island, antique ceramics and bronze wares from various periods are ensconced in glass showcases.  While I am reading the accompanying notes, Cai Hong offers to photograph them for me.  I hand over my Canon Powershot.  There she goes, clicking continuously.  Dioramas of early native life on Hainan Island and life in twentieth-century Old Haikou are also entertaining and educational.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Inside Haikou Provincial Museum
海口省博物馆内

 

Six thousand years ago, the island was uninhabited.  Then fishing too far off the coast of Leizhou Peninsula, some natives might have drifted with the current and spied a lush green island in the distance.  Their innate curiosity, or physical hunger, would inspire them to cautiously steer towards the unknown realm of strange sights and sounds.  What they soon discovered was a fertile plain, furnished with brooks of fresh running water as well as fish, shell fish, and crustaceans proliferating in the brackish water and soft sands of mangrove swamps.  They pried open some shells.  Embedded within were lustrous round objects, ranging from tiny to large sizes and capturing the milkish colour of the full moon.  That was magic.  They returned to share news of their discovery.  Secured with their gods and ancestral spirits by their side, they migrated and erected bamboo huts in the new land.  

Some three thousand years later, during the late Shang or early Zhou dynasty, the Yue made a similar move.  Related to the Tai of Indochina, these early ancestors of the Li settled along the coastal plains, especially near river mouths.  The Lis have a legend about their origin, which is similar to the well-known Biblical story.  Surviving a universal flood by clinging onto a calabash gourd, a man and a woman were jettisoned onto Yanwo Mountain in Hainan.  They married and procreated to produce the Li people.

By the Han dynasty (206 B.C.–220 A.D.), more than a hundred thousand natives from different ethnic groups were living off the idyllic coast.  Their cultural habits would shock us; for men and women did not consider “it to be shameful that their private parts are exposed.”  So reports historian Edward H. Schafer in his book The Shore of Pearls.  Under pressure from waves of later migrants, they were marshalled inland to the central highlands around the majestic Wuzhishan.  Their descendents still live in these central and southern regions, in the Li Autonomous Counties of Baisha, Changjiang, Ledong, and Lingshui and the Li-and-Miao Autonomous Counties of Baoting and Qiongzhong.  These counties constitute slightly over half the island.

Today, the Li is the largest indigenous group, comprising slightly more than 15.8% of the population (up from 14.7% in 2000).  Throughout the centuries, they maintained infrequent contact with the Han settlers, who now dominate the coastal plains. 

Among the museum exhibits is a life-size bronze sculpture, locked behind glass panels, of Xian Furen (冼夫人) on her horse.  The sixth-century lady warrior in military dress holds an imperial insignia in her right hand.  In her thirties, she is expressionless.  Behind her is a panel narrating in Mandarin her heroism.  Her husband is Feng Bao (simplified 冯宝; traditional 馮寳), whose surname is identical to mine.  Could they be my ancestors?  That intriguing question will continue to unsettle me over the subsequent months.  Who is Lady Xian (or, in Wade-Giles’ romanised form, Madame Sinn)?

 

 

Among the museum exhibits is a life-size bronze sculpture… of Xian Furen (冼夫人) on her horse.
其中博物馆的展品是一个真人大小的青铜雕像......冼夫人骑在她的马。

 

 

 
 

 

 

巾帼英雄冼夫人

(Jinguo Yingxiong Xian Furen; Heroine Lady Xian)

谯国夫人

(Qiaoguo Furen; literally, Lady of Qiao State)

 

 

 

In my Sydney home is a photocopy of only Volume 10 of the Feng genealogy.  A full set was published twenty years ago by the Feng Clan Association in Qionghai City.  Printed on rice paper, the extremely light Volume 10 consists of a hundred pages in A5 size.  The interesting feature is that, instead of being glued like paperbacks, its pages are hand-sewn with a thread, which can be cut to permit the insertion of supplementary pages of new births.

Counting from ancestor Feng Cong Mei (冯从美), I belong to the twenty-second generation of Feng, with the generational name “Qi” (启; enlighten).  In other words, Chinese from that lineage with the surname “Feng” and middle name “Qi” belong to my generation.  They are my cousins, my equals, whether close or distant.  In the Chinese system of honour and respect, Chinese with the middle name “Shi”, other than my father, are my uncles.  And Chinese with the middle name “Jia”, other than my son, are my nephews.  

The naming system, and the conferment of an appropriate name, is a very important aspect of Chinese culture, which is founded fundamentally on Confucianism.  Ascribing the incorrect name to a person or an event will lead to pandemonium in society.  In the Analects, Confucius (551–479 B.C.) explained, “When names are not correct, what is said will not sound reasonable ... (and) affairs will not culminate in success....”  He offered the example of a drinking vessel that was wrongly depicted as a “gu” (觚).  (A gu was a drinking vessel with a regulation capacity used to offer ritual libations.)  His sardonic comment was, “A gu that is not truly a gu.  A gu indeed!  A gu indeed!”

His disciple Mencius (372-289 B.C.) was dangerously blunt: an emperor who does not behave like an emperor is, in fact, a bandit and should be described as such.  Overthrowing a “bandit” is not an action against the Will of Heaven.

Correct ascription of names inculcates respect.  A good ruler leads by example, following the Divine for moral direction.  “It is Heaven that is great and it was (sage-ruler) Yao who modelled himself upon it.”  When the ruler respects Heaven, the citizens will respect the ruler, and the sons and daughters will respect their parents and their elders.  The term “elders” is distinguished from the term “elderly”.  The former refers to generational age while the latter refers to chronological age.  For instance, my uncle – my father’s brother or cousin – might be younger than me.  This is sometimes the quirk in a large family, where the age gap between the oldest and the youngest siblings can be more than thirty years.  

Both chronological age and generational seniority are paramount in Chinese culture.  But generation trumps over age in a clan.  Just I am customarily obligated to respectfully address a Chinese with “Feng Shi xxx” as my “uncle”, so too the same respect is extended to me by the next generation.  When I was a sixteen-year teen, I felt squeamish when addressing - as instructed - my ten-year old relative as “Uncle”.  That is Confucian culture.  That is Chinese culture. 

Chinese genealogical registers only record the paternal lineage, the bearers of the specific surname.  Women do not have specific generation-names because they assume their husbands’ lineage upon their marriage. 

The genealogical register has its roots in the family register, which played an ominous role in ancient China, namely, that of social control.  Since the Qin dynastic era (221 B.C.–207 B.C.), all families within the empire were required to keep registers recording information like the age, sex, and occupation of all the members.  The head of each household was held responsible for any misdemeanour or crime committed by his family members, and the village head for any offences within his village.  If a man had committed a serious crime, his wife, parents, and brothers would be executed.  If it was an extremely serious crime, all members of his close-knit or even extended family would be executed.

From these registers, the state officials could also form decisions on corvee labour, conscription, and taxation.  Traditionally, their positions were often hereditary.  Responsible for the administration of, say, a thousand households (“qian hu”), an enfeoffed “marquis” (“hou”) is entitled to a percentage of the income of each of those households.  

So important were the registers that Han bureaucrats conducted check on their accuracy every eight months, severely penalising errors.  The Ming rulers took social control to the extreme.  All families were ordered to hang a sign on their front door, listing the name, age, and original hometown of all residents, including employees, in the house.

Among the aristocracy, family registers and genealogical records played a crucial role in marriage arrangements.  In the Northern Wei kingdom, the ruling families would only marry among themselves.  This obsession with pedigree was shared by the founders of the Tang dynasty; they commissioned a study into the lineages of their leading officials.  Infamous empress dowager Wu Zetian was unhappy with the low status accorded to her clan.  I can now appreciate the accuracy of the population census conducted since the time of ancient China.

Tracing backwards, I tentatively calculate that my attested “Feng” family tree began about six or seven hundred years ago.  Yet the Feng clan to which I belong may have a much longer ancestry, an ancestry of one thousand and seven hundred years or even earlier. 

Springing from that source of my possible lineage is, however, the line of Feng Bao, the husband of woman warrior Madame Xian, so that - today - running through the veins of contemporary Fengs in Feng Bao’s line is the blood of a usurper and a goddess-warrior.  Scattered throughout the world, they may also be kin to a famous - or notorious - empress and a loyal chief eunuch.

Is my lineage an appendage of Feng Bao’s lineage?  Or is it a parallel lineage from a different “Feng” ancestor?  

Little do I realize that my visit to Hainan would direct me into an intriguing search for my ancestral root in imperial China.  My eyes are becoming increasingly alert to the earliest historical references on the aristocratic Fengs, who had some links with Hainan Island.  They might possibly be the ancestors of my Feng clan in the remote island.  Is there any connection?

 My heart palpitates when I later open an article “Lady Sinn and the Southwards Expansion of China in the Sixth Century” written by Professor Geoffrey Wade in 2004.  As I read his absorbing history of Lady Xian, one sentence glares out at me: “The Hainan Feng family genealogy also notes Feng Ang as the primal ancestor who came to Hainan.”  I am stunned; I am dying to find out more. 

A poster in the ancient history exhibition hall captures my attention next.  The headline states: “Guests immigrating from the north in hard times, Qiongya people had unusual relationship with them”.  It is an understatement; the “guests” were political exiles.  Among them was a Mongolian prince who would later become emperor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Guests immigrating from the north in hard times
乱世每多南迁客, 琼崖人士有奇缘

 

Tugh Temur (1304–1332) was the second son of Khaishan (Kulug Khan or Emperor Wuzong; reign: 1307-1311).  When his father, the great-grandson of Kublai Khan, unexpectedly died in 1311, his uncle (Khaishan’s younger brother Ayurbarwada) became the emperor under a deal made in 1307.  Tugh Temur was only seven years of age then.  In 1316, the emperor appointed his own son as the crown prince and exiled Tugh’s older brother Khoshila (Kusala), a political threat, to Yunnan. 

 

 

 

 

Tugh Temur (1304–1332), exiled to Qionghai district, Hainan, at the age of seventeen
图帖睦尔 (Tú tiē mù ěr; 1304-1332; 元文宗, 1328-1332)
流亡在琼海地区, 海南岛，17岁

 

Upon his ascension to the throne, the emperor’s son and successor Shidebala (reign: 1321-1323) similarly banished seventeen-year old Tugh Temur to Hainan.  There Tugh Temur stayed for three years until 1324 when Shidibala was assassinated by a group of conspirators, who enthroned Yesun Temur (Khaishan’s cousin).

Recalled, Tugh Temur soon married his cousin, who was the daughter of Khaishan’s and Ayurbarwada’s influential sister.  He was given the title of Prince of Huai (懷王) and lived in his palace in Jiankang (now Nanjing).  

Yesun Temur died in 1328, sparking off a power struggle.  Tugh Temur was installed by his supporters and ruled (as Jayaatu Khan; Emperor Wenzong of Yuan 元文宗) for five months from October 1328, abdicating in favour of his brother Khoshila.  When his brother died six months later, he regained his throne and ruled until September 1332.  In total, his reign was brief.  However, he continued the tradition of his predecessors, promoting Chinese culture through his Kuizhangge Academy.

Highlighting local history and society, Haikou Provincial Museum is a silent testimony to the people’s pride in their homeland.  Two hours elapse too soon, and it is five in the late afternoon. 

We decide on Sichuan dishes at a restaurant close to my hotel.  Still distracted by the several events of the day, I fail to note its name and address.

As we enter, the waitress in smart cheongsam, a traditional Chinese body-hugging dress with seductive, high side-slits, politely escorts us to an unoccupied table.  The presence of diners scattered around the huge room reassures me of the food quality.  But I am apprehensive of the prices.

The first bowl of fish fillets in soup shocks me.  The bowl is exceedingly huge; it is the size of a frying wok.  I can keep a few pet goldfishes in there.  Lots of dried chillies, fried until they are black, are floating on the surface of the soup as well as in it.  Is the chef trying to torture us?  Do people in Sichuan really eat so much hot chilli?  I call for another bowl of rice to ease the fiery sensation on my tongue.  Including the Wenchang chicken and mixed vegetable, the dishes are sufficient to feed four or five persons.  If I have known the size of the servings, I would have opted for a simple dinner at a roadside café.  The bill comes to 200 RMB, which is too much for two persons.  Cai Hong insists on paying.

Unbearably full, I request Cai Hong to bring me to the nearby bookstore mentioned earlier by her.  Tucked away on the fifth floor of the Mingzhu Square plaza that faces my hotel, it is reputedly the biggest in Haikou.  The map on sale is extremely useful.  Not only does it show the names (alas, in Mandarin) of all the major and minor roads from Haidian Island in the north of Haikou to Yehai Avenue in the south and from Qiongshan Avenue in the east and Changyi Road in the west in sufficient detail, it also has all the bus numbers printed on the roads.

By matching the bus numbers at my intended destination for the day with the bus numbers at my hotel bus stand, I can easily find my way around the streets of Haikou using cheap public transport.  I am extremely delighted with this guide.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
我很高兴有这个地图.  我可以用这个地图很容易找到我的路. 我找公共汽车去我的目的地的巴士号码.
(The red square on the map at Haikou Park marks the site of Haikou Longqian Garden Hotel, where I stayed during my visits.)
(地图上的红色正方形显示了海口龙泉花园酒店.  我在那里呆了在我访问海南.)

 

 

 

Copyright 2015

 

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