Rambling around my ancestral Hainan
Confucius’ Temple; Fengjia Bay’s snail-breeding Zhan family
Confucius Temple is only two hundred metres from the back of Longyuan Hotel; yet I did not realize it earlier, despite the Chinese characters 孔廟 on the ornate archway across the narrow and short lane. On Friday morning, however, the first character stops me in my track when I make my way to Dongfeng Road (201 Provincial Road) from my hotel. Is that character identical to the first character in Confucius’ name? I hastily dig out the pocket dictionary from my backpack. Yes, “Kong”, which means “empty”, is the first character of Confucius’ name.
“Kong Miao?” “Empty Temple?” I stammer to myself.
I scratch my head. A sudden flash kindles an insight in me: the name on the archway is an abbreviation of “Kongzi Miao” (“Confucius’ Temple”). But that revelation leaves me in perpetual perplexity; for Confucius’ name in Mandarin - 孔子 - literally means an “empty child”! How did the great teacher receive an incongruous name like that?
Standing under the arch, I mistake the visible temple on the left of a yellow-wall compound at the end of the lane for Confucius’ Temple. I walk towards it. Behind the locked galvanised grille gate, the lady caretaker indicates the adjoining property.
Confucius Temple in Wenchang town
文昌孔庙
Confucius Temple is hidden within the yellow walls. I move right until I reach a small inconspicuous entrance. Hanging under its straight-inclined roof are two red lanterns, which are slightly out of my reach. On the ground are two dark-brown earthen pots of figs, whose branches and leaves have been precisely trimmed to form round balls. On both sides of the entrance are small plaques and framed information. The one that I can decipher is “Wenchang Kong Miao”. The two characters against a maroon background above the entrance probably say “Entrance”. Unable to read the others, I curse myself for my limited vocabulary. I enter. Some middle-aged ladies are talking in the reception room. The admission fee is 5 RMB for seniors and 15 for others, one answers. I need to pay only 5 RMB. That is cheap, I whisper.
First built during the eleventh century, this temple subsequently underwent renovations until it appears as a modern construction. With a boundary of about seventy metres in length and sixty metres in width, the compound is divided into three sections, two of which have rooms and amenities for its caretakers. Looking at the partial dividing walls, I get the feeling that the caretakers’ sections on both ends were once private residences, later acquired by the authorities for expansion because of the temple’s increasing popularity. But today I am the only visitor.
As I stand near the entrance in the middle section, looking at the life-size statue of the sage perched on a short square pedestal in front of the open shelter with its traditional roof about thirty metres distant, I am struck by the symmetry of the layout: the vertical and horizontal columns of the intervening rectangular archway running parallel to the vertical pillars and horizontal roof of the shelter.
Symmetry of the Confucius Temple layout
文昌孔庙对称布局
Four ceramic pots of beautiful mature bonsai figs are placed near the archway. I cross the two-metre long (or rather short) miniature bridge to see Confucius. In ancient robe, he is covered with bright-yellow gold paint. His hands are clasped before his chest in greeting. His hair is tied into a bun. Despite his long beard and three wrinkle lines on his forehead, the statue depicts him as a man in his fifties, although he died at the age of seventy. Under the maroon shelter behind him are an ancient bell about a metre in height and a large drum, perhaps equally ancient.
Going through the shelter, I face the inner sanctum, an empty quadrangle at the end of which is the temple itself. A large censer is at its entrance for devotees to insert their lighted incense sticks. Inside the temple are a small altar and a statue about a foot in height. Almost everything is coloured red: the curtain, pillars, altar tables, and fortune sticks hanging on a panel. While the hall on one side of the quadrangle is closed, the hall on the other is open, exhibiting photographs. Some books are housed in showcases. An hour is sufficient for my visit as I head for my lunch.
Along Dongfeng Road is the Do and Me Restaurant (by the Doremi Group). Its Five-Treasure Rice (Wu Bao Fan) looks very appetizing. Indeed, it is very tasty. Well presented, it consists of three slices of fried tofu, four pieces of beef tripe in oyster sauce, two leaves of cai xin, half a hard-boiled egg in boiled soy sauce, four slices of char siew (although half of each roast pork piece is fat), and a whole chicken wing (from limb to tip) cleaved into three parts. The steel cup-size container of herbal soup contains two large mushrooms flavoured with slow-cooked wolfberries and dried dates. Costing 21 RMB, the set could be sold in Singapore for more than 30 RMB ($6).
Cheap but delicious food in Wenchang town
便宜，但美味的食物在文昌镇
Walking along Wenxin Road to discretely photograph shops that will be transformed into brothels after sunset, I am unfortunate to be hailed by the proprietress of the laundry when she sees me at the opposite side of the road. When I cross over, she asks for my destination. I tell her. She advises me to wait for the bus at the stop in front of her. She is a nice and friendly lady.
From the inland province of Hubei, she came to Wenchang about seven years ago. She is the joint owner of the laundry with her brother, she says. When she asks for my next destination, I reveal part of my itinerary.
She jokingly enquires if she can accompany me during my trip around Hainan. Fortunately, my wit abides with me.
Jovial Hubei beauty jokingly enquires if she could accompany me around Hainan
湖北美女开玩笑地询问她是否可以陪我去海南旅游
“Cannot. You are too beautiful. If my wife finds out, she may wring my ear.” I playfully wring my right ear with my right hand.
“Can. She won’t find out,” she replies.
“If you are an ugly, elderly woman, I will certainly take you with me. But you are very beautiful.”
Deeply flattered, she is pleased.
“Where are you staying?”
“Longyuan Hotel.” I point to the other end of the road.
“Can I visit you?”
Thinking that she is teasing me, I jovially respond, “Can”.
“I want to introduce some girls to you.”
I am getting nervous.
“Ni de fangjian, shenme haoma? (What is your room number?)” She continues.
Oh... oh... this is getting serious. Fortunately, my poor grasp of Mandarin saves me. “Shenme haoma? Bu zhidao ni shuo shenme.” (What number? I don’t understand what you are saying.)
She replies, “Haoma shi haoma. Ni bu zhidao?” (Number is number. Don’t you understand?)
“Shenme shi haoma?” (What is ‘haoma’?)
She turns to the pimp sitting at the neighbouring doorway, and requests her Hainanese translation. Dressed like any ordinary woman in the street, Brothel Proprietress in her late forties tried to explain to me. But I blame my poor grasp of Hainanese, which is true. In exasperation, Laundry Lady turns to a young school girl, and bides her to do the same. Again, I plead my ignorance of the term “haoma”. For once, I am thankful for my illiteracy in Mandarin and Hainanese.
By now I have been secretly praying for the arrival of that elusive bus to rescue me from my predicament. When I express my intention to move to another road to seek direction, she stops a passing pedicab and explains my destination. He takes me about two hundred metres to the sharp corner of Xinfeng and Yexiang Road, and asks the driver of the waiting green-and-white bus if it is travelling to Huiwen and beyond. It is. I pay the pedicab rider the 2 RMB he charges. The earlier quoted price is 4 RMB to a bus stop further off.
Carrying about twenty persons, the small bus is proceeding south to Qionghai via Huiwen. The fare to Fengjia Bay is 7 RMB, comprising 6 RMB to Huiwen and 1 RMB for the extra six kilometres to the beach. I get a seat. The bus travels west along Yexiang Road, then south along Wenchang Expressway, and east along Heping South Road, and finally south along the main Wenjian Road, which joins 201 Provincial Road. After a few stops where it receives more passengers, some of whom are standing, it passes the railway line. From then on it rolls almost non-stop, halting only when the driver sees passengers by the roadside. An elderly gentleman enquires if the bus is going to a specific destination. It does not. At Huiwen, some passengers disembark, while some board.
On the bus from Wenchang downtown to Fengjiawan (Feng Clan Bay)
我在公共汽车，从文昌市区到冯家湾
“Feng Jia Bay”, the three words in English, below the Chinese characters 冯家湾, painted on a large brown metal sign that is attached to the top of a tall steel pole reassures me the driver has dropped me off at the right place. The white arrow below the words is unnecessary. Feng Jia Bay. The name of that bay is literally “Feng House Bay”. If it is really “Feng Clan’s Bay”, can I stake a small ancestral share over it?
The two-hundred metre side road leading to the beach is undergoing upgrading. On my right is a resort owned by a private company, which opens its room only to employees. The small drink stall on my left is owned by a lady and her husband Lu Lie Hong (吕列红). They have operated the business for eight years. Chen Yi Zhen (陈贻贞) is only thirty-nine and already a grandmother. She and her daughter married during their teens.
Her father is seventy-three, ten years older than me. He has five children. In Hainanese, he reminisces over the hard times during and after the war. During the nineteen-sixties, the family members subsisted on only a daily bowl of rice each and, occasionally, some vegetables. I express my sympathies for his hardship. Residing nearby, he regularly visits his daughter. (A year later, during my third Hainan trip, I hear to my sadness that he has passed on.)
At Fengjiawan (Feng Clan Bay)
我在冯家湾
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Translation of the two following paragraphs;
courtesy of May & Ken Cheung and their Hong Kong friends
在冯家湾
通往海滩的两百米小巷正在进行维修，右边的是一间私人公司的度假旅馆，只开放给公司的员工入住，而左边的饮料小摊档则是由一位女士和她的丈夫吕列红经营的，经营已八年了。只有三十九岁的陈贻贞女士已成为祖母了，她和她女儿都是很年青时便结婚。
她的父亲七十三岁，比我大十岁，有五个儿女，他用海南话诉说着战时和战后困难时期的回忆，六十年代时，家里每人每日只能吃一碗米饭，偶尔能吃些蔬菜，我对他那时候的艰苦表示十分同情。因为住在附近，所以他经常会探望他的女儿。（一年后，我再回到海南时，我很遗憾得知他已经过世了。）
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Unlike many beaches, which slope, the one here is flat. The tide has receded, exposing about a hundred-metre width of shoreline. Below the thin veneer of brownish-white sand is greyish compact clay. First Cousin later tells me that, after a distance, the beach declines steadily. The beach is more than three kilometres in length. Afar from the salty water, coconut trees form a neat line as far as my eyes can see. Scattered on my left and right are a few houses. To my immediate right two persons are dipping in the waters while further off two more are scouring for perhaps shellfish. A motorcycle is parked near the two swimmers.
I turn left and walk. The shore is alive with different species of hermit crabs. Some are scurrying across the sand; some are lying still in shallow trapped pools of clean, transparent seawater. I count. Within a square metre are at least ten of them. I playfully turn one on its back. It quickly retreats into its shell for safety. After a few seconds, it bravely emerges, repositions itself, and flees to the water. I am not able to obtain a closer look at the tiny crabs. As I approach, they dash into their narrow holes, vanishing deeper and deeper into some hidden tunnels as I try to scoop out the surrounding sand.
Fengjia Bay beach is ecologically rich with marine life
冯家湾海滩拥有丰富的海洋生物
Almost deserted except for some people working about half a kilometre distant, the shore is safe. Curious, I walk towards them. The seven men are laying blue plastic pipes, which I infer are for conveying uncontaminated sea water to pools on the elevated ground to my left. I scramble up the thirty metres. The pools belong to an aquaculture farm. Walking along the narrow village track shaded by overhanging branches of tropical trees and coconut palms, I spot a lady standing near the entrance of a similar venture among the few scattered fenced compounds.
She is rearing “lay”, she replies in Hainanese to my query. “Lay”, I take to be “shellfish” or “clams”. She has been in the business for about ten years, she adds. I request permission to have a peep at her “lay”.
Unfortunately, she has just sold her lot. I am disappointed in my lost opportunity of determining the species of shellfish that is being bred here. She is one of the many enterprising ladies I will meet in my travel. With people like her, marine aquaculture is fast catching up as a major contribution to the Hainan economic success. I walk out of the isolated track, slightly scared by the occasional but continuous barking and howling of suspicious free-range dogs of quiet Changlang Village (昌郎村).
A seaside village at Fengjiawan
冯家湾一个海滨村
During my third trip, I trample along the same stretch of beach until a narrow stream obstructs my path. Then climbing up the slope again to the fringe of that village, I stumble upon another aquaculture farm. Its chest-high parameter wall consists of brown bricks laid out with spaces that permit free-flowing air through the compound. Aeration of the three long rows of concrete rectangular troughs is its primary aim, not the exclusion of robbers. Each row is about fifty metres in length, six metres in width, and half a metre in height. It is subdivided into eleven or twelve smaller troughs, making a total of about thirty-three. These pools are sheltered from the harsh sunlight by a high and huge overhead canvas “roof”.
With thick bushes, tall wild grasses, and running creepers hemming the sides of this large compound, there is no other way for me to reach the village lane except through the grille gates.
Looking through the back gate, I see a man and some ladies feeding the watery inhabitants with contents from their hand-held plastic containers. Two of them are standing on the ledges that subdivide the three troughs. In desperation, I meekly solicit in Mandarin the nearest lady for permission to pass through her compound. She is friendly. She smiles as she unlatches the lock with her clean left hand. I ask if they are Hainanese.
“Yes.”
I switch to speaking in Hainanese to create a rapport. “Are you rearing fish here?”
“No, ‘Lay’.”
“Can I have a look?” Now I will have a chance to see and identify the “lay”, I mutter to myself.
“Certainly.”
I peer into the nearest pond. I am stunned. I anticipate clams or cockles. But the crawling creatures huddling together at the bottom of the pool of water are actually snails. So the “lay” (Hainanese pronunciation) is a sea snail. Except for their smaller size, they look very much like those that leave their secret crevices in my backyard garden after a heavy rain.
“How can they live in the water?” I ignorantly ask.
“They are sea snails.” Madam Liang Shao Mei (梁少媚) replies.
“What are you feeding them with?”
“Fish.”
The snails are fed twice a day: in the early morning and in the evening. The unconsumed remnants like fish bones are removed before re-feedings. Shao Mei explains the life-cycle of her brood of sea snails, the Dongfeng Luo (东风螺; literally, East Wind Snail or Spiral Shell). Babylonia formosae is a species of sea snail in the Babyloniidae family. Hatching from tiny eggs, the snails mature for harvesting after nine months. I peer into the water again to have a look at the French culinary delight. The three or four-centimetre creatures are fighting for a space on the fish carcasses. The fish eyes seem alive, staring at me pitifully.
My 3rd trip in 2012: I met the Zhan (Hainanese: Chiam) family in Fengjia Bay
2012年我的第三次旅行: 我在冯家湾遇到了詹家
Shao Mei is about fifty-five years of age. But she looks young for her age. She is slim; she is about my height. She is beautiful too. The business is family-owned. Her husband Zhan Zhong Fu (詹忠甫) is out on an errand. They manage the operation with the assistance of their son and two daughters.
Like her mother, the younger daughter Qiu Chan (秋婵) looks very young. She is also very friendly, putting me at ease to raise, rather indiscreetly, the question of her marital status. No, she is not married, she unhesitatingly answers.
“I suppose you are still young.” I say as a matter of fact.
“Guess my age.”
“Twenty-four?” I truthfully guess, without any intention of flattering her.
“No. Twenty-nine.”
“Twenty-nine? But you look only twenty-four or twenty-three.”
She thanks me for the compliment. Her sister Qiu Ping (秋萍) is married. As I squat to photograph the slow loris under the rippling water surface, Shao Mei kindly picks and places one on the ledge. I thank her. I am fortunate. I quickly snap as many pictures as I can. Fearing for my safety when I relay that I will be walking to the main road, she insists that her son take me on his motorcycle because of the ferocious village dogs. As I hang onto the pillion sides, Xiao Shuai (孝帅) tells me, amidst the occasional angry barks, that he is twenty-three years of age and will shortly be finishing his tertiary education. He is fortunate to have a caring and tight-knit family living on the serene bay that bears my family name.
Zhan Xiao Shuai and his bride
詹孝帅和他的新娘
Snail breeding is a risky enterprise for self-employed entrepreneurs. During my 2013 trip, I learn from Shao Mei that as much as seventy percent of farms in her village have suffered loss of income as a result of the recent death of their young snails. Without other means of financial support, they would have to wait for stocks of fortunate breeders to reach maturity and then buy the adults to restart the process.
{On a subsequent trip, I have the pleasure of meeting Zhan Zhong Fu’s niece and her mother. Pretty Zhan Su Dan has recently completed her university degree in graphic design in Guangzhou. I readily accept their invitation to see their fish farm close to the junction of 201 Provincial Road and 201 County Road. Sitting on the pillion of Shao Mei’s bike, I trail them along a meandering sandy lane to their village. Their double-storey brick house overlooks three square ponds, each averaging about a hundred square metres. Mrs Zhan drips a pan and a net into one pond and lifts out some fingerlings and juveniles. Their convex tail fins and brown colour suggest that they are groupers (cods). Interestingly, a grouper weighing about one hundred and thirty kilograms was caught in Hainan Province in early 2016. It was sold for twenty-six thousand RMB (slightly over S$5,000).}
Pretty Zhan Su Dan and her mother at their fish farm
漂亮的小姐詹和她的母亲在他们的养鱼场
Back to my May 2011 trip: the fare to Wenchang in the Haikou-bound air-conditioned coach from Changlang Village is only 6 RMB. Crowded, with six persons standing, it enters Huiwen. After passing the railway line at the outskirt of Wenchang downtown, it takes the expressway, and I have to alight at Heping North Road, a kilometre from downtown. A small park lies outside the gate that encloses a complex of condominiums like those in Singapore. Their design is modern and classy. I ponder, is a new generation of rich Hainanese emerging? Or is there an influx of mainland Chinese investors sensing the true value of Hainanese land? The wall and gate prevent me from entering to conduct a survey of the living environment.
An auto rickshaw drops off a passenger. I hail him. His fare to downtown Do and Me Restaurant is 4 RMB. A dinner set there consisting of a whole deep-fried chicken, a small basket-bowl of chips, and a tumbler of Coke, cost only 39 RMB, less than $8.
Bus from Fengjia Bay to Wenchang downtown
公共汽车从冯家湾到文昌市区
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Translation of the following paragraphs on the Zhan (Chiam) family;
courtesy of May & Ken Cheung and their Hong Kong friends
冯家湾 - 詹家 (Page 277-279)
从后门往里瞧，我看见一个男士和几位女士手里提着塑料桶，正在喂养水生动物。有两个人站在三个水池中间的分隔墙上。我用普通话温和的询问 靠近我的那一位女士，是否允许我通过她们的场地。她友好的微笑着，用她干净的左手拉开了门闩。 我问他们是不是海南人。
"是。”
我觉得似乎用本地话交谈更亲切，于是用海南话问："你们在喂鱼吗？"
"不， ‘蕾' [海南语音]"
"能让我看一看吗？” 现在我可有机会看一看 “蕾” 究竟是什么东西， 我轻声嘀咕着。
"当然可以。”
往最近的水池一看，我惊呆了，我原以为大概是蛤或蚶之类，但看到的是水池底部拥挤在一起的爬行动物竟是蜗牛。除了个头小一些外，它们看起来真像大雨过后我家后花园里的蜗牛。
"它们能活在水中？" 我茫然问道。
“它们是海蜗牛。” 梁少媚女士回答说。
"你们喂它们什么呢？”
"鱼。"
"这些海蜗牛必须每天清晨和傍晚喂食两次。第一次吃剩的残食要把鱼骨头等挑干净，留着第二次喂食。" 少媚解释说， "这种海蜗牛学名东 风螺，小蜗牛从细小的卵孵化出来后要等九个月才能成熟收获。" 我再次 往水中瞧瞧这些法国名菜，这些3到4厘米长的小蜗牛正在争先恐后的抢鱼食。 那鱼似乎还活着，眼睛可怜巴巴的瞧着我。
少媚大约五十五岁，但看起来比实际年龄还年轻，她身形纤瘦，和我差不多高，她还长得很漂亮呢。她的那盘生意是家族经营的，她的丈夫詹忠甫正出差，他们的儿子和两个女儿也有帮忙管理的工作。
较小的女儿秋婵和妈妈一样，都长得很年轻，也是很随和，并容许我轻率问及她的婚姻状况，她很爽快地答了，「不，我还未结婚。」
「我猜你还很年轻吧。」我说。
「你猜猜我的年龄。」
「二十四？」我真心地猜着，并没有奉承她的意思。
「不，是二十九。」
「二十九？但你看起来像是只有二十三、四岁。」
她多谢我的赞赏，她的姊姊,秋萍,则已婚了。当我蹲下来为碧波荡漾之下的蜗牛拍照时，少媚好心地帮我捡了一只，还放在壁架上，我感谢她，我真感到幸运，尽快拍了许多张照片。因为路上可能会遇到村里几头恶狗，她担心我走回大道时的安全，所以坚持要她的儿子用摩托车送我一程，我骑在摩托车的后座时，听到偶尔的几阵恶吠声，孝帅告诉我，他现年二十三岁，快要完成他的大学学业。能够有这样的一个亲密又充满爱的家庭，能够住在我家乡这个宁静的海湾，他真的很幸运。
蜗牛养殖对个体户而言是一个高风险的企业，在我2013年的旅途中，我从少媚得知她村里70%的农场因为有年幼的蜗牛死亡而收入大减， 如果当 时没有其他经济援助，他们将不得不等待其他农场的蜗牛长至成熟阶段，才去买来重新培育。
The following paragraph is my translation (以下段落是我的翻译)
{在我后来的旅行中，我很高兴见到詹忠甫的侄女和她的母亲。漂亮的詹小姐最近在广州完成了平面设计大学学位。我立即接受邀请，在201省路和201县路交界看到他们的养鱼场。我坐在梁少媚摩托车的后座，我沿着一条沙路跟着他们的村庄。他们的双层砖房俯瞰三个池塘; 每个池塘约一百平方米。 詹太太把一个锅和一个网滴到一个池塘里，抬起一些幼鱼和少年。鱼尾的凸尾鳍和褐色表明它们是石斑鱼（cods）。有意思的是，2016年海南省,石斑鱼的鱼被抓，重约一百三十公斤.鱼出售二千六百元（略高于五千新元）.}
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Copyright 2015
More photos
Page 272-279, Fengjiawan
(Feng Family Bay)