Rambling around my ancestral Hainan
Dongfang (东方), where Australian prisoners of war garrisoned
Two hours later, the bus ends its journey at Dongfang terminus on the corner of Donghai and Dongfu Road. It is four in the afternoon. The station is, as I later discover, right in the heart of Dongfang downtown. For 6 RMB, a middle-aged lady takes me in her motorized trishaw along Donghai Road, turning left into Donggang Road and then right into Binhai Road. Fudao Haiwan Hotel is located beside the beach and its nightly rate is 280 RMB ($56), twice the amount I am prepared to spend.
For an additional fee, she brings me to Shubao Hotel and Yuntian Hotel, both a stone throw from each other. The latter is at 4 Donghai Road, on the corner of Donghai and Donggang Road. Its nightly rate is cheaper: 158 RMB. I promptly deposit my bags in my room because Trishaw Lady has agreed to conduct me on an hour urban tour for the price of 50 RMB.
Steering our way through the streets in her steady vehicle, I notice the potpourri of old and new buildings expected of a city that is undergoing rapid socio-economic transformation. Roads on the outskirt of town are new, wide, and clean. Although it is five-thirty on a Wednesday evening, at a time when I expect buses, cars, and people, the traffic is surprisingly not heavy. Is the government anticipating increasing usage by their construction of wide roads?
Overtaking us, a lady skilfully controls her motor scooter on which four school kids balance. Aged around ten, two boys and a girl are sitting, cramped on the pillion meant for one. A boy of about five or six is standing on the floorboard in front of his mother. What dexterity: five persons travelling on a scooter! The children smile as I snap a picture of them. In time, they will attend the nearby Dongfang No. 2 Middle School, the name on its surrounding wall.
Advancing along the new road, we soon reach a large glass-making factory that is located below a flyover and near the mouth of Luodai River. The dimension of the factory compound is about sixty metres wide and two hundred and fifty metres long. Piles of a white substance, presumably washed sand, are laid out on the open ground, ready to be transmuted into glass in the workshop.
A kilometre from the flyover is Shugang Road, which runs parallel to the beach. We join this road. Broad and clean, it crosses over the Luodai River mouth. We stop temporarily by the side of the flat and short road-cum-bridge that has no safety railing.
In front of me is a steel archway spanning over the road, its huge signboard announcing the location: 海南省东方工业园区 (Hainan Sheng Dongfang Gongye Yuan Qu). Hainan Province Dongfang Industrial Park District is four kilometres south of downtown. The background of the board shows the industries sited here. A smaller signboard on the right side of the arch states: “China BlueChemical Ltd”. Another signboard on the left side says “cnooc”, which is the abbreviation for China National Offshore Oil Corporation, a major government-owned company.
If the permanent short stakes, some with folded fishing nets, are reliable indicators, the river is teeming with fish. The river mouth is a kilometre off, and the rising and ebbing tides should channel many predatory fish to their doom. To my right, two youths in swimming trunk are sitting on the river bank close to the water. Their friend is swimming in front of them. To my left on the other bank are two boys or men fully clothed, squatting or sitting and looking at the smooth flowing water.
No crocodiles are lurking in the river, although they have been recently introduced into Nantai Lake in Chengmai and bred in farms in Sanya. Crocodiles once roamed the coastal regions of southern China from Guangxi to Fujian, including Hainan Island. But they became extinct centuries before.
We lumber southwards along Shugang Road until its dead end, where China BlueChemical Ltd and a large public park are. Under his bell-shape sun hat, a farmer herds a family of four cattle across the road to the field. Obediently, they slowly plod. As soon as they reach the park, they gallop and scatter to ravenously devour the luxuriant green grass. They are like children eagerly rushing to seize the rich chocolate cakes spread on the table. I smile at the rare comical scene. Another man too is amused. Here, the agrarian and the industrial lifestyles blend so harmoniously. Satisfied with my general perception of Dongfang town, I request Trishaw Lady to bring me back to the hotel. Along the way, she points out the location of a laundry.
After a three-minute walk along Dongfu Road, off the main Donghai Road, the following morning, a Thursday, I reach the Dongfang People’s Government building to seek direction to the location of the camp that sheltered two hundred and sixty-three Australian prisoners of war (POWs) during the early nineteen-forties. These POWs were among the approximately twenty-two thousand Australians captured during the Japanese invasion of Asia. The majority - fourteen thousand nine hundred and seventy-two - of the POWs were seized in Singapore. All were dispersed to camps in Southeast and East Asia, with Singapore and Malaya holding five thousand five hundred and forty-nine and Burma and Thailand holding four thousand eight hundred and thirty.
After a rough and windy eleven-day voyage from Ambon Island on a Japanese freighter, where a holed wooden platform suspended from the vessel’s stern was latrine to the brave and strong, the Australian soldiers from Gull Force touched Sanya Bay in November 1942. After vaccination, they sailed northwestwards, reaching Bakli (Beili) Bay within a day. They disembarked and trudged almost three kilometres inland from Basuo to their desolate fate. They did not know it then; their comrades in Burma would suffer far worst cruelties and sustain an even higher casualty rate, building the notorious railway under Japanese military supervisors.
Home for the Dongfang POWs over the subsequent three years was a high-security camp of wooden huts, some small and some large, with corrugated-iron roofs on ten acres of land surrounded by barbed-wire. Their communal beds were two 3.6 metre-wide raised wooden platforms inside a huge hut. A similar hut was shared by two hundred and sixty-seven Dutch prisoners. Their mattress was a straw mat while their blankets were tattered and torn. Because of the nearby swamp, a mosquito net was provided. Their companions in bed were the ubiquitous ant, cockroaches, flies, lice, and rats. Their shower was a spray of cold water from a long trough.
In his official report (on Ambon and Hainan) after the war, commander and fellow-prisoner Lieutenant-Colonel William John Rendell Scott wrote:
“…the outlook was deplorable - a barren, sandy island with nothing but a little cactus here and there, a hot wind”.
Among the other prisoners’ comments were: “the arse end of the earth”; “shocking, just wide open spaces and sand”; “bloody desolation”; and “heartbreaking”.
Three years before the prisoners’ arrival, the Japanese had occupied Hainan to exploit its mineral and natural resources. The transport infrastructure then was primitive. The prisoners were immediately delegated to perform manual work, ten hours daily: building roads, airstrips, and a viaduct for unloading iron ore; pushing trucks of sands for defensive positions and harbour reclamation; preparing anti-aircraft batteries and anti-aircraft gun placements; and unloading cargoes at Basuo (Japanese: Hasho) harbour.
Though the labour itself was not particularly difficult, poor diet and medical negligence, despite appeals, caused not only grave hardship such as beri-beri, malaria, tinea, and roundworms to prisoners but also the death of many of them. In December 1942, three Australians died from dysentery. By July 1943, one hundred and forty-seven men had manifested serious beri-beri symptoms. The following month, five men died and many were ill in their improvised hospital. In September, ten more Australians died. The deaths only stopped in December after the required medications were provided.
Prisoners were allowed to maintain a garden but the yield gradually decreased from lack of fertilizer. Whatever little they had (such as watches and clothing), they sometimes traded for necessities like medicine and eggs with the few locals who loitered furtively near their workplaces or under the blanket of darkness.
Some Japanese commanders and guards were sadistic, striking the faces of prisoners who took breaks at work during malaria seizures and assaulting prisoners who slipped whilst lifting heavy sandbags up steep embankments. In July 1943, one hundred and twenty Chinese prisoners were brought on trucks into the camp and then left, escorted by a truck of Japanese troops. An hour later, the Japanese returned without them. Some local women were tortured in public. A six-month pregnant lady was knocked to the ground and stamped upon. In 1944, twenty-three Australians died, eighteen of whom, however, from indiscriminate shooting by Chinese guerrillas ambushing the Japanese.
Prisoners often dreamt of escaping. Some attempted to. In 1943, six Dutch prisoners escaped but were shortly recaptured and executed. In February 1945, some Dutch prisoners successfully escaped. In April, six Australians escaped and stumbled into a Chinese village. The villagers brought them to the Chinese Nationalist headquarter, after a one-and-a-half month trek. There, they remained until the war terminated four months later. They unsuccessfully implored for arms to retaliate against the Japanese.
By mid-1945, the Japanese war was concluding. Although they were not tasked to any labour from March to August, the prisoners continued to endure a hard time. Confined in camp with reduced food supplies, they even made mouse traps. Such was their plight that, between January and August, twenty-six Australians and thirty-one Dutch died. Only one hundred and eighty-one of the Australian POWs transferred from Ambon returned to Australia. Thirty-one percent died in Hainan.
Born after the Second World War, the young officials at the Dongfang government office are unaware of the prison camp’s existence. However, one of them remembers the presence of a monument in Yulinzhou (鱼鳞洲) Nature Reserve. But, he adds, it is a monument commemorating Chinese workers who died or were killed during the Japanese occupation. He kindly draws the location, which is about four kilometres west of their office. Happy to receive a pointer, I walk out to the main road. It is noon, twelve-thirty actually. It is time for lunch.
At the corner of Dongfu and Jiefang Road is a KFC restaurant. In there I meet a Caucasian gentleman. Surprised, I approach and introduce myself. I enquire his purpose in visiting Hainan, particularly Dongfang. David (pseudonym) is representing a Hong Kong client, who wishes to purchase a parcel of land for a business venture. He is searching for the government land sales department. His assistant, who has just parked their car, is also an American. Both immigrated to New York when they were young. I offer to show them the way to the government office.
Along Dongfu Road, two Hainanese school girls of about fifteen years of age greet David in English. They are studying English in school, and are taking the opportunity to practise their phrases. I am heartened to hear that English is also being taught here. These enthusiastic young girls are preparing themselves to take Hainan up a notch along its economic development and progress. After some pleasant exchanges, we part.
At the government building, we are directed to the fourth floor, where the land approval office is located. David’s assistant has, to my shame, a far better competence in the Chinese language. As an officer is helping them, I leave for my lunch.
As Yulinzhou Nature Reserve is at the end of the main Jiefang Road, I hop onto a trishaw for a reasonable fare of 7 RMB. Along the way, the driver repeatedly asks if I have “lingqian”.
“Ni you mei you lingqian?” (“Do you have small change?”)
Since I do not understand the meaning of “lingqian”, my suspicion instantly erupts. “Is he demanding a tip? That is terrible. Has economic development brought corruption?” I mutter angrily to myself.
“Shenme shi ‘lingqian’?” (“What is ‘lingqian’?”) I respond.
His reply is incomprehensible to me, which further arouses my indignation. Rising my voice, I insist, “Wo bu zhidao ni shuo shenme.” (“I don’t know what you are saying.”)
I then add rather curtly, “Ruoguo ni bu zhidao nar ge difang, wo keyi dai beide sanlunche.” (“If you don’t know the place, I can take another trishaw.”)
He must be exasperated by now. But realising my poor grasp of the language, he rephrases his question, using the synonym “xiaoqian” (“small money”). Only then do I grasp the drift of his question: he does not have the necessary change if I pay my fare with a 100-RMB note. My fears are allayed; I am ashamed of my unjustified annoyance and suspicion. He is not a crook or a corrupt trishaw driver.
Near the end of Jiefang Road is a narrow cement lane, which I later learn from my map is Linzhou Road. It is wide enough for only one car and a trishaw. Fortunately, no car or truck overtakes or approaches us. On both sides of Linzhou Road are shallow ponds, which have almost dried up. The few buildings seem uninhabited. Here and there, thick shrubs stand out.
After travelling for about four hundred metres, the driver drops me off. I have seen no one here. But I am relieved when I detect, on my left, the Dongfang Meteorological Bureau building, about a hundred metres away. On my right is a long low wall. Its gate is missing but its hinges are still embedded in the bricks.
Within this enclosed Yulinzhou Nature Reserve is a prominent brown monument. Although I am disappointed to see no Christian cross, the presence of which would hint to the locale of the Australian POWs’ detention camp, I am glad that I have a historic site to begin my investigation.
I walk in. The area is deserted, except for the two workers about two hundred metres in front of me. Some construction is occurring. The ground is almost flat, sandy, and dusty. I expect a forest of trees in the reserve. But they have been cleared. A few solitary trees and some bushes are all that remain.
Three hundred metres beyond the lone tall column are seven or eight giant container cranes scattered along the long wharf of Dongfang Port. They are not moving. Indeed, I detect no human activity on the wharf. The weather bureau building may be nearby; yet I become slightly fearful of being robbed.
Here is the haloed ground on which was spilt an unceasing rain of sweat and tears by captives also from America, Britain, and India working on the harbour facilities and railway line. I tread the ground carefully to avoid trampling on sacred relics that might have been unwittingly dropped by them and subsequently buried under the shifting sand. A small rectangular building that looks like a bomb shelter is about twenty metres to my right.
Cactuses are scattered amidst some local brilliant-red flowering plants about my height. They remind me of the words of Commander Scott: “a little cactus here and there.” Are these the descendants? The trunks or stems of the two-metre flowering plants are thin. Perhaps that is their nature and height.
Solemnly, I approach the slender stele, which rests on a large podium. Including this waist-high pedestal, it is about ten metres in height. I slowly climb up the steps. For some minutes, I silently stand in military attention to the sacrifices of the thousands of Chinese labourers - in fact, twenty thousand - who died building the railway from Beili-Basuo to Yulin Port in Sanya, a distance of one hundred and seventy-nine kilometres.
Then I gently circle the monument, keeping it within my gaze. The square column comprises large stone blocks. Each side of the column is about a metre wide. On one side is a long white marble panel, engraved with a string of large Chinese characters in red. I stare at the characters, not knowing its sound and meaning. I respectfully photograph the monument. At the base of the pedestal is a plaque containing about twenty-eight vertical rows of characters.
日军侵琼八所死难劳工纪念碑: these are the memorial characters I later decipher. In pinyin, they are: “Rijun Qinqiong Basuo Sinan Laogong Jinianbei”. Literally translated, they state: “Japanese Invasion of Hainan - Basuo’s Deceased Workers’ Monument”. More elegantly, they read as: “Monument to Workers who died at Hainan Basuo from Japanese Invasion”. This solitary monument will be a constant reminder to the living port workers of their fallen compatriots’ tribulations.
About half a kilometre to the left of the wharf is a lighthouse built on a small knoll. I walk towards it. Although this area is named as a nature reserve, I immediately realise that it is undergoing development into a residential and tourist resort area. On a huge billboard is an artist illustration of the final product – about thirty-two condominium blocks, perhaps residential and hotel, ranging from three to eight storeys with deep-blue tiled straight-inclined roofs by the idyllic beach lined with coconut palms and white sands. I want to buy a property here, my heart cries out. I now understand the desire of that American’s client to invest in Dongfang.
Puffing up the flight of steps to the lighthouse entrance, I discover a locked gate. As I stand mid-way on the high ground to survey the surrounding area, I am overwhelmed with mixed emotion. The nature reserve and its grove of trees have been cleared, which is a shame because this area is pregnant with history, with the sacrificed lives of thousands of locals and foreigners. Their toils may be forgotten over time. Below me is a three-storey square brick building, possibly the home of the lighthouse’s caretaker. It is enclosed by walls. Within the untidy compound are two wooden huts.
As I scrutinise the scene around me again, I am impressed. The beach is clean; the water is unpolluted. The wharf and port are so close that I can stand here for hours to vicariously participate in their activities. Between the lighthouse and the port are concrete remnants, which were probably slipways for small boats during the early nineteen-thirties or forties.
Walking down to the beach, I stoop to feel the water and the sand. The grains are not tiny or fine; rather, they are bigger in size like two or three millimetre in diameter or even larger. I examine the old slipways, and my mind reflects back to the war period. Here on this very beach the prisoners daily toiled and stumbled.
It was unfortunate that the Australian prisoners came to associate my ancestral Hainan with a place they detest. Yes, their experiences were certainly not one of joy, but of bitterness. However, the island they once knew has changed; it has much to offer to them now.
When I later return to Australia, I learn that a memorial plaque in honour of these prisoners was erected in Lao’ou Village (老欧村; Lao’ou Cun), about twelve kilometres southeast of Dongfang downtown. I could have taken a cab there if I had known. Alas, I am now more aware that diligent preparation and research is the key to better appreciation of one’s tour.
New roads are under construction at Yulinzhou Scenic Zone, its revised name. Progress is in the air. I suppose the locals want to move on, on to a brighter and more prosperous future. I slowly stroll out of the changing zone. At four in the late afternoon, a trishaw fortuitously appear at the lower end of Shugang Road. I hail it to go to the curved sea wall at the end of Donggang Road.
That L-shaped mole is a kilometre in length, providing adequate shelter to the fishing boats during the stormy seasons. About a hundred are anchored within, many bouncing against one another to the rhythm of gentler waves. Most vessels are five or six metres in length. But an identical pair is fifteen metres long each. The tall metal frameworks of pulleys that hold large trawling nets and lines of light bulbs suggest that they are long-distance deep-sea vessels.
On the wharf, some thirty stalls have been temporarily set up to shelter their owners from the hot sun. They are selling the fresh sea produce just unloaded by the tired fishermen. Customers and spectators like me are poring over the unusual items like eels and shellfish of all shapes and sizes. No seafood is as fresh as these. Parked nearby are bicycles and motorbikes, the many locals’ means of transport.
To the right of the L-shaped protector is another, similarly shaped but slightly longer. Inquisitive, I walk along the first, straight for about three hundred metres and then left for six hundred metres. Using a long stick with an attached iron hook at one end, an elderly lady of about seventy is retrieving plastic bottles caught between the loose rocks of the pier foundation. She will sell them for half a yuan each. Quickly finishing my flavoured drink, I hand over the empty bottle.
“Xie xie (Thanks),” she acknowledges.
Mencius once observed that a person would instinctively experience a feeling of commiseration at the sight of a child falling into the well. Looking at that granny quietly cleaning up the environment reminds me of my own granny. Almost at once, I dig out a 5-RMB note from my pocket, and offer it to her. Surprisingly, she adamantly refuses to accept it even as I persist. She is however grateful. “Xie xie,” she reiterates. She is a lady with pride and dignity, despite her adversity. When I gaze at her as she continues her chore, I cannot but help reminiscing on the hardship she had gone through during and after the Second World War. Does she have any children to care for her? Is her husband still alive? Is she single? My mind is unsettled.
Within the breakwater, the sea is slightly stagnant, slowly accumulating gravitating debris on its surface. Some king crabs are floating too. Are they tired? Or are they dead? Is the movement of their claws the result of the imperceptible undercurrent? I cannot determine whether they are dead or alive. Schools of small fishes are, however, swimming just below the water surface.
Outside the pier, the sea is open to the incoming and ebbing tide. The water is clean and clearer. No one is fishing here though. I am tempted. But I have forgotten to bring my reel of line, and it is too late to return to my hotel room for it.
Facing inland from the pier I can see Fudao Haiwan Hotel eight hundred metres off on my left. I spring into a waiting trishaw.
The hotel exterior is architecturally balanced and beautiful, with soft and attractive colour coordination. Its reception section is five-storey high, topped with a small dome, while its wing is four-storey. Painted white, it has light-purple borders demarcating each floor. In the front of the building is a small park, which is neat and tidy. Facing the reception lobby are two rows of coconut trees, complimented with showy palms of various heights.
In their white wedding frock and suit, a couple is posing in different angles with the picturesque scenery as backdrop. Their photographer is furiously clicking, occasionally shouting instructions for instant smiles. His two young assistants are looking on, holding props such as two teddy bears.
I re-check my pocket calendar. Today is a Thursday. Perhaps this is not a wedding photography session. Perhaps the pictures are commissioned for advertisement of the hotel facilities or even the photographer’s studio. No best man or bridesmaid is there. No parents or friends.
Weddings in Hainan and elsewhere are occasions for drinks and splurging. I have briefly witnessed a wedding banquet host by the families of a newly-married couple at Wenchang Longyuan Hotel. At the hotel entrance, several guests offered generous red packets containing cash to the solicitous couple. They were then ushered into the restaurant, where guests were seated around several tables. At the appropriate time, a sumptuous Saturday lunch would be served, a series of specialty dishes brought out at regular intervals by the waiters or waitresses. In contrast, a poor man’s celebration might be a small and inexpensive affair, in which his relatives and neighbours are invited to his village home to enjoy the food prepared by a local caterer.
Tidal erosion has damaged the beach in front of the park. At low tide, only a thin sliver, barely one or two metres in width, welcomes the guests and tourists to sit or play. At high tide, it submerges. Many people are swimming or simply dipping in the shallow water.
I walk along the second L-shaped mole, which is wide enough for skilful motorcyclists to safely flaunt their riding talent. A few bikes are parked near the bend of the L. Their owners are fishing. For twenty minutes, I stand and watch them cast their rods. But I have not seen them pulling up any fish. Luck is not with them.
My map shows another beach about two kilometres to the south of this pier. A trishaw driver brings me along Binhai Road and finally weaves her way through a narrow lane that is helmed in by houses. When we reach the park, I am disappointed. Standing on a conical pedestal that overlooks the beach, the life-size white stone statue of a busty lady in a one-piece swimsuit is badly damaged. Her arms are missing.
Monopolising part of the beach, which is littered with discarded plastic bags, is a slab of cement floor occupied by tables and chairs from the intrusive restaurant. Mixed with large pebbles and fragmented seashells, the sand is rough and brown. This beach lies beside the wharf where Australian, Chinese, and other POWs had loaded and unloaded cargoes for their Japanese captors. Did they wash themselves on this very beach? Is the railway track that runs up to the edge of this wharf the very same one built by them?
Eight boys are playing in the water. A woman and her two young children are picking shells near its edge. Still in their school uniform, two boys and a girl are walking and talking. I move towards a decrepit building, which is located off the beach and may have seen its better days as a floating seafood restaurant or even a rich man’s mansion. Playing along the pathway is a class of students of about fifteen or sixteen years of age in uniform. Perhaps they come from the nearby Dongfang Railway Middle School to relax after their daily school sessions.
As I contemplate over the events and the several unanswered questions in my mind, I am thankful for the satisfaction of seeing so many places today, places where many ordinary Hainanese would not have the opportunity of visiting. Dongfang and its residents will have a bright future. The ample land space, clean water, clear sky, and rich flora and fauna are their assets, which I hope they will always treasure. Sadly, I leave to catch a trishaw to town to have my dinner before I retire for the day.
Across the road from my hotel is a small open park, where an imposing concrete statue stands. Since I have sufficient time on Friday morning before I check out, I cross to admire it. Approximately ten metres in height, this apparently Chinese version of the Statue of Liberty consists of a rectangular pillar of about eight metres high supporting a life-size statue of a young lady. Perhaps originally in white but turning slightly grey through long exposure to the elements, the pillar symbolizes a tree trunk.
Around it, nine dragons curl their bodies in upward motion. Eight of them are small, two on each side of the trunk, thus maintaining the symmetry of the sculpture. The head of the largest dragon rests on top of the trunk. With mouth wide-open, it looks upwards towards the heaven.
On its shoulder balances the bare right foot and straightened leg of the youthful athlete, whose smiling face similarly inclines towards the sky above the horizon. Her similarly bare left leg is raised forward but bent, such that her heel lightly touches her right knee. Her short skirt has been lifted by the wind, clearly revealing her naked buttock.
Her left hand reposes on the nose of the huge dragon, whose huge gaping mouth is just behind her left butt. Her slightly bent right hand is holding a globe above her head. Her thin vest accentuates her small busts. Around her shoulder is a long flowing sash. She is in her late twenties or early thirties.
What a splendid piece of art! The grace of the girl and the co-ordinated movements of the glorious dragons: they captivate me. She is, upon my focus, actually exposing her posterior to anyone who glances upwards. I am amused. The radical liberalism sweeping Hainan is silently noticed here and elsewhere in China.
Besides me, four or five persons have walked by this morning. They barely pause to look up. Perhaps they have seen her too often. An electrical cord strings the three “tongues of fire” around the globe. When the electric power is switched on in the evening, these “tongues” will brighten and glorify Miss Freedom to the residents.
Copyright 2015
Photos
In remembrance of the American, Australian, British,
Chinese, Dutch, and Indian prisoners-of-war
who were imprisoned by the Japanese
in Hainan Island.
Page 357 - 370, Dongfang