Haikou’s modern waterfront and Evergreen Park
Evergreen Park (万绿园; Wanlu Yuan) on Haikou’s northern shore is an ideal destination for my initial self-guided tour since it is only three kilometres west of my hotel as the crow flies. It is a test. If I can reach it without difficulty, then I will acquire the confidence to ramble around Hainan Island on my own. Cai Hong is at work today, a Tuesday.
After a hasty bowl of hot handmade noodle ornamented with a few thin strips of goat mutton for the unbeatable price of only 6 RMB at a Hui café along busy Nanbao Road, I casually stroll along Haixiu East Road for Longkun North Road, despite the slight drizzle. I can easily hop onto any bus but walking and window-shopping seems to be the best means of feeling the daily pulse of local people.
Unfortunately, from Lantian Road onwards, the many hotels and office buildings that outnumber the few retail shops prod me to quicken, although I do pause to admire the tall, shady trees along the uncrowded pathway. It is then that I also appreciate the broad width of Haixiu East Road, and the open space of the capital.
The main road consists of six lanes. On both kerbs is a narrow row of trees, principally coconut palms. Next to each row of trees is a lane for buses to pick up their passengers, who are waiting on the wide pedestrian pathways. And, finally, beside each pathway is a lane for delivery vehicles to unload their wares at the doorsteps of shops. Thus, altogether, ten lanes are for motor vehicles and two pathways are for pedestrians.
The broad Haixiu East Road
广阔的海秀东路
After a kilometre, I turn right into Longkun North Road. Haikou Century Hotel is at the corner. After it is Kingsley Hotel at the intersection of Longkun North Road and Huyin East Road. I wait for the No. 21 bus near Kingsley Hotel. For only 1 RMB, it brings me along Longhua Road, Yusha Road, Guomao Road, Mingzhu Road, and finally Binhai Avenue.
As I constantly struggle to orientate the map and ascertain my shifting location with reference to prominent landmarks, my vision is obstructed by the standing crowd in the bus.
Shortly, a park materialises as the bus veers right into Binhai Avenue. Before I realize that it is my intended destination, the bus has reached Bell Tower and the northern fringe of Old Haikou, a kilometre and a half north of my hotel. A change of plan is inevitable. Have I failed my self-test?
Haikou Bell Tower during a drizzling day
海口钟楼期间细雨天
Heritage buildings are preserved within Old Haikou, the small area bound by Changdi Road (on the north running beside the northern shore), Wenming West Road (on the south running parallel to Changdi Road half a kilometre distant), Heping Road (on the east), and Bo’ai North Road (on the west). The streets at the northern end are narrow, suggesting a densely populated area. With so many shops there selling all sorts of interesting products, I decide to explore the area on another day.
Haikou, the capital, has a population of just slightly over a million and a half in 2010, a contrast to the 2,655,570 people crowding the Taiwanese capital, Taipei City. The density of about nine hundred people per square kilometre in Haikou makes for a less stressful lifestyle for its inhabitants. Indeed, human movements are leisurely, not as sprightly as the movements of Sydney’s Pitt Street crowds.
Traffic at the upper parameter of Old Haikou is chaotic. Only when I have safely crossed to the Bell Tower coastal walkway do I realize it. Pedestrians are king of the road. While most pedestrians, trishaw operators, and motorcyclists congregate at the crossing line upon the flash of the red signal, some impatient people risk their lives, jaywalking. They tread casually through the flowing traffic, the tolerant drivers instinctively decelerating and skilfully manoeuvring around them.
Traffic: order in chaos, cars with right of way yield to pedestrians and motorists
交通： 秩序混乱， 汽车让位行人和驾驶者
When the traffic signal changes, those waiting surge forward. Among them are ten young students in light-blue tracksuits. Watching them, I envisage the potential of my ancestral land resting in their hands. It is drizzling. While motorists are protected in drab raincoats, pedestrians carry umbrellas of various colours.
Beside the Bell Tower is a bridge that arches over Haidian River. As I examine my map, the name “Haidian River” seems to be a misnomer. Should it not be called “Haidian Sea”? Then re-looking, I understand the reason for the appellation. As its name implies, Haikou is located at the mouth of a river in the northern part of Hainan Island. “Hai” (海) in Mandarin means “Sea” and “Kou” (口) means “Mouth”. At three hundred and fourteen kilometres in length, the Nandu River is, in fact, the longest river on the island with its source in the central mountain ranges. The silt it brought eons ago formed the very islet before my eyes. This islet splits the Nandu at its terminating point. Haidian River is thus an off-shoot of the Nandu.
Bridge over Haidian River
大桥海甸河
Although it is the largest islet off Haikou, Haidian is still a small islet because it is only about six kilometres from east to west and four kilometres from north to south. Renmin Bridge is the starting point for the Renmin Expressway, which invisibly dissects the islet. The concrete bridge is very broad, with four lanes for larger vehicles like cars and trucks, two lanes for smaller vehicles like trishaws and motorcycles, and two walkways for pedestrians. The low fences dividing the vehicle lanes are portable, thus permitting ad hoc changes for smoother traffic flow. The traffic is heavy but the pedestrians, few. I walk on the left side of the bridge, and savour the view of the wide placid river below me, a scene that reminds me of the modern Singapore River from Boat Quay.
After crossing the bridge, I descend a flight of stairs to Haidian East Road. This road abuts the waterfront in the east-west direction, and is almost devoid of traffic, although a few cars are parked by the kerb. It is just after noon; yet it is not hot or humid. At a glance, I estimate a crowd of more than fifty customers and spectators along the narrow walkway, curiously peering into round cane-baskets, plastic buckets of different sizes, and rectangular white Styrofoam containers.
Haidian Islet waterfront; fish mongers; assortment of fish
海甸岛水岸, 许多种类的鱼
About twenty fishmongers, mainly ladies, are parading their live breams, flatheads, Flower Groupers, soles, and whitings. Elvers around ten centimetres and eels up to a metre in length are wriggling in partially closed containers. Depressed by confinement, some vault out to explore the world, causing a commotion. Prawns are kept alive with fresh air pumped into their water through a tube attached to a small generator. Lightly fried in aromatic garlic, black pepper, and sea salt, they should be succulent and tasty. Small octopuses weighing around a kilogram each and shellfish like abalone, cockles, and mussels are also on offer.
“Would you like to buy these crayfish? They are fresh and sweet.” One lady eagerly enquires.
“No, thanks,” I reply regretfully.
If only I have a portable cooker and wok, I would have bought them off her. The meat cannot get fresher than that; for the products they are selling have only been brought here by returning fishing trawlers this morning. While most of the fishermen have gone home, some are still in their boats. They are active, tidying up after their day’s catch or preparing for the next day’s expedition.
A busybody, I move to the next stall and listen with fascination as a man haggles with the vendor over the price of a “jin” (half a kilogram) of cutlets, which she has just sliced off the lifeless mackerel. Is he persuaded by her competitive price or by her beauty? He leaves with a plastic bag. His wife will be happy with the bargain. As I continue to inspect the items, my mind conjures up the variety of dishes on the dinner table of the inhabitants. But how do they cook the elvers or eels? Baked, fried, or steamed?
Trishaw to Haikou New Port (Haikou Xingang) to see ferry to Guangdong
坐在三轮车去海口新港, 要看到渡轮航行到广东
From Bell Tower, a motorized trishaw takes me for 5 RMB to Haikou New Port (Haikou Xingang), a kilometre off. I expect to see ships transporting passengers and motor vehicles to Hai’an and Zhanjiang on mainland China. The lady in her early forties deposits me at a deserted car park. There I stand, alone, and bewildered, and soon accosted by two shipping agents offering competitive tickets to Hai’an. I disappoint them when I say that I only want to see arriving and departing ships.
They laugh. “How can you see sailing ships if you are not on deck?”
“Isn’t there a gate where I can see the ships?” I sheepishly croak.
“No”
Are they pulling a fast one on me? I am skeptical. I walk to the entrance of the building. True, there is only a ticketing counter. A large arrival-and-departure time-table is attached to the wall. But the wharf and its berthed ships are hidden behind contiguous buildings. I walk out in dejection, and also feeling silly. They must think that I am crazy. Like train enthusiasts, I have a similar thrill when spotting steaming ships. Today, I am let down.
Catching a No. 21 bus back to the stop opposite the place where I first board a No. 21, I am vigilant for the intersection of Longhua with Longkun North Road. During the ride, a young lady in her twenties generously surrenders her seat to me. This is the first time I am given a seat by a lady. I am not only old; I must be looking old. Refusing to acknowledge the inevitable, I later heroically surrender the seat to a boarding lady and her nine-year old daughter. Judging from my accent, she identifies me as a Singaporean. Born in Guangdong, she has worked in Singapore for six years before residing in Hainan where her husband is now stationed.
Her English competency is as good as my Cantonese. I struggle to communicate with her in Mandarin. In response to her question, I tell her the location of my past residence in Singapore: Clementi. When I add that I am getting off at the intersection, she expresses her concern.
“How are you going to your hotel from here?”
“Pao qu (跑去; run there),” I blurt out when what I intend to say is “zou qu (走去; walk there)”, my mental dictionary failing me at the critical moment.
She is mystified. I swiftly gesticulate, “walking” my two right fingers across the palm of my left hand. She still returns an incredulous expression, which further embarrasses me. Other passengers are listening. Fortunately, I recognize my impending stop and hurriedly wish her well in her future. I wave goodbye to her cute daughter, who sweetly reciprocate. She is so adorable, so polite.
As it is fairly dark at six-thirty in the evening, I board a No. 16, which brings me back to Mingzhu Square plaza. Occupying two levels, the KFC (Kentucky Fried Chicken) restaurant is crowded, a sign that business is lucrative. In my queue, a couple and a family with a young boy have precedence. In the next queue are five adults and two children. Seated in separate tables are a man, two solitary ladies, a family with three kids, a lady with her seven-year old and eight-year old sons in school uniforms, and a Caucasian with a long, slender item, possibly a retractable window blind, by his side. For 30 RMB, I get two pieces of chicken, a small container of coleslaw, a cup of Coke, a hot bun, and a blueberry custard tart. The tart is crispy, yet soft like the famous Macau custard tarts.
Determined to see Evergreen Park and ships sailing from Haikou Port, I take bus No. 34 the following day, a Wednesday. I assume it will travel in a westerly direction to pass Longkun North Road, where I will alight to catch a connecting northbound bus; instead, it takes a circuitous route, turning right into Daying West Road and Datong Road on the left edge of Haikou Park. After a kilometre, Datong Road intersects with Longhua Road and Jiefang Road. At this intersection northwest of Haikou People’s Park is a bustling part of the city hub.
Three huge white statues repose in the middle of the traffic circle. Their presence astounds me. The first lady stands slightly inclined, with her left hand touching the outside of her left knee and her right hand buried among the long flowing hairs behind her head. The second is seated, her face imploring the heavens as her open palms, raised before her eyes, offer a dove of peace. And the third is resting care-free on her left side, her left hand supporting her left chin.
Except for their flowing garments, which shield their lower bodies, they are naked. Their small busts are taut, parted, and pointed. The upright lady, about three metres in height, has a broad masculine European face.
In the heart of Haikou is an astounding artistic composition
海口中心惊人的雕塑
My head turns with the moving bus. There is a small statue too: a little naked cherubic infant lying on his belly, his hands supporting his chin and legs bent backwards. That this set of captivating statues stands dignified in the heart of busy Haikou is unprecedented. Four decades earlier their creator and admirers would have been imprisoned for the “crime” of bourgeois decadence.
The Cultural Revolution from 1966 to 1976 was a traumatic period for all Chinese. As an exercise in liberation, symbols of the past and the West were ruthlessly destroyed. Western music was banned; religious relics and buildings were smashed. Even veterans of the famous Long March and stalwarts of the Communist Party like Deng Xiaoping, He Long, Liu Shaoqi, Luo Ruiqing, Peng Dehuai, and Peng Zhen were tarred who betrayed a minute of liberal thought. Fortunately, the Gang of Four led by Jiang Qing was deposed.
A modern Hainan is now rapidly emerging from the anti-western conservatism that restrained not so long ago. Three cheers to the artistic tolerance of Hainan!
Turning into Longhua Road, the bus heads southwestwards. After it slides under the overhead Longkun North Road, I drop off. The 1-RMB fare is more than reasonable.
Two Hainanese elderly ladies are selling a local dessert (Hainanese: yi puah), made by steaming the flour dough filled with grated coconut kernels, crushed peanuts, and brown sugar. The circular cake measuring ten centimetres in diameter and two centimetres in depth is held in shape by a specially-crafted patty holder of banana leaf, which imparts a fragrant flavour. It rouses my memory of those occasionally made by Mum when I was young. Tempted to taste one, I desist, the thought of a weak stomach deterring me.
People are crossing the road despite the red blinking traffic light, and small motor scooters are weaving their way around the buses, cars, and pedestrians. Bus No. 21 arrives. I hop onto it and insert my 1-RMB note into the collection box. Flashing through the bus’ overhead electronic board is its destination as well as the current external temperature: 21 degrees Celsius. If this is perpetual, I may retire in Haikou. A red bucket with black plastic liner is placed near the exit for litters. The passing streets are crowded. At the start of Mingzhu Road is Quoma Club. A huge statue stands out. Reaching Wanlu Park, I press the bell. Only near the intersection of Longkun North Road and Binhai Avenue does it stop. The China Construction Bank is a striking building with character.
Friendly Noodle Café seems like an imitation of a McDonald; the setting and furniture are similar, except for the food. A quick count reveals forty-nine patrons, mostly young executives in smart suits or dresses. Are they employees of neighbouring banks or hotels? Five waitresses are flying from table to table, removing empty trays or serving food to hungry patrons. Behind the counter, three waitresses attend to the constant flow of customers. Chicken Rice cost 15 RMB while a bowl of thick millet soup 3 RMB. The servings are so generous that I later return to have my early dinner: the Duck Rice costs 15 RMB and come, for an extra 3 RMB, with a plate of boiled lettuce and a bowl of soup laced with twirling strings of scrambled egg and seaweeds. The prices are inexpensive, and I am happy.
Wanlu Park and its flowering Bauhinia
万绿园, 紫荆花
As I walk into Wanlu Park, three professional photographers separately advance to offer their services. If only I have an inkling of my own photographic incompetence, I would have accepted their skill. Four young giggling girls in their mid-twenties are taking turns in photographing one another. Tight short skirts cling to their slim waists and hips. Their black and grey panty hoses barely conceal their well-toned legs. I am sorely eager to sneak a shot for remembrance. But cowardice strangles my aspiring creativity.
Two boys of about eighteen years of age engage the service of one photographer. They are elegantly attired in suits and pants. Their backdrop is the crowded lane of trees. A hundred metres to my left in the park is the printing stall. I decide to inspect its handiworks. A few clients are lingering at the counter, supervising the flow of sharp pictures on the computer screen.
Seated at the table behind the counter, the shop assistant is moving the cordless mouse with one hand and typing on the keyboard with the other. When they are satisfied with her photoshopped reproductions, she hits the print-button. The price for a small copy is 2 RMB, which is inexpensive. A young lady in her late twenties is taking a longer time with her selection in the next partition. I steal a glance at her. She is not pretty; neither is she ugly. Working on her keyboard, the second assistant is continuously calibrating the size and toning the colours on the screen. She is very patient with her customer. Business is poor with the holiday season being over.
Resonating music from a bamboo flute draws me towards a small shelter. Ever since I first heard the famous Twelve Girls Band from China, I have been enchanted by the sweet melody of the traditional dizi. With their effortless fingerings, flautists Liao Binqu and Sun Yuan unwittingly conveyed the impression that the dizi is an easy wind instrument to master. Wistfully, my investment of $300 in acquiring three fine pieces in different keys proved futile; I could not produce any note, much less melody. If I am lucky, I may receive some tips from the practitioner today, whoever he or she may be.
12 Girls Band (Liao Binqu blowing the hulusi and Sun Yuan the dizi from top left to right)
女子十二乐坊 (廖彬曲吹葫芦丝; 孙媛吹笛子)
A young man of about twenty-two years of age is standing, blowing his flute while reading the score sheets on the portable metallic music stand. The animated tune is difficult to execute. His finger movements are swift and supple. His face is gentle, pleasant, and shrunken; he is thin, and about my height. Is he on a diet? The second gentleman is slightly plump with a crew-cut. About twenty-four, he wears a red jacket, just like the ones favoured by fast-riding bikers. His bike should be parked nearby. I turn around. I cannot find any. He is the teacher. He patiently explains the finer points and the beats. At one point, he takes his student’s flute and transacts a section of melody in the desired pitch or speed, whichever, to demonstrate his point.
During their break, I speak to him and he hands me his name card, black embossed with his name in silver. Born in Hunan, Lu Wu (卢武) is a graduate of Hainan Normal University, and has been teaching dizi in Haikou for the past six years. He started learning the wind instrument when he was eight and has been practicing for more than sixteen years. Chen Ming comes from Henan. He is working in Hainan but takes up the dizi as a hobby. I explain the purpose of my Hainan visit.
Lu Wu, Hainan Normal University graduate, bamboo flute teacher
卢武, 海南师范大学毕业生, 笛子老师
At times my gibberish Mandarin perplexes Lu Wu, his incredulous look manifested when this garbled expression spills out of my mouth: “Ran hou wo qu Aodaliya, wo shi Aodaliya de ren”. Literally translated, it is: “After I had gone to Australia, I became an Australian person.” My intent is to say that I have taken up Australian citizenship after my migration to Australia. My effort in communication with the locals turns out to be a disaster. I feel deflated, and despondent. My dream of a dizi music career is in tatters. I should have known better; I should be contented just to sit and marvel at the ambidextrous hands of Liao and Sun on the television screen just as I sit and marvel at the flying fingers of my friend Simplicius Cheong lightly caressing the piano keys when he extemporized for a new commissioned composition in his home.
Renowned jazz pianist Simplicius Cheong in Rome, May 2016
著名爵士乐钢琴家Simplicius Cheong
As teacher and student resume their activities, two men and their wives stroll into the pavilion next to us. Between the late forties and fifties, they seem like Uighurs from Xinjiang. Their language appears to include some Malay words. The younger man puffs on a cigarette and its fume, straying in our direction, irritates my throat. I leave.
From the tree on my right, a wagtail descends onto the field twenty metres away. It is joined by a common pigeon. Another wagtail interrupts the pair. The two wagtails are constantly wagging their tails. About eighteen centimetres in length, they are also energetic; they are foraging for food. They jump and dash in short pursuit of some escaping insects, which I fail to visually detect.
Consulting an Australian bird book later, I gather that these wagtails are not identical to the Willie Wagtails frequently visiting my tiny backyard garden. Although they look very similar with their distinctive black and white colours, they do not belong to the same family. White Wagtails are members of the Motacillidae family while Willie Wagtails are members of the Rhipiduridae family. Both species, however, wag their tails, hence their apt name. Their tail-wagging behaviour remains a mystery. Its aim, some ornithologists propose, is to flush out their prey - insects such as beetles and flies and small invertebrates such as worms and snails.
My excitement increases when the dancing party is joined by a small beautiful bird, which I tentatively jot down on my notebook as a “robin”. A few seconds later, two other “robins” fly pass and perch on the tree. They are extremely shy. As I creep within twenty metres, they flee from tree to post. My effort to snap a clear photograph of them fails. All that I can capture with my handy digital camera is a distant, tantalisingly blurry appearance of a tricoloured bird perching on the end of a thin lightning conductor attached to the shop roof. With the exception of its black wings, a black band across its eyes, and its light-brown head, the rest of its body is painted with a distinctive reddish-brown colour. What bird is it?
What bird is it?
什么鸟呢？
Seeing three different species of birds at the same time in the same locality is a morning treat. These eighty-three hectares of parkland are a safe haven for rare birds, I say to myself. Opened in January 1996, it was the labour of love of Hainan residents. When the decision was taken three years earlier by the provincial authority to reclaim the sea, thousands of volunteers packed more than seven hundred thousand cubic metres of soil for the foundation of the land on which I am standing. As well as their year-long effort, their donation and donation of overseas Chinese, totalling ten million RMB, realised the construction and maintenance of this downtown retreat.
Intrigued by what I have witnessed, I subsequently visit two bookstores in Haikou. The employees there tell me that they are the biggest in Hainan. But they do not have any book on Hainan birds, they add. Apparently, none has been written on the subject. A helpful assistant in one store brings me to a shelf, and plucks out a paperback edition of Chinese Bird Photography. Written in Mandarin, it cost me 58 RMB; its images are small, averaging nine centimetres by six centimetres. The tricoloured bird is not in it. In desperation, I write to Professor Liang Wei (梁伟), whose name I have found on the internet.
Professor Liang Wei (梁伟), Hainan Normal University, expert ornithologist
梁伟, 生物学教授, 海南师范大学, 鸟类学专家
Thanks to the generous assistance of this Biology professor and expert ornithologist from Hainan Normal University, I receive an answer, not only to the identity of this bird but also to twenty others. The Long-tailed Shrike is one of the species in the Laniidae or shrike family found in Hainan. Within the species called “Lanius schach” are different “races” like Lanius schach bentet, Lanius schach caniceps, Lanius schach fuscatus, and Lanius schach tricolor. What I have observed is a Lanius schach erythronotus. The gift of a species name magically extends my ornithological knowledge, a knowledge inspired by my friend and former National University of Singapore colleague Ho Hua Chew.
Singapore environmentalist and ornithologist Dr Ho Hua Chew
新加坡环境学家和鸟类学家何和宙
A shy songbird, a Long-tailed Shrike is a deadly predator. Feeding chiefly on insects, it has been photographed impaling even small lizards and rodents on shrub thorns and fence spikes to tear them apart and extract morsels for its fledglings. Only about twenty-five centimetres in length, with its tail accounting about forty percent of it, it should be renamed as Long-tailed Impaler!
Frustrated with my inability to secure a good representation of the elusive bird, I continue my stroll on the grassy field among the neat rows of leafy trees. Since the coastline is hidden by these trees and bushes, a youth and his girlfriend, who are first-time visitors to the park, ask me in Mandarin for its direction. For a moment I am dumbstruck. Explaining that I am new, I whip out the map from my backpack and show them our position. The coast is just two hundred metres ahead.
Running adjacent to the beach is a fairly wide two-lane road. Since it is off the beaten trail, no cruising or parked cars are in sight. I cross. The elevated coastal walkway is clean; the beach below is interrupted by brown ancient rocks. The sand is coarse. Beyond the thirty or forty-metre width of rocky beach is a narrow strip of mud. Three ladies are scavenging for cockles or other shellfish. The one in green shirt and pale blue trouser is dragging a blue plastic container. Another in orange vest, with a purple jumper wrapped around her waist, is dragging a polystyrene-foam box. The third in green shirt and purple vest is dragging a blue plastic container. They are wearing straw hats. With their short shovels, they dig, picking up something and dropping it into their containers. It is a backbreaking job, one which I would have no propensity in participating.
Here I am, gazing at Qiongzhou Strait, which separates Hainan Island from the Chinese mainland. My mind once again drifts back to the early days, to a time when the island beckoned the Yue tribe and their descendants, the Li people, on Leizhou Peninsula. To these Guangdong natives, the uninhabited forested island enticed. They crossed; so did many others centuries later. The pristine green bushes, trees, plains, and hills suggested a name to the latecomers - Qiongzhou (Wade-Giles: Ch’iung-chou; Hainanese: Kheng Chiew, Heng Qiu)
“Qiong” (瓊; simplified: 琼) means “fine jade” while “zhou” (州) means “land” (or “prefecture”). Fine jade is green. “Fine Jade Land” became one of the earliest names for Hainan. Another was “Qiongya” (瓊崖), which means “Fine Jade Cliffs”. Cliffs abound along the northwestern Hainan coast. The prefix “Qiong” is beguiling.
Fine jade is expensive; it symbolises excellence. Thus, Hainan should be an excellent island for outsiders; yet, despite the relatively narrow Qiongzhou Strait, “China’s” interest in Qiongzhou emerged only about two thousand two hundred years ago. A historical retrospection clarifies this puzzle.
When we hear the term “China”, our instinctive conception is a vast tract stretching from Inner Mongolia in the north to Hainan Province in the south and from Taiwan in the east to Xinjiang in the west. That is, of course, part of China’s extant boundary. During the Ming dynasty (1368-1644), the country was smaller: about half of its present size. In antiquity, the term referred to yet an even smaller area: a fifth or less of its present size. In other words, huge contemporary China began life as a small struggling kingdom.
According to traditional historians, the word “China” is derived from “Chin”, the Wade-Giles’ romanised name for the dynasty established in 221 B.C. by a ruler who styled himself as “Qin Shi Huangdi” (“First Sovereign Qin Emperor”) and ruled until his death in 210 B.C. at the age of forty-nine. When thirteen-year old Ying Zheng became king upon his father’s demise in 246, the parameter of the Qin kingdom was short, limited to the region now known as Shaanxi Province. Five centuries earlier, his ancestral kingdom was even smaller, around Xi’an on the fertile loess near the confluence of Wei River and Huanghe (Yellow River). It had been in constant conflict with surrounding petty kingdoms and ethnic tribes.
First Sovereign Qin (Wade-Giles: Chin) Emperor
秦始皇帝
The young king’s ambition blossomed with his maturity. At thirty-eight years old in 221 B.C., he confidently embarked on the conquest and unification of the six eastern states. By the end of the following year, the border of Qin extended roughly from Beijing in the north to Nanjing in the south and from Nanjing in the east to eastern Gansu in the west. Its capital Xi’an was also the capital of preceding dynasties, including the Zhou dynasty that flourished around 1046 B.C. Thus began the imperial age of a united Qin people (“Qin ren”) or “China”, a “China” confined to the northern side of Yangzi River. The region south remained with non-Han tribes.
However, in 214 B.C., the landscape changed. His generals had captured the regions now known as Guangdong and Guangxi. Back then, these plains south of Nanling Ranges (南岭; Southern Mountain Ranges) were collectively described as Lingnan (岭南; Land south of the Mountains). In an instant, China ballooned in territorial extent. To prevent potential political chaos in his empire, the First Emperor had earlier abolished previous state boundaries, dividing his empire instead into thirty-six administrative “commanderies” (or “prefectures”). Each commandery was subdivided into districts, which were further divided into counties. With the incorporation of new territories, the emperor established the Nanhai (literally, South Sea) Commandery.
Hainan was, according to historical records, administered under the Qin as the Xiang Prefecture. This was the earliest time the island had come under the government of “China”. The First Emperor stocked his new territories with troops, prisoners, and political exiles. Thus began the slow but gradual migration of “Qin ren” or “Chinese” into southern China. Crossing the narrow Qiongzhou Strait, the few Chinese settlers became farmers, fishermen, and traders. Until then, very few Chinese had settled in Fine Jade Land (Qiongzhou), Fine Jade Cliffs (Qiongya), or Pearl Cliffs (珠崖; Zhuya), as the island was variously called. As late as the Ming dynasty, Hainan was termed as “Qiongzhou fu” (琼州府; Fine Jade Land Prefecture).
When the Qin dynasty crumbled in 206 B.C. as a result of the disastrous wars with Xiongnu horsemen, heavy casualties from the Great Wall construction, and corruption and despotism of its prime minister (who was regent to the First Emperor’s successor), peasant leader Liu Bang ably annihilated his rivals to establish the Han dynasty in northern China. Earlier in 204 B.C., the Qin military commander of Nanhai Commandery seized the opportunity to form his kingdom of Nanyue (Southern Yue). Controlling roughly Yunnan, Guangxi, the southern half of modern Guangdong, and the northern half of modern Vietnam, Zhao Tuo placed his capital at Panyu (named after the two mountains Pan and Yu at Guangzhou) on the northern tip of his empire.
Tomb of the Nanyue king at Guangzhou, Guangdong (2013 Guangdong trip)
南越王陵墓在广州，广东省（2013广东旅）
Liu Bang maintained cordial relations with Nanyue Kingdom. But after his death, relations between his successor and Zhao Tuo strained. It was only restored when Nanyue became a subject state of the Han after Liu Heng’s ascension to power in 179 B.C. In 113 B.C. King Zhao Xing sought a merger with the Han Empire; his prime minister Lu Jia rebelled, assassinating him and the Han ambassador. The following year angry Han emperor Wu dispatched a hundred thousand troops to successfully conquer Nanyue. By this time, the population of Nanyue contained more than six hundred thousand Han Chinese, including the five hundred thousand troops sent during the Qin rule.
Hainan Island came under the Han emperor’s strengthened control. A military garrison was set up in 110 B.C. A decade later, the island was divided into the Zhuya and Dan’er Prefectures, which were recombined in 46 B.C. into Zhulu County. Military security stimulated Chinese migration. Twenty-three thousand taxable Han households were recorded during the early Han period, distributed among sixteen towns along the northern and western coasts.
Some of the early Hainan administrators were greedy, imposing heavy taxes on the non-Han natives. The ensuing insurrections led to Chinese retreat to the small coastal strip closest to Guangdong. By the first century A.D., new military expeditions enforced peace in northern Hainan. As conditions improved, the population grew to more than a hundred thousand.
This number was minute compared to the total population in the empire: 59,594,978 people, or slightly more than twelve million households, according to a census conducted by the Han bureaucracy in 1 to 2 A.D. An interesting fact: up until the early fourth century A.D., the southern region, according to Arthur F. Wright (in his book Buddhism in Chinese History), “contained perhaps a tenth of the population of China.” If Wright’s estimation is accurate, the region south of Yangzi River probably had a population of only five or six million. The majority of people lived in the north because they could comfortably generate agricultural wealth from the fertile loess deposited by the annual flooding of the Yellow River. The southern regions were inhabited predominantly by non-Han ethnic tribes.
Following the ineffectual emperor’s abdication in 220 A.D., the Han Empire disintegrated initially into three kingdoms (best known as “The Three Kingdoms”) of Cao Wei, Shu Han, and Wu, which underwent further geographical re-shaping, until reunited in 589 A.D. by the incoming Sui dynasty. In Chinese history, this 370-year period is referred to as “The Six Dynasties” because only six consecutive dynasties are regarded as legitimate. They are: Cao Wei (220-265), Jin (265-420), Liu Song (420-479), Qi (479-502), Liang (502-557), and Chen (557-589).
Of all the contending dynasties, Wu, Jin, Liu Song, Qi, Liang, and Chen were based in Jiankang (modern Nanjing) on the southern bank of the Yangzi River mouth. (Confusingly for history students, the phrase “The Six Dynasties” is sometimes used by historians to denote these six dynasties that controlled south “China”.)
During the third century, the Wu and Shu kings led expeditions to re-conquer the seceding southern regions of Guangdong, Guangxi, and Yunnan. On Hainan Island, skirmishes between the Chinese and natives became frequent. In 246, the Wu ruler sent an army to subdue the Hainan natives but more than eighty percent of his troops perished. The Wu invaded again at the turn of the fourth century. The northern shores near Haikou were the most likely battlegrounds of these disruptive and gruesome wars. Qiongzhou Strait was a strait of deaths, a strait feared by many in antiquity, despite the enticing descriptions of the island facing the mainland.
Today, the Han Chinese constitutes about 84% of the Hainan population. The majority of them are Hainanese, those who speak the Hainanese dialect. Regarded as the standard version of spoken Hainanese, the Wenchang variant is used in local broadcast. Although indigenous and non-Chinese speakers, the Limgao (Ong-Be) people, who form 8%, are classified by the government also as Han Chinese. The other indigenous groups include the Miao at 0.7% and Zhuang at 0.6%. While some tracked from Guangxi, the province adjoining Guangdong, many of the Miao were brought in as mercenaries from Guizhou during the Ming administration.
A small pocket of Utsuls, who are listed as Hui, live near Sanya. They are Muslims, their community consisting of only around six thousand and five hundred people. Other religious groups are not much larger. Christianity is professed by about forty thousand residents while Buddhism by ninety thousand, miniscule in size relative to a population of 8.6 million.
Looking across the narrow and shallow strait, I strain my eyes to scan the green expanse of Leizhou Peninsula at the horizon. This part of Guangdong Province is nearest to Hainan. Alas, the translucent veil of fine mist stirred up by the cold north wind prevents my pleasure, the evaporating moisture of the warm water currents of Qiongzhou Strait coming from the Gulf of Tonkin on the west and South China Sea on the east being an ancillary cause of the fog. Can I discern the peninsula on a clear day?
The Gulf is the maritime link for trade and communication between Hainan and Vietnam, which lies three hundred kilometres west. Five hundred kilometres northeast is Hong Kong, only fifty minutes by air from Haikou.
As I contemplate the slow movements of the shell collectors, two elderly men overtake me. Incongruously, a cleaner, who places two black plastic bags of rubbish near the bins, is in smart black jacket. Bins in pairs are stationed strategically throughout Haikou, one for rubbish and the other for recyclables. I sneak a peep into some bins. Recycling is not widely practised. Rubbish is often left in recycling bins. I stroll on.
Two couples are beachcombing, checking out unusual shells or stones. One of the women is wearing a dark-brown jumper with a hood over her head. They may be tourists. To my right a family of six, including a child of about five, is playing on the field of well-manicured grass. Rain droplets lightly tickle the hairs on my head. They are too tiny to warrant the effort of unsheathing the umbrella from my backpack. A boy in bright-red jacket walks by, staring inquisitively as I scrawl on my notebook. The young couple who have previously sought directions are fossicking too.
Tall pine trees are bunched together on the roadside closest to the beach. On the other side is a file of coconut palms. Lamp posts are paced every thirty metres between the coconut palms. I am amazed at the symmetry of the park layout. As I strut, two nervous pigeons on the beach take flight.
Pigeons are usually very tame birds. Here, they have enough human encounters to wisely escape a fate as “Braised Pigeon” on some restaurant menus. A few mangrove saplings are sprouting near the bridge. They are between one and one and a half metres in height. Strangely, in front of them is a row of old burnt stumps. Was there a recent fire?
I balance on the short arched bridge, beholding the tall blocks of flats that are nearly ready for occupation. Some of their owners will enjoy an unhindered view of Wanlu Park; some will front a calm sea, silently counting the crossing ships. How I envy them.
Arched bridge and Guesthouse International Hotel (Renaissance City, Haikou)
桥和 (海口复兴城) 嘉宾国际酒店
Slightly more than a year later, during my third trip, I discover that these six-floor blocks actually belong to Guesthouse Hotel. A night in its most expensive room set the visitor back by 798 RMB while a night in its cheapest room by 308 RMB.
Senior Sales Manager Zhang Yu Xue (张余雪) kindly shows me around a 558-RMB room on the fourth floor. From the balcony, I gape at the vista, which a honeymooning couple would sedately relish while soaking in the spa tub near the balcony. At sixty square metres, this air-conditioned room is spacious; it has two separate beds facing the inbuilt television. The shower and toilet are enclosed within a transparent glass screen. The marble floor is partly carpeted. A table and sofa compliment the other amenities on offer.
Born in Haikou, petite Snowy, the name on her card, has worked a year and a half before joining the hotel. After thanking her, I stand some distance from the hotel entrance. To my left are two restaurants: Ding Pin Xian Restaurant and Haohuang Restaurant. Further left is a large duty-free shop undergoing renovation.
Guesthouse International Hotel Senior Sales Manager Snowy Zhang Yu Xue
高级销售经理张余雪
Peering down from a bridge at the river life is always a refreshing experience for me. Continuing my stroll, I am charmed by the fishing boats anchored near the river bank. Some are small, about two metres in length, capable of carrying two or three fishermen. Others are larger, about ten metres, capable of carrying more than fifty people. A flock of thirty common mynas are shrieking on the beach. I soon come across three coastal birds, which I later learn are Chinese pond herons. As they extend their wings to flutter off, their white wings are conspicuous. The back of their bodies is light-brown. I wish more of them are here, soaring freely and gracefully.
That serene scene may vanish as the locals become wealthier. Indulging in luxuries and finer things of life, they will speed in their tiny private yachts around Nandu Bay, leaving rippling foams behind them. Skiers will skilfully manoeuvre and twist their boards as they glide over the choppy surface; the lone water scooter will power to achieve the fastest record; and sport fishermen will toss their rod lines over the side of their anchored platforms. These are some of the memorable Sydney beach performances that will be replicated here in the future. Sadly for avid bird watchers, the shy herons will flee to a quieter, undisturbed haven.
Near the exit of the park is a small exhibition hall, which attracts a crowd. Curiosity gets the better of me. As admission is free, I wander in. Clothing and dried food are on sale at this seasonal trade fair. Three pairs of sock sell for 10 RMB ($2), which is also the deal offered by Haikou street stalls. A packet of home-dried shredded cuttlefish cost me 10 RMB. Unsure of its hygiene, I cautiously tasted a few strands. The meat is lightly saltish and sweet. It is tough, which is typical of the “oriental chewing gum”. Over the following few days, I sample a few strings nightly, rueing not buying more.
My unrushed park trip takes more than four hours, giving me a feel of my ancestral land. Since I like the inexpensive, yet nutritious, food at Friendly Noodle Café, I return for a quick early dinner. Almost five in the evening, the day is becoming dark for me to travel to nearby Haikou Port.
On my return journey, Bus No. 21 is full. After a few stops, I drop off at Mingzhu Road to catch a connecting bus. The first two No. 34 buses are packed like cans of sardines. Some impatient adults rush to pay the conductor at the entrance and scamper to board through the exit door. When the third No. 34 arrives, I join the leftovers. I am standing precariously on the exit steps. Fortunately, the doors are shut before the bus moves off. As they open at each stop, I excitedly dismount to make way for exiting passengers. I dread however to live this way every day.
Peddlers are displaying their wares along the walkway in front of Mingzhu Square. Since street vending is illegal, they adopt creative tactics in evading police seizures. Some spread their products on a square piece of durable cloth while others on light, foldable plastic tables. Alert to the slightest signal of “trouble”, they will seize the four corners of their cloths or shut the portable tables, thus securing their property for a timely escape. The common items for sale are belts, clothing, cosmetic jewellery, watches, and pirated DVDs. Three Tibetans are selling Tibetan curios like Buddhist amulet, bracelets, and rings. Most people are just browsing, not buying.
Amidst the glittering lights of stalls and shopping centres, young touts are distributing advertisements listing available internal tours. Carrying a haversack, I stand out like a sore thumb. I receive a cluster of them. Their prices are roughly identical that one is hard-pressed to make a choice. At the corner of Nanbao Road, four or five ladies are handing out name cards.
One propositions me as I walk towards that narrow street. She is a pretty woman, around forty years of age. Her face is round and unblemished, and she has a friendly, charming smile. She comes close to me, so close that our shoulders lightly touch as we walk, not from my initiative but hers. Tenderly stroking downwards my right upper arm, she softly whispers in a mainland accent, as I weakly resist the seduction.
“Do you want young girls?” she asks. “Very pretty,” she adds.
“No thanks.” My gentle submission is all too unconvincing.
“Eighteen years old. Or what age do you want? Twenty – also have.”
“No thanks. My wife is around.” I try warding off the advance with this answer, thinking that it will stop her from following me. But the shrewd lady does not fail to persist.
“Next time then.” Handing me a name card, she points to her telephone number and urges me to call her.
Feigning to scrutinise the card, I attempt to decline, stammering, “I don’t know how to read Mandarin.”
Sweetly, with one hand, she lightly holds the trembling fingers that are clinging on to the little card. With the index finger of her other hand on the name, she says with a smile, “Shi Xiao Mei”.
“That’s my name. Call me.”
How many men have “fallen” - for and under her cultivated charm? I shudder on reflection. I could have been also bewitched. I later flip through my pocket dictionary to determine the name of her business. She is the owner of “Shencai Xiuxian Zhongxin”, which I translate as “Divine Energy Leisure Centre”.
Shi Xiao Mei's name card (which seems to have a wrong “Mei” Chinese character)
石小抺 神彩休闲中心
Within the area bound by Haixiu East Road, Daying Street, Daying Road, and Wuzhishan Road are the back lanes of shopping centres. They are alive from dawn until midnight. Hawkers are offering cooked food, fresh fruits, clothing, and kitchenware. A custard apple about the size of my two tightly clasped hands costs me 22 RMB. At 17 RMB a jin (half a kilogram), I have paid too much to the fifty-year old plump Hainanese lady, who remains disinterested and unmoved on her plastic stool.
Her neighbour is an eager salesman, moving from tray to tray and cutting segments for me to try. The thin, dark man from inland Chengmai speaks Hainanese with an accent that is incomprehensible to me. My pidgin Mandarin works.
“No need to try,” I say.
“Just try. Don’t worry. No need to buy if you don’t like.”
How can I resist his smiles and pitch? Fruits here are so cheap that one or two taken for sampling will not cripple his business. Looking like a green apricot, the small fruit is unfamiliar to me. Its firm flesh tastes like a cross between a pear and a ripe apricot. Crunchy and slightly sweet, I later hear that it is a variety of plum (“li zi”). A kilogram cost 8 RMB. Rambutans sell at 20 RMB ($4) a kilogram, which is the price in Singapore. Succulent and juicy, the twenty-five or so hairy appetisers are gone that very night. I resolve to patronise his stall.
Vendors at the wet market are a paragon of diligence. They are still at work until around nine at night when they start packing their trays of fish and shell fish, slabs of beef, mutton, and pork, and assortments of vegetables. In the polystyrene box of seawater, the eight-centimetre prawns are kicking their way around. Fresh air is pumped through very thin tubes into the water to sustain them. Now and again, one leaps out in a futile bid to escape. The middle-aged fishmonger carefully retrieves it from the paved floor. Small abalones in shells are on sale too.
Only large kitchen knives are stocked in two sundry shops on their brackets; they are slightly too large for my transitory needs. A set of six pocket-sized packets of perfumed facial tissue cost 5 RMB, bargained down from 6 RMB.
A roadside hawker’s porcelain cups and saucers are selling well. Two small porcelain teaspoons arrest my attention since my hotel does not provide spoons. I pay him the 3 RMB. A small foldable pocket knife cost 5 RMB. I need it for cutting fruits. Although exhausting, my day has been satisfying.
Some more photos
Lin'gao eroded cliff
临高侵蚀了悬崖
Copyright
Page 41-60
Rambling around my ancestral Hainan