Copyright 2015

  Rambling around my ancestral Hainan

Page 444 - 462,

Tianxin Paddy Field,

Modern Century Bridge

Tianxin Paddy Field, rice and egrets

 

Egrets swooping gracefully on the paddy fields of Tianxin are enticingly illustrated in the colourful tourist brochure I am holding.  Flipping through it, I am easily persuaded.  To make a trip to a remote agricultural village will be a variation to my usual destinations of historical sites and imposing landscape.  Thus, after an early lunch, I board a No. 41 bus from Wuzhishan Road bound for Haikou East Station at Haifu Road, where I hope to take a coach to Sanmenpo, which is the nearest town to the rice fields.  The helpful lady at the station’s ticket counter gives me the correct instruction in Mandarin: go to the road across Wugong Temple.  She is referring to Hongchenghu Road.  

This I, unfortunately, do not comprehend at the time.  If I have understood, I would have arrived at my destination much earlier; instead, I head for the bus stop outside the station, where two motor cyclists seek my patronage.  One offers to take me to Hongchenghu Road.  I should have listened to him.  But he looks scruffy.  The other looks like a gentleman.  For 5 RMB, he will take me to Guoxing Avenue.  There, he says, I can catch a bus to my destination.  I accept his offer.

Gentleman comes from Hebei or Hubei.  I cannot clearly hear the name of his province because of the wind and traffic din as we weave our way on his spluttering bike.  He has been in Hainan for seven years, working in this job.  He lacks local knowledge.  I am thus temporarily stranded at Guoxing Avenue.  After asking a few persons at the bus stop, he recommends taking a bus to Lingshan town and changing to another bus from there.  Bus No. 43 appears.  Its fare is 2 RMB.  It travels east along Guoxing Avenue and Baiju Avenue and joins Qiongshan Avenue, finally turning south to Lingshan town, where I drop off along, I believe, Qiongwen Avenue.

“Divine Mountain” town is a small suburban town slightly more than three kilometres northwest of Meilan International Airport.  Its road is dusty, and there are only a few stalls.  A shop proprietor points the direction to the road for buses going to Sanmenpo.  I walk pass three students - two girls and a boy - sitting around a table for their lunch. 

They hail me, calling “Da Shu” (“Uncle”).  I turn and greet them.  They politely ask my country of origin and my destination.  It must be rare for overseas Chinese to show up here.  They are curious.  In hesitating and flawed Mandarin, I explain my travel plan around the island, an itinerary which one girl innocently feels is incredulous.

“Isn’t your family worried that you are travelling all over Hainan alone?”

They are in Year 10 from a secondary school nearby.  Although Hainanese, they cannot speak a single word of Hainanese.  The new generation of Hainanese, I fear, is brought up solely in Mandarin by their parents.  The young girl aspires to pursue her pre-university education in Singapore, excited by her friends’ anecdotes about bustling Orchard Road and its variety of stores and their dazzling display of fashion stuff.  She is correct.  It is the premier shopping district.  Her ambition is admirable; even a teenager from Hainan suburbia is attracted to the “little red dot” totalling less than seven hundred square kilometres in size.  In my haste to reach Paddy Field Village, I regret not getting their names and contact details.  

Zhongxin Street is around the corner.  Covered with a thick layer of dust and soil, this narrow street is crowded with stalls on both shoulders.  It is a “No-through” street; one end is blocked with portable low fences.  A stall is selling only books, probably novels.  That it is financially viable suggests the folks of this little town are avid readers.  I am further impressed.  Green coconuts and water melons are plentiful; so too are the different types of fruits like mangoes and even grapes piled in polystyrene foam boxes.  With so many sellers, it is a buyer’s paradise.

Crossing a bridge over the main road “G223”, the name splashed on the huge blue traffic signboard, I wait at the bus stand, reassured by a gentleman that it is the correct spot.  223 National Road is the same road that the Sanmenpo-Haikou bus will take during my return journey.  It is a broad six-lane road.  Some passengers are also boarding the blue numberless bus, which has two terminals - 海口 (Haikou) and 大坡镇 (Dapozhen) - painted on the upper part of its windscreen.  Some of the intermediate destinations are written on a removable cardboard at the driver’s dashboard.  Sanmenpo (三门坡; Three-Gate Slope) is one of the listed destinations.  The fare to Sanmenpo is 8 RMB.  

Asian Retirement Homes is along the way.  I am puzzled.  Do Hainanese oldies not have ancestral villas to retire to?  Or are modern kids from single-child families dispatching their peasant parents to private dwellings like this one because they now reside in distant cities of their employment?  These perplexing questions constantly recur in my thought throughout the long journey.  The bus passes through remote villages and forests.  I do not want to miss my destination.  Approaching each village, I repeat, “Is this Sanmenpo?”  

“No.  We haven’t reach Sanmenpo yet.  It will be coming soon.”  The conductress is extremely patient.  

Sanmenpo is a small village town.  This stretch of 223 National Road is covered with a thin, uniform layer of mud that blurs the white road lines.  Is this silt left by a recent flood?  Because of the vehicles parked by the kerbs, the four-lane road has been reduced to two-lane.  I do not see any trishaw for hire.  In many towns, a few would be lingering around.  Four or five adult and elderly men are on their motorbikes.  Holding the hands of her two daughters and a plastic bag of groceries, a woman in her early thirties is crossing the road.

  Not knowing the direction, I feel lost.  When asked, the driver sitting in his small truck parked by a side road indicates the direction behind him, the wrong direction from my sketch.  Fortunately, he then points to a gentleman on his motorcycle.

“Do you know the way to Tianxin where I can see egrets (lu niao)?” 

He sure does, and quotes me 30 RMB.  Thus, I hop onto his motorcycle, which veers to the opposite side-road.  I am glad to have found a right person to guide me to the white egrets’ feeding fields.  After fifteen minutes, we approach a big tourist sign at the entrance to a small sandy lane that is wide for only one car.  Yes, this is the right destination.  The large characters for “field” (田; tian) and “heart” (心; xin) are recognisable.  The other characters 琼山区文明生态村 (Qiongshan qu wen ming sheng tai cun) stand for “Qiongshan District’s Culture and Ecology Village”.  Another sign states the distance: two kilometres. 

Along the narrow concrete road through farms and orchards are also some plantations of rubber trees, which have these two distinctive features: their barks are incised diagonally, and fist-size collection cups are tied below the wounds to collect oozing sap.  Hevea brasiliensis were once deemed incapable of thriving in regions ten degrees above the equator.  Since Hainan is fifteen degrees above, the prospect of successful rubber cultivation is daunting. 

In 1950, only two thousand hectares of land were devoted to rubber plantation.  When the 1958-1959 Great Leap Forward campaign created widespread agricultural disaster in mainland China, many soldiers and their families relocated to Hainan, which offered a slightly better alternative.  Between 1959 and 1962, some three hundred thousand came to start new rubber plantations.  Nineteen-sixty was the worst year throughout China.  

From the mid-nineteen-sixties, which saw the inception of the Cultural Revolution, many Red Guards voluntarily came or were delegated to Hainan for “work experience”.  Ignorant of environmental conditions, they cleared vast tracts of forest and planted seedlings on steep slopes where insufficient water supply stunted growth.  As rubber saplings may only be tapped seven years later, the neglected and unprotected plants were often damaged or eaten by buffaloes and wild deer.  When they did mature, the over-planted trees were over-tapped.  The novice farmers’ inexperience led to considerable soil erosion.  

Statistics suggest the hardship and deep disappointment of both new arrivals and local inhabitants.  While many returned to the mainland, many others immigrated to other countries, especially Southeast Asia.  Between 1961 and 1964, more than four hundred and sixty-three thousand mainlanders came but more than five hundred and ninety-seven thousand left.  In 1962 alone, the net outflow was fifty-eight thousand six hundred and thirteen people.  Those who remained sunk root through marriage.

Later success in rubber cultivation could be attributed in part to the valuable research done by the Institute of Tropical Plants (now South China Research Academy of Tropical Plants).  In 1958, the institute was shifted from Guangzhou to Hainan.  With it came Huang Zongdao, who was appointed as its president as well as president of South China College of Tropical Plants in Danzhou.  The annual chill and typhoon, which destroyed thousands of hectares of weak rubber saplings, also revealed the hardier strain.  Under his guidance, fallen but living trees were replanted.  Protected on all sides with windbreakers, the trees now thriving in many peasants’ small holdings are progenies of these durable parent stocks.  

Rubber cultivation occupied two hundred and sixty-five thousand hectares of Hainan in 1984, increasing by 1992 to three hundred and seventy-four thousand and two hundred hectares (which was much higher than the total of two hundred and forty-one thousand and eight hundred hectares in Yunnan and Guangdong).  Of the forty-three rubber-producing countries in 1992, China had the fourth largest number of rubber cultivation acreage, making it the fourth largest global producer of natural rubber, with more than half of its production coming from Hainan.  From the effort of at least a million cultivators in China, national production stood at six hundred and eight-seven thousand tons in 2010 (with Hainan contributing seventy percent), up slightly from the six hundred and twenty thousand tons in 2007.  However, the country’s consumption increased drastically to 3.5 million tons in 2010 from about 2.35 million tonnes in 2007.  

Like coconut palms, rubber trees are ubiquitous in Hainan.  Plantations can be found virtually in every county, for instance, Chengmai, Ding’an, and Qiongshan in the north, Ledong and Sanya in the south, Qionghai in the east, Changjiang and Danzhou in the west, and Qiongzhong in the centre.  The reward is attractive: the raw rubber from each tree may sell for between 20,000 RMB (US$2,930) and 25,000 RMB (US$3,660) per ton while the wood may sell for 200 RMB (US$29).  

Together with land clearing, rising price of raw rubber has serious, sometimes disastrous, impact on the rainforests and their variety of wildlife.  For instance, in Xishuangbanna Autonomous Prefecture of Yunnan Province, one hundred and fifty thousand hectares of rainforest were removed annually for rubber cultivation so much so that almost all the low-lying forest had disappeared.  By 2003, only about fifty percent of the forest was left, down from the seventy percent in the early nineteen-seventies.

Constituting about 11.6% of the total forest coverage on Hainan, rubber plantations absorbed about 11.45% of the annual rainfall (compared to the runoff of 23.71% and evaporation and transpiration of 63.24%, and soil moisture storage of 1.6%).  Studies show that, although they are artificial vegetation, the rubber plantations in Hainan perform similar functions to the tropical rainforest.

About three metres in height, the mango trees in one orchard are packed in close rows.  The fruits on their overhanging branches that almost touch the ground are large, and their skins are purplish-green.  They are perhaps ready for harvesting.  In another orchard, a few tall areca palms tower over the other fruit trees.  In others, fruit trees like plum are also bearing fruits.

We then surge by a small plot of about nine hundred square metres.  The young green bromeliads have not yet sprouted their familiar crowns, the yellow pineapples.   Pepper vines are entwined around long stakes.  The assortment of fruits available in this agricultural area is amazing; the soil is adaptable to many kinds of plants, especially in the annual sub-tropical temperature of between twenty-two and twenty-six degrees Celsius.

We stop briefly at the reservoir on our left.  Standing on the narrow levee lane, passable by one car and a trishaw at the same time, I see three specialty farms close to one another on the low-lying plain below.  On my extreme left is a large plot of areca palms with their characteristic fronds.  On my immediate left is a plot of pepper vines, which dress their wooden stakes.  And in front of me is a large banana plantation about a hundred metres in length and also in breadth.

From a rough count of the few plants on the nearest edge, I estimate a grove of more than a thousand plants.  The blue vinyl bags, each hiding a bunch of ripening fruits within, protect them from inquisitive birds.  Very soon they will be ready for sale in the local market.  The locals are not poor; they can be self-sufficient.

Three hundred metres away are the paddy fields that I have come to inspect.  Overlooking them on slightly higher ground is a large rectangular modern brick building with grey walls.  The large golden characters on its wall manifest its general purpose: 生态农庄    鹭鸟天堂 (Shengtai Nongzhuang   Lu Niao Tiantang; Ecological Farm   Egrets’ Paradise).  Uncharacteristically, I do not investigate its interior.  Perhaps government offices are housed in there. 

In the middle of its flat roof is a smaller building, a restaurant perhaps, which has a brown-tiled straight-inclined Chinese roof.  But part of that roof is also flat and is surrounded by a safety railing.  On this roof, a Chinese state flag is flapping with the slight breeze.  Visitors, I suppose, could stand on either of the two roofs for a wider perspective of the surrounding countryside.  I am not interested in going up there; I want to get close to the egrets.

Motorcyclist skilfully controls his bike along the compact mud bund, which is just wide enough for walking.  On my immediate right are two ponds and on my left are rice fields.  Like circular umbrella shades, buoyant lotus leaves almost cover the surface of the two ponds.  The pinkish flower buds are about to blossom.  A couple have opened, revealing their glorious petals so majestically painted by Chinese artists through the centuries.  As the noise of the motorcycle engine reaches the bank of the pond, a water bird flies off.  It is too late for me to snap a picture.  Moving another ten metres, we see a second yellow bittern taking flight.  The pond and its bank of reeds is obviously their nesting or feeding site.  I got off the bike.  But, unfortunately, no other bitterns are around.  I am disappointed.

A few white egrets and Chinese Pond Herons are feeding near the ox that is tied to a stake in a field about a hundred metres to our left.  Walking ahead of us, a solitary farmer is leading his ox from the nearest field to another.  My rider asks him if there are many birds here.

“They are usually in the fields during the early mornings,” he nonchalantly replies, an answer which he has probably repeated ad nauseum to hundreds or even thousands of visitors over the years.

Sprouting from grains inadvertently scattered by the wind, green rice seedlings hold and stabilise the mud of the narrow bunds.  Cautiously, I balance on one soft bund, which is slightly wet, stepping slowly and awkwardly like a trapeze clown towards the flock of egrets and herons. 

The seedlings in the fields on my left and right are about fifteen centimetres (the distance between my extended thumb and middle finger) in height.  Like lawn grass, they clump together, which is the reason for separating and transplanting them into another field during a later stage of their growth.  Like lawn grass, rice seedling is also a “grass”; for both belong to the Poaceace (also known as Gramineae) family.

Rice cultivation is believed to have originated some eight thousand years back in southern China.  It is labour-intensive because transplantation is traditionally done by hand.

On my approach, the territorial grazing ox turns aggressive, snorting and then lunging furiously at me.  Fortunately, he is being restrained by his short rope. 

Startled, the egrets and herons flee to the far side of the field, where a farmer’s house stands, guarded by a sentry of white ducks which, presumably, the farmer rears for personal consumption or for sale.  Are the fields here collectively owned by the families living in the nearby houses?  Or are they owned by a single family.  That is an interesting question, which I do not have an opportunity to resolve. 

Although I missed the morning activities of egrets and herons, I have witnessed enough to satiate my curiosity.  (During my fourth Hainan trip, I make a fluke decision of visiting the easily accessible Bailu Park in Sanya, where I am richly rewarded with scenes of nesting white egrets taking off, gliding gracefully, and spectacularly diving to the delight of visitors at the East Gate.)

Paddy fields are scattered throughout the island, including the central highlands where terraces have been constructed to trap the rain needed for the water-hungry seedlings.  These seedlings also require a temperature of at least ten degrees Celsius for growth and twenty-two degrees for flowers to survive.  A cold snap may stunt the development of germinating grains and buds, or damage the flowers, while a severe period of drought during the growing season may destroy the entire crop.  Because of their warm climate and heavy rainfall, Southeast Asian countries and China, especially its southern regions, are well suited for rice cultivation, making them the major rice-producing countries in the world. 

In China, planting areas total 31.2 million hectares, much of which - over 85% (or 27.3 million hectares) - is in southern China.  The country produced almost one hundred and ninety-six million tons of rice in 2010, feeding over half its population.  Rice is, of course, the staple food of the Hainanese and other southern provincial people.  In Hainan itself, sixty-four thousand rice farmers produced 1,459,250 tons of rice in 2010 on 317,720 hectares of land devoted to rice cultivation.  In brief, the island produces less than one percent of the national output on one percent of total rice-cultivation land.  

Almost one hundred percent of the rice sown in Hainan is from hybrid varieties.  With hybrid strains, two crops can be propagated annually in Hainan and other warmer southeastern Chinese provinces like Guangdong and Guangxi.  The growing seasons are from March to July and June to November.  From recent discoveries, hybrids with even higher yields may take only about four months to mature, thus permitting three crops a year.  In fact, three annual harvests had been recorded in southern China over one thousand five hundred years ago.  However, in cooler regions like Yangtze River Valley, only one crop can be cultivated annually.  The seeds are sown in spring between April and June, and reaped in autumn between August and October.

On our way out, the driver stops at the reservoir again because of the presence of some birds.  Two birds that resemble ducks are floating on the water, darting beneath the surface now and again for fish.  Professor Liang Wei identifies them as Little Grebes (Tachybaptus ruficollis).  They belong to the grebe family of Podicipedidae, which has twenty-one other species like the Great Grebe, the Least Grebe, Black-necked Grebe, the Pied-billed Grebe, and the Australasian Grebe. 

There are nine sub-species of Little Grebes.  The sub-species Tachybaptus ruficollis poggei is resident in Hainan, eastern Asia, Taiwan, and Japan.  They nest among the bushes or reeds near the edges of lakes and large ponds, where they can rapidly escape from predators.  They are excellent divers and hunters.  Unlike ducks, they camouflage their bodies by swimming partially or fully submerged, leaving their necks and heads exposed.  They take short flights because of their small wings.  Like ducks, they have pointed bills.  They average about twenty-five centimetres in length.  The reservoir is obviously rich with aquatic plants and fish to attract these grebes.

Driver kindly drops me off at the place where I have earlier met him.  Nearby is parked an unnumbered bus, which leaves at the scheduled time, taking me to the bus stop opposite Wugong Temple.  If only I had known, I could have taken that bus directly to Sanmenpo!  I later note that I can take a self-guided tour if I drop at Dapo town (大坡镇; Dapozhen) and walk a kilometre northwest along a country lane to Tianxin Village.

 

Modern Century Bridge and Hainan University

 

Century Bridge (世纪桥; Shiji Qiao) is new and modern, which makes me more determined to walk over and enjoy the view of the sea from its height.  After the mishap of taking the wrong bus, the No. 13, which proceeds along an unexpected direction, I alight and hail a motorcycle to Longkun North Road, where I wait impatiently for forty-five minutes for the elusive No. 23.  Perhaps it does not run on a Saturday?

In extreme frustration, I desperately wave down an approaching bus, without even looking at its number.  I should be happy as long as it brings me to Changdi Road, where I could hop onto an east-bound bus.  Fortunately the “mystery” bus turns towards my desired direction, and I get off as soon as it passes the bridge.

Museum of Contemporary Art Haikou is, according to an old map, located to the immediate right of Binhai Park.  I eagerly head towards it, anticipating the joy of ogling the works of contemporary Chinese and Hainanese artists.  I have earlier read that one of Wang Guangyi’s paintings was sold at a 2007 auction for a staggering $4.1 million, four times the pre-auction estimate. 

Born in 1957, this native of Heilongjiang is the leader of the New Art Movement, which emerged after the Tiananmen incident.  His life is an inspiration.  After working for three years in a village during the Cultural Revolution, he succeeded to his father’s railway-worker position, and finally managed to enrol in a fine art academy.  His gruelling years of poverty and hunger were rewarded. 

Perhaps a painting or two of his may be exhibited here.  Or perhaps I can even see his controversial 1988 painting “Mao Ao”.

Alas, the museum has been closed for some time, a passerby with a perplexed look informs me.  I am dejected.  The gate is unmanned.  I enter.  At least, I can wander around the deserted treasury and, if I am lucky, retrieve a forgotten masterpiece inadvertently left behind by the packers or removalists, I console myself.  

Yes, there is indeed one, a piece of contemporary art - a giant caterpillar made of rubber tyres.  Thirteen discarded motor-vehicle tyres painted in green constitute its body, which balances on twelve pairs of light-blue iron-pipe legs.  Protecting its feet are non-matching used shoes.  Without shoe, one leg is raised like a hand, greeting visitors with a “Hello”.  Its face is another green tyre while its nose and eyes are other abandoned car parts. 

I am excited.  I have actually discovered a goldmine worth a million dollars, or more!  But I cannot take it home with me.  It is too large.  Briskly, I look around for a smaller souvenir, an objet d’art that I can easily spirit away.

On the wall nearby is painted a piece of contemporary art.  Obviously, I cannot chisel it away.  Above this wall are three other pieces painted on the window panes.  Now, those I can carry, I silently gasp.  It is a miracle that no one has stolen them.  My avarice stirring, I look at them closely: up, down, left, and right.  How can I remove the panes from their frames? 

Greed almost overcomes me but fear of imprisonment wisely checkmates.  Perhaps they are not art after all?  I say to myself.   Perhaps they are mere graffiti?  Ah, is this a case of “sour grapes” on my part?

Besides contemporary art, has the now-defunct museum also housed other forms like photography, oil paintings, and sculptures?  I had missed the grand opportunity; I could have stayed for hours and stared at all the beautiful works on display because of the breathtaking extent of artistic talent in China and Hainan.  

Three boys and a girl are laughing and shouting in the shallow pool, which was once an open-air amphitheatre but now flooded with rain water that reaches to their knees.  With bottles in their hands, they are chasing after black tadpoles and small fishes.  About ten centimetres long, the fish were probably the disinherited pets of tired disinterested kids.  I wish I am still as carefree as these innocent children. 

Many birds find solace among the shady trees in the large and quiet park within the museum perimeter.  What are they?  I ask myself.  They are Long-tailed Shrike and White-rumped Munia, Liang Wei identifies.  Belonging to the family of Estrildadae (“finches”), the White-rumped Munia (Lonchura striata) is a common resident in southern China, South Asia, and Southeast Asia.  It feeds mainly on seeds.  This small passerine resembles true finches (which belong to the family of Fringillidae) and sparrows (which belong to the family of Passeridae) in shape and size, being their close relative.  

Standing separately along the concrete path that embraces the large lake, some anglers are motionless, their hands vigilantly on their long fishing rods to feel and reel the biting prey.  A stroll here, meditating on its calm water, should be refreshing.  But time is short; for beyond this lake is Century Bridge, the bridge I intend to cross.  I reluctantly make my exit to the main road.  

Much to my disappointment, the bridge is inaccessible to pedestrians because it has no walkway.  The road under the flyover is paraded with neat rows of young banyans, their countless curly aerial roots swaying with the light breeze.  Their trunks are thin.  Although only three metres in height, they will, over time, mushroom into magnificent huge trees with crowning canopies.  The narrow parkland nearby is dense with evergreen tropical trees belonging to the leguminosae family.  At this time of the year, their attractive bright-yellow flowers are in constant bloom.  Brown dehydrated seed pods are dangling from the thin branches. 

A White-Eye (Zosterops japonicas hainanus) lands on a branch.  But she is partially hidden from sight.  Hopping from branch to branch, she is searching for her morning meal, probably an insect.  Her diet consists of nectar, insects, and worms.  White-eyes are also my favourite bird.  Contrary to their name, their tiny eyes are black but surrounded by a ring of white feathers.  Their breasts are white while their backs and wings are olive-green with shades of grey.  Only about eight centimetres in length, they are cute, just like small fluffy toys hanging over a baby’s crib.  A bulbul also lands on another branch.  Tiny insects are buzzing. 

Amidst the constant flow of traffic, a cab approaches.  I wave my hand.  Accepting my destination, he turns into the road leading to Century Bridge.  Before me is one of the most spectacular infrastructures on the island, a sharp contrast to the several old surrounding buildings.  Completed in 2003 at a cost of six hundred and sixty million RMB (US$80 million), the 2,683-metre long and 29.8-metre wide cable-stayed bridge connects Haikou downtown with Haidian Island.  The bridge has six lanes, three for each direction.  It is a bridge for heavy vehicles only; yet I see motorized trishaws and motorcycles puffing up the incline, oblivious to the prohibition. 

Several cars and trucks swiftly roll in both directions, overtaking them.  For a Saturday afternoon, the highway is not crowded.  I expect traffic congestion.  The structure of Century Bridge is similar to the structures of bridges that are under construction in other regions of China.  I catch glimpses of the river below.  A few small barges and boats are anchored by the muddy bank; a few more are slowly moving.  These coastal cargo vessels are probably fifty metres in length.  After crossing the bridge, the Hainanese driver, at my request, reverses and re-crosses it before routing to Hainan University.  To allay any arising fear in his mind of my sanity, or insanity, I allude to a photographic passion for bridges.  The taxi fare is 26 RMB, a cheap price for a wonderful experience. 

At the Haidian Wuxi Road entrance of Hainan University, I enquire about the location of the Zhao Ding statute.  Again, I am in despair.  The few students have not heard of him.  A pleasant-looking young student is on his way out.  I approach him.  Like the others, he has also not heard of it.  Will I be let down again?  No.  Taking out his mobile phone, he calls his friend.  The statue of Zhao Ding is at the College of Tourism.  He offers to guide me there.  Even though I am hesitant in imposing upon him because he is going on an errand, I readily accept his offer.  Along the way, Shi Wen Jun (施文俊) tells me about his hometown in Jiangsu Province.  Changzhou was a port along the Grand Canal built by the Sui emperors at the start of the seventh century.  From Beijing in the north, the canal winds southwards and ends in Hangzhou, cutting across the low-lying coastal province of Jiangsu.

Wen Jun is reading third-year English.  I explain my purpose.  After ten or fifteen minutes of walking, we reach the huge square in front of the college.  I am surprised.  Partially hidden behind some tall hedges is not only the statue of Zhao Ding but also the statues of other historical figures.  These slightly greyish granite pieces are spaced in a straight row in front of the college building.   I have come to see a statue but I am rewarded with six.  I am breathless.  In my excitement, I almost forget my etiquette.  I recover my senses and invite Wen Jun for a drink. 

Nearby is the Students’ Union café.  It is a simple, yet elegant coffee house.  The tablecloth with white, light-brown, and brown checks is tasteful, matched by drapes with light-brown flowers against a brown background.  The air-conditioning is on, cooling my body from the slightly warm day.  Two tables are occupied.  

“Would you like to have a pizza?”  I ask after we have chosen our drinks from the menu.  I am surprised that the café also serves it.

“No thanks.  I am still full.” 

Wen Jun’s parents are in their forties, still residing in their hometown.  He springs from a middle-class family, his father being a building project engineer.  Like most Chinese families, he is the only child.  He enlightens me on the cities near his town, cities like Nanjing, Suzhou, and Wuxi.  Suzhou is world-renowned for its delicate silk products like clothes and, naturally, the beautiful ladies.  Prior to emperor Yongle’s construction of Beijing imperial palace (now the Forbidden City), Nanjing was the first two Ming emperors’ capital. 

Bordering the prosperous Shanghai Municipality to the south, Jiangsu with its coastline of more than a thousand kilometres is one of the richest provinces in China.  The land of 102,600 square kilometres supports a population of almost eighty million.  In comparison, Hainan has a size that is a third of Jiangsu’s and a population that is about ninety percent less. 

Temperature in Jiangsu may decrease to freezing point in winter, Wen Jun says.  He adds that he has no conception of his hometown’s extreme coldness until his experience of Hainan’s constantly moderate climate.  If he has his way, he would continue to live in a warmer environment like Hainan.  While we are exchanging stories, a pretty young girl with long hair and a pair of black spectacles that matches the shape of her round face enters and greets Wen Jun.  She is alone.  I invite her to join us.  

Hu Xing Chen (胡星辰) has just returned from Japan where she was on a half-year exchange program.  She is also in the third year.  But she is majoring in Japanese.  She is from Hubei, an inland province with fifty-seven million people about seven hundred kilometres west of Shanghai.  Hubei is the site of Three Gorges Dam.  Yangtze River flows through its western border and exits through its right.  Temperature in some parts of Hubei may decline to freezing point in winter and may reach forty degrees Celsius in summer.  Xing Chen’s father is a college teacher while her mother is manager of a clothing store.  She aspires to be a translator.    

Turning to Wen Jun, I ask, “How many students in the Language Department are majoring in English in your third-year class?” 

“About one hundred and sixty,” he replies.

“How many are majoring in Japanese in your class?” 

“About sixty,” answers Xing Chen.  

My mental arithmetic silently calculates: almost five hundred students from Year 1 to 3 are presently focussing on English, and almost two hundred are focussing on Japanese.  Will those studying Japanese seek employment in Japan?  I ruminate.  We then share our views on the property market in China, Singapore, and Australia, how the rising prices have made houses and flats increasingly unaffordable to the younger generation.  None the less, both are generally optimistic about their future and the future of China.

Meeting them has been an enriching experience.  Before me are the faces of a new China, a China that is on its trajectory to becoming a more liberalised and international society.  More and more of its people are fervently acquiring the languages of other societies, engaging intimately in their rich cultures and socio-economic lives.  The extant introspective bud will burst into a more confident orchid in the near future.  I decide that I should take my leave.  I have taken much of their time. 

Wen Jun accompanies me to the College of Tourism.  As we face the steps leading to the hall in the middle of the building, I notice the statue of Zhao Ding standing to my extreme right.  At last, I get to photograph another work of art on the greatest chancellor of the nascent Southern Song dynasty.  

Unlike the magisterial, larger-than-life portrayal of the hero in the Sanya Tianya-Haijiao statue, the life-size figure in front of me depicts a fragile human being.  Wearing a slightly pointed official hat, his face is thin and sunken, prominently displaying his cheekbones.  Furrowing his eyebrows, he is deep in concentration.  Is he anguished by persistent memories of the helpless Huizong and Qinzong, imprisoned and humiliated respectively as “Marquis of Muddled Virtue” and “Doubly Muddled Marquis” by the Jurchens?  Is he brooding over the irrecoverable loss of the Northern Song territory?  Or is he indignant about Qin Hui’s treachery? 

His long moustache flows and blends with the equally long beard that emanates near the tips of both ears and ends like a pointed arrowhead in front of his chest.  His right holds a slender book - or a memorial - close to his upper chest while his left hand is tucked into the pocket of his long gown.  

Quickly glancing from right to left, I identify the other political exiles on the basis of their names as well as dates of birth and death on the pedestals: Li Deyu, Li Gang, Su Shi, Hu Quan, and Li Guang.  All don scholar hats; all sport beards.  With both arms behind his back, Li Deyu appears confident in his official robe that has some unusual patterns.  Li Gang’s winter hat has fur flaps that partially cover and warm the sides of his face, his left hand concealing a menacing sword behind his left back.  Su Shi is in an official gown, which is tied in front; it looks like the traditional gown worn by Korean ladies.  Hu Quan’s right hand clasps the upper half of a long folded book close to his chest, his left hand holding the lower half.  Finally, on the extreme left is Li Guang, whose right hand presses a folded book against his right hip while his left hand is slightly clenched on the left side of his waist.  

As I scrutinize them, a familiarity strikes me.  The statue of stout Li Gang is similar to the statue in Wugong Temple; their hats are almost identical in shape and pattern.  Indeed, except for Su Shi, all five look similar to their counterparts in Wugong Temple; they have similar postures.  Perhaps the sculptors of the university statues, which are white and unblemished by ravages of weathering, have modelled theirs on the Wugong statues.  Or perhaps all have been made by the same hand.  I thank Wen Jun and leave him to his errand.

After his graduation, he has found employment in an application consulting firm in Beijing, Wen Jun later writes.  Xing Chen has returned to her home city of Yichang; she is now an assistant to the Sales & Marketing Director of Parson Music Group.  Parson Music is one of the leading music groups in China, noted for its manufacture of musical instruments and its role in music education.  With a population of four million, Yichang is the second largest city in Hubei, after its capital Wuhan.  

During my November 2013 trip, I enjoy the opportunity of talking to Ellen Yang Zhi Xin (杨志昕), Deputy Director of the Foreign and Overseas Chinese Affairs Office.  She has been recommended to me by Foo Kok Pheow, the former chief librarian of Nanyang Technological University in Singapore.  Ellen shares a large office with her boss, a very pleasant and polite gentleman, who enters as we are about to leave.  Ellen is a very busy lady, and I am fortunate enough to finish my chat with her before she goes for a symposium.  

Her life story is interesting.  Her parents were both graduates of Beijing University of Agriculture (now China Agricultural University) in 1969.  They were then deployed to work in interior Qinghai Province from 1970 to 1978.  There, Yang Yunshan (杨云山) and Hu Xianming (胡宪明) raised their two daughters.  They subsequently taught in Hainan University until their retirement. Ellen’s elder sister is a civil servant; so too is Ellen’s husband.  She has a seven-year old son, who is studying in a primary school.

 

Copyright 2015