Haikou Port, busy gateway to the world
Illiteracy in Mandarin causes my misconception that Haikou Ferry Terminal is at the unembellished geometric outline resembling a horse’s head on my map. Not knowing that it actually depicts Haikou Container Wharf, I take a No. 34 bus from my hotel bus stand on Thursday noon. The fare for the long distance is only 1 RMB. The bus is half-full.
A schoolboy of about fifteen stands up, offering me his seat. Am I that old? To avoid causing unnecessary offense to him, I readily accept his offer. I am deeply impressed by his civic consciousness. Surely, it has been instilled in him since his childhood by his parents and school teachers, I say to myself. I am proud of him, a citizen of my ancestral land even though he may be unaware of it.
Sitting down, I hear two Hainanese ladies conversing, without any care of privacy or eavesdroppers. “He is crazy”, one remarks. Who is she referring to? My ears perk and strain to catch the rest of their chatter. But I cannot make much sense. Like the road in front of my hotel, Longhua Road, where a secondary school is located, is busy with traffic and people. Some teenage boys are climbing over the road divider, the one-foot iron railing hardly a deterrent. Diagonally opposite Longhua Elementary School (Longhua Xiaoxue) is a row of old, heritage houses, about thirty metres before Longkun Expressway. Unfortunately, I do not have the spare time to visit them.
After passing Longkun Expressway, I see a solitary dog treading cautiously along a pedestrian-crossing, as slowing cars manoeuvre around it. I lean sideway to identify its owner. None is around. A law-abiding animal is a strange spectacle. The amusing event is over before I can recover from my astonishment to record it on my camera. A revolving restaurant sits on the roof of a tall building at the intersection of Yusha and Quoma Road; a huge lotus statue in dull-gold paint is at Yixin Shopping Centre. At a traffic-stop, an old man in his seventies, attired in a dark-blue outfit with a bag slung across his shoulder, moves from car to car, begging. He is unsuccessful.
The bus finally terminates at Lijing Road in Haikou Wharf. Residential blocks are on my right. As I walk towards Qiongzhou Strait, I note stacks of containers within the port zone to my left and Deguixuan (德桂轩) Seaview Restaurant and Hotel to my right. Making the best of my planning error, I decide to explore the section of the coast that lies between the wharf and Evergreen Park.
Deguixuan Seaview Restaurant
德桂轩海景餐厅和酒店，海口
Standing near his car is a Hainanese chauffeur in his early thirties, evidently waiting for his boss who is feasting in the warm restaurant. He is shivering in the chilly wind. He vigorously rubs his hands. Since a friendly greeting does no harm to anyone, I express it and also make a trite comment on the cold weather. He reciprocates my greeting. And we exchange simple stories about ourselves. He is in his job for two years. I wish him well and bide him goodbye.
Crossing the short Du Juan Qiao (杜鹃桥; Cuckoo Bridge), its name and date of construction “2006” given on the stone plaque, I am aghast. The tide has ebbed; the seawater below is stagnant and murky.
A young couple strolls by. They are in their twenties. The girl wears a soft greyish round cap, and carries a bag slung across her shoulder. Her pair of skimpy shorts ends slightly above her knee while the shafts of her white boots almost reach her knee. Holding a transparent plastic bag of white pumpkin seeds with one hand, she randomly picks a tiny nut with another and cracks it between her teeth, and then flings the empty shell. She is littering, I grumble. Her boyfriend is in blue jeans and black jumper with a hood. They are courting, unconscious of my existence.
The slender elongated park running parallel to the beach is deserted. Near the bridge is a huge blue sign announcing:
“The 1st Hainan International Boat Show 2010
2010.12.10”
A boat show was held here the previous month, and I have just missed it. Now, that sign is the only forlorn reminder. It is a reminder also of the growing wealth of some local Hainanese.
I later chance upon a yacht industry December 2011 report, predicting that China will have one hundred thousand new yachts over the ten-year period from 2012 to 2022, a market that is worth between fifty and one hundred billion RMB.
These project figures may seem unspectacular, except that there were only three hundred yachts in 2008, and one thousand five hundred in 2010. In comparison, the United States of America (U.S.A.) has more than fifteen million yachts.
As I scribble some notes, two men in their forties walk by. One is carrying a fishing rod while the other is pushing his bicycle.
“Have you caught any fish?” I pry.
One replies, “Too cold for fish”.
A fishing enthusiast, I believe they are simply unlucky. They move toward the embankment, bordered with coconut trees, by the side of the wharf. A forklift is hosting a pallet of cargoes onto a ship. Some lorries move in and out of the wharf area. I count seven cargo cranes and a container hauler at the wharf.
Walking slowly along deserted Haitang Road, I look to my right, at the boundary fence enclosing a vast plot that is undergoing development. The occupants of the new buildings will enjoy their evening constitution on the thin strip of park by the breezy waterfront. They will meet five tall totem poles, arranged in a circle, each carved with the heads of Li people.
Totem poles carved with Li ethnic minority figures
图腾柱
On the wide path to my left are two men in their sixties. Their bamboo rods are short and slender. They gently swing their lines and bait into the water a few metres off. The tiny floats dip slightly below the water surface when the fish bite and drag the bait. The fishermen are friendly. After my initiated greeting, we chat.
They have come to Haikou to pass their New Year holiday. One hails from Heilongjiang (formerly northern Manchuria) and the other from Beijing. Each has a bucketful of seven or eight rabbit fish dashing in the sea water. They are small, only seven or eight centimetres in length.
“Are they nice to eat?”
“Yes, they are nice to eat,” replies the Beijing man.
But from their emaciated countenance, the fish can hardly whet my appetite if cooked and served without any accompaniment.
From Shanghai, the third man has been holidaying in Haikou for the last two months. Pointing to the new condominiums three hundred metres away, he reveals he is living in one. He is alone. The centre of wheeling and dealing during the early twentieth century, Shanghai is today a city of millionaires. He must be one of those businessmen who have benefited from Deng Xiaoping’s economic liberalization.
The pain of the brief Cultural Revolution is a distant memory. He is a master of flattery.
“You look like you are in the mid-fifties.”
Needless to say, I am elated. Fortunately, my discretion gets the better of me. I return the compliment, saying, “My guess is that you are sixty.”
“No, I am sixty-eight.”
My unexpressed intuition is correct. He must have suffered greatly during the Cultural Revolution, I silently repeat to myself. Such words should not be uttered. The turbulent times are best left behind. We should not be hostage to the past: that is the attitude of most elderly Chinese. They are right. What has passed cannot be undone.
“Your Putonghua (spoken Mandarin) is not bad (“bu cuo”).”
My day is made. I can converse in Mandarin. I pass the test. I am exhilarated. As I say goodbye to him, envy overpowers me. Soon the summer holiday will be over and he will return home, leaving his flat empty - a flat that has an unimpeded panorama of the calm Qiongzhou Strait.
Many nouveau riche mainland Chinese bought winter vacation homes in Haikou and Sanya as investment, causing a high vacancy rate among residential buildings when the festive seasons are over. A small two-bedroom apartment of eighty square metres may cost about 2.4 million RMB (or $480,000).
Two young couples in their early thirties and a young child of about four are also fishing about ten metres to my right. Using an ice pick, one lady is loosening the stubborn shells encrusted in the dark-grey rocks to retrieve oysters for baits. Fishing seems to be an increasingly popular pastime.
Hainan Haikou Tourist Information and Service Center is on the ground floor of a tall modern office building at the intersection of Binhai Expressway and Shimao North Road. It is very spacious; its interior decor is fitting for a large travel agency. Five employees are seated behind their desk. A visitor is in a discussion with one. The front door receptionist introduces me to an English-speaking staff. Grace Chen Ru (陈茹) is a Hainanese.
Author H.H. Pang with banker Miss Grace Chen Ru
作者馮啟豪与陈茹小姐
“Where did you learn your English?”
“Chongqing University,” she politely replies.
I am surprised. I am also curious. “Why did you go all the way to Chongqing for your studies?”
“I want a change. I have lived in Hainan for more than twenty years.”
“You are not running away from your mother’s nagging, are you?”
Ha…Ha. I laugh loudly. Grace does not look impressed, as my attempt at levity falls flat. Instantaneously, I apologise. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be making fun of your mum. So you want to experience what it is like in other parts of China?”
“Yes.”
“That’s great, to be able to see a different part of China when you are young and have the time. When you are working, you would not have as much time.”
Grace is about twenty-three. She has returned to live with her retired parents. Her father was the manager of Xinhua bookstore. She has an older brother.
I relate my intention of writing a travel book on Hainan. She is very helpful. On the rack, two thick souvenir issues celebrating Bo’ao are only for reference but Grace kindly requests permission from her superior Lu Bingbing to offer me a copy. She also selects some other pamphlets. Armed with enough information, I thank them for their generous assistance. (On a later trip, I learn from Grace that she is working in a bank, which offers accelerated promotion prospect.)
Haikou Port (Haikou Gang) is only a short distance away. The No. 7 bus drops me near its entrance. Also known as Xiuying Port, this port is not to be confused with Haikou New Port (Haikou Xingang), or one will literally miss the boat. The latter is the place I have been to two days ago; it is situated to the right of iconic Century Bridge. Both ports are sited near Binhai Road; they are only five or six kilometres apart. Both run daily ferry services to Hai’an on Leizhou Peninsula every half hour or hour from six-thirty in the morning to six in the evening, the journey taking about an hour and a half. The fare is around 35 RMB. Ferries also head to ports like Guangzhou and Zhanjiang (in Guangdong Province) and Beihai (in Guangxi Province). The fare ranges from 110 RMB for Fourth Class seats to 450 RMB for “Top Grade” seats.
When I jump off the bus, my heart is pulsating with excitement. Will I get to observe inbound or outbound ships, and cars being driven into their stationary hulls this time? The Ferry Terminal is at the end of Haigang Road. However, the Passenger Terminal is at the unnamed road, a hundred metres to its right. Hawkers are selling cooked food, fruits, souvenirs, and trinkets. The spacious car park at the Passenger Terminal is not very crowded.
Walking through, I see two buses parked on my left and five on my right. Of these seven buses, five are bright-green buses, one is a bright-blue bus, and one is a white bus with two blue diagonal stripes on the sides. In the terminal itself are more than a hundred departing passengers. Many are seated in the security zone, waiting for boarding. Their bags vary in sizes, shapes, and colours.
Not forgetting my intention, I immediately leave the arrival-cum-departure hall in search of a vantage platform. Fortunately, a gate with grate is located on the left side of the ferry terminal. A young man is standing there, looking towards the sea. I join him. Later another man arrives and talks to him. They are waiting to farewell their friend or relative.
Thirty metres in front of us is a waiting ship. Its hull is revealed, indicating its readiness to receive motor vehicles. The wharf is crowded with employees giving directions to passengers. I am in time to witness the last lot going on deck. The huge door of the hull shuts. My excitement is dented; I miss the episode of heavy vehicles entering it. The ferry slowly slides off from my sight. I peek at my watch: 5.45 pm.
Haikou Port (also known as Xiuying Port), ferry crossing Qiongzhou Strait to Guangdong
海口港 (秀英港), 渡口琼州海峡
If Qiongzhou Strait is not buffeted by strong seasonal gales and heavy rains, the passengers will have an uneventful voyage. Annually, the channel is closed to cross-strait ferry services for a few days. July and August are the typhoon months. In December 2002, ferry services were suspended for two days, and approximately six thousand five hundred passengers and eighty-eight vehicles were stranded in Hai’an.
When services are cancelled, no refunds are given for pre-purchased tickets. I suppose it is an “Act of God”, akin to insurance companies’ refusal to pay for flood damages to one’s property. I walk off with a mixed feeling. I gain a great satisfaction, having succeeded in my aim; yet I have a heavy heart. Is my deep yearning to see departing ships a cathartic phenomenon of my suppressed childhood memories of leaving Hainan by this route?
Haikou’s crowded streets
Jo will land at five in the evening today, a Friday. Since Cai Hong will be picking me up only at four, I will have time to learn more about the buildings across Haixiu East Road, starting at noon. Running parallel to this main road is Daying Road, three hundred metres apart. Two short streets - Nanbao Road and Daying Street - lead to it.
Daying Road in 2016
大英路在2016年
In broad daylight, the litter from the previous night’s activities is evident along the narrow back streets. Fruit skins, thin wooden skewers, wrapping papers, chicken or pork bones, and spilled food may trip the unsuspecting pedestrians. Fortunately, a street sweeper is engrossed in cleaning up the mess. Many old cars are parked on the sides of a street, and one has flat tires.
A China Post branch stands at the intersection of Daying Road and Nanbao Road, fifty metres from the laundry I discovered the previous night. The laundry owner is a slim young lady in her mid-twenties from Hebei. Mrs Zhu’s charge is 6 RMB for an article such as an undergarment, a blouse, or a pair of jeans. If they are brought in in the morning, the clothing will be ready the following evening.
In early 2016, Mrs Zhu's laundry has shifted; a new laundry is located at Yelin Road close to Nanbao Road
在2016年年初， 朱太太的洗衣已经转移, 一个新的洗衣房 (新新干洗店) 位于椰林路 靠近南宝路
Sales and repair of electrical household goods is the predominant business along Daying Road. New and used electric fans, fridges, sound systems, television sets, and small tools are tightly piled up in some shops, each being limited in size and space. Two internet cafes are near each other. Backstreet cafes are usually places where I hesitate to have my meals; but it is lunch time, and I will never know the hygienic quality of the food if I am not adventurous enough to taste it.
My doubt somewhat allayed by that persuasive hypothesis, I enter Shui Xiang (Fragrant Water). The counter faces the road. Behind it are three young girls between the ages of seventeen and twenty-three. The youngest girl is short, about five feet. She is dark and has a round face. She is not beautiful; neither are the other two girls. Apparently, the customer before me has provoked her and she is complaining in a loud tone to her colleagues. I cannot grasp her point. Two waitresses are nonchalantly lingering in front of the counter to deliver the customers’ orders and clear the tables.
Language incompetency restricts my choice of food. I take the only way out; I point to a dish on the billboard behind them, and ask if it is chicken-and-duck rice. After the angry girl has cordially confirmed, I order it. I forward no further questions, fearful that I might provoke her too. The price is 12 RMB ($2.40). It is cheap. I sit at the front table, facing the road. Three cars are parked close by, their fronts facing me.
When my attention is distracted, the big and relatively new white Volkswagen quietly glides off, without offering me the opportunity of looking at its owner. Is the owner a man or a woman? Is he or she well-garbed? Is he or she young or old? The answers should enable me to form a hunch of the relative wealth or poverty of the residents. The dull-maroon JMC jeep seems old, ten years in my guess. Its fender is worn out, and two patches of paint have been scrapped off, the result of accidents. It is its owner’s faithful servant. A bright-maroon car moves in and takes off after ten minutes. Its insignia is an “L”, a Lexus, I think. It is new, two or three years old. I curse myself; again, I miss an inkling of its owner’s personality.
A taxi pulls into the vacated lot. The driver is in his early thirties. He goes to the counter, makes his order, gets a small paper cup of free white tea, and then occupies the seat in front of me. Facing me, he is sipping from the cup, puzzling over my notebook recordings. I should have spoken to him, and elicit his life story.
Unsupervised, a young cleaner is sweeping the street. She wears a red cap, a nose mask, and a red-and-yellow vinyl safety vest. With her long broom, she flicks the dirt into her large dustpan, improvised by nailing a wooden handle onto the bottom of a square biscuit tin that has sections of its sides trimmed off by a pair of heavy-duty wire cutters.
A newspaper lady approaches to sell the afternoon daily. When I decline, she moves on to another customer. On my right are two tables, one occupied by two boys in their early twenties in the middle of their lunch. One is clothed in brown jacket and a pair of faded-blue jeans and white shoes; the other in black jacket, black pants, and white shoes. Each table is surrounded by five blue plastic chairs without back rest. The setting is spartan. Behind me are seven Formica-laminate tables in the narrow walkway. The Formica chairs are well-worn but with back rests. Each table seats two persons. One of these is occupied by two young men.
My tray arrives. The bowl is big; the serving of rice is generous. The rice is sprinkled with tiny cubes of prickled radish, a combination that titillates my taste buds. The tiny cubes are crunchy, sweet, and tasty. The elongated plate contains five slices of chicken meat and five slices of duck meat. On one end is a fair amount of boiled chye sim (a vegetable). The chicken meat is tender and not overcooked. It is even better than the famed Wenchang chicken. The soup is tasty, containing seaweeds and strands of scrambled eggs. I wallow in my bargain. In my estimation, the same set at a Singapore hawker centre would cost me at least 35 RMB.
Street café food is cheap, my order in mid-2011 of duck and roast meat rice from a Nanbao Road cafe cost only 28 RMB (about S$6)
街咖啡馆的食物很便宜， 我在2011年中期顺序, 鸭烧肉饭, 从南宝路 成本只有28元人民币 （约S $6）
After finishing, I walk inside, on the pretext of using the facilities, to inspect the place. As it is occupied, I wait, sitting near the amenity door to jot down my observations. At the back of the café is one long table, occupied by six young well-attired persons. Around each of the three other tables are four persons. Three ladies at one table start to leave. The waitress, whom I initially mistake to be someone waiting for her friend in the washroom, is about twenty-five. She has a short ponytail; her jumper has the big words “Tex Tron” in front and “Intercity” behind. The toilet is fairly clean.
Wuzhishan Road is only a hundred metres from the café, at the east end of Daying Road. Reaching it, I turn right. Walking another hundred metres, I cross the road and enter into Longshe Road. It is a narrow curved lane in the midst of very old dilapidated buildings. Startlingly, many balconies, even those on the third storey, are caged, which gives me a shiver. Is it a signal of a high crime area? The sensation is scary because I do not know what lies beyond. Only one young adult is at the bend of the lane.
Indirectly reassuring me, however, is the presence of a middle-aged roadside stall owner and her two potential customers. She is selling pirated DVDs of Hong Kong dramas and titbits like small packets of sweets and biscuits. Her portable DVD player has been switched on, screening a movie series that enthrals and encourages the ladies in their forties into a discussion of the plots. I interrupt, enquiring the cost of an AAA heavy duty battery. After buying twelve for 12 RMB, I continue straight ahead.
Thankfully, I emerge at the northern end of busy Haifu Road. Two shops stock CDs and DVDs. The prices of Hainanese-opera DVDs range from 18 RMB to 85 RMB. Naturally, the more expensive copy features famous Hainanese singers and orchestras. Not knowing any singer or storyline, I select two of the cheapest ones at random. I also enquire about CDs or DVDs of Hainanese songs. The sales girl, who does not know Hainanese, produces a DVD of songs by a male singer with the same surname as me – Feng Lei (冯磊). I take it.
“Do you have any CDs or DVDs by Hainanese female singers?”
“There is none,” she replies.
“But I have heard songs from one female Hainanese artiste.”
“What is her name?”
I cannot remember. I ask her to find out from her colleagues if there is any female Hainanese singer. Taking my request as an insult to her knowledge of the range, she impatiently insists that no female Hainanese’s songs have been recorded in CD or DVD. When I later return to Australia, I check my music collection. The cassette tape of Hainanese pop songs was released several years ago by Han Xian Ling (韓仙羚), who went by the stage name Feng Fei Yan (凤飞燕). She hails, however, from Singapore. Her lively rendition of “Graceful Pace” (步珊珊; Bu Shanshan) from the Hainanese opera “Princess Baihua” (百花公主; Baihua Gongzhu) was downloaded on YouTube by a Hainanese blogger, Richard Foo.
Han Xian Ling (aka Feng Fei Yan), Hainanese singer from Singapore
韓仙羚 (又名: 凤飞燕), 海南人歌手从新加坡
Hainanese operatic VCDs, cheap
海南话歌剧, 便宜
Chastened by the shop assistant, I meekly carry my selection to the cashier. Including a sales tax of 5 RMB, the bill is 80 RMB ($16) for four items: a documentary DVD about Hainan, two VCDs of Hainanese operas, and a DVD of Hainanese songs. Not too expensive. Happy with my purchase, I slowly return to the hotel via Haixiu East Road, passing East Lake (Donghu) along the way.
Cai Hong and her husband are punctual. Travelling along the Haikou Ring Expressway (Haikou Raocheng Gaosu) at four-thirty, their car breaks down two kilometres from the airport. Water is leaking from their six-year old car. Xue Xin gets down and manages to hail a cab. The cost is 13 RMB.
Departing as scheduled from Changi Airport, Jo also enjoys her short flight. Although the overhead screen in the Meilan arrival hall shows the landing of three other planes around the same time, her quick exit reveals again the efficiency of the custom staff.
With a borrowed car, Xue Xin drops the three of us off at the hotel, apologising for not joining us for dinner. He is preparing for his Yunnan trip the following day. After unloading the bags and luggage, we explore the make-shift stalls across the road. Dinner at a restaurant specializing in Sichuan dishes cost Cai Hong about 300 RMB.
After she has left, Jo and I make our way to Haikou People’s Park. I am eager to show her the dynamic life in Haikou. Loud Mandarin music and songs are reverberating from the fringe. We walk up the short flight of stairs. She is delighted to see separate groups of people from their mid-thirties to the elderly practising different styles of Western ballroom dance like foxtrot, tango, and waltz to the rhythms from their own Hi-Fi sets. It is something unusual to her.
We zoom in on the group perfecting the cha-cha-cha. The participants are in their fifties and sixties. They are uninhibited, flowing gracefully despite the attentive gaze of spectators. They were about sixteen or seventeen years of age when the Cultural Revolution ended in 1976. Many of them would have undergone the horrors of that era. They are now doing the very thing that was once severely prohibited. We watch them; then we move on. A couple in their late forties is practicing the complicated steps of the waltz. Occasionally, their instructor interrupts and conveys some fine tips. Why are they learning ballroom dancing at their age? The third group of thirty people is perfecting their line-dancing skill. The loud music is infectious; I sway to the different beats.
The free pastime for residents provides entertainment for tourists like us. When venues for entertainment are few and expensive, people resort to self-entertainment in public places like beaches and parks. We wish to linger on but our bladders are bursting!
End of Chapter 2
Page 61-72
Rambling around my ancestral Hainan
Copyright 2015