Page 280-282

Rambling around my ancestral Hainan

Tribute to Hainanese from Qionghai

Qionghai and the liberation ladies

Checking out at eleven on Saturday morning, I catch an auto rickshaw for 10 RMB to Wenchang Train Station. The fare to Qionghai is only 15 RMB, unbelievably cheap - $3 - for a distance of about fifty kilometres. In the assigned carriage, which is uncrowded, an empty seat is on my left, allowing me to unburden my two heavy backpacks. The ride is smooth, taking about fifteen minutes.

At the Qionghai exit, I stand still momentarily, awed by the wide open courtyard, the size of a football field. It is neat and tidy and almost devoid of obtrusive features, except for a few lamp posts and pots of flowers at the far end. By the road kerb about a hundred metres ahead, palms have been evenly spaced in a straight row, their evergreen fronds drooping in all directions. Buses, cars, and pedicabs are waiting there.

Looking backward, I note that the facade of Qionghai Train Station is identical to that of the Wenchang station because buildings were mass produced during the state’s infrastructural modernisation. Individuality has been sacrificed, justifiably, for speed in delivering intercity service. Except for some floating white clouds, the sky is bright-blue. I feel heartened.

Eldest Cousin’s son greets me. Driving his friend’s van, Fa Geng takes me downtown in search of a hotel. Jiaji (“Chia-chi” in Wade-Giles and “Kachek” in Hainanese), the name used by locals, is only about two or three kilometres off. As the crow flies, it is about thirty-five kilometres southwest of Huiwen. Founded seven hundred years ago during the Southern Song era, it is now the fourth largest town after Haikou, Danzhou, and Sanya. It has approximately one tenth of Qionghai City’s population of 483,217 (in 2010).

Most of the overseas Hainanese could trace their ancestral homes to Qionghai and Wenchang City. Thousands had escaped during the Japanese invasion. They had sufficient time because the invaders, who had easily conquered Haikou, Ding’an, and Qiongshan on the tenth of February 1939 and Sanya City on the fourteenth, did not march inland to Wenchang and Qionghai until the twenty-second of February and fifteenth of April respectively.

Qionghai downtown is busy on a Saturday afternoon with residents coming out for shopping or lunch. 228 RMB per night is the minimum charge at the first hotel situated along a main road. The price is reasonable for its central location and perhaps 4-star rating. But I do not need luxurious living; a comfortable bed for the night suffices.

We readily find another along Jiaoyu Road. Dongyuan Hotel charges 128 RMB. At a less than perfect location, it is none the less safe. The intersecting streets and lanes nearby are crowded at night. The hotel is only two lanes from the main Aihua East Road, where a laundry is thriving. Its charges are cheap: 3 RMB for a T-shirt and 4 RMB for a pair of jeans.

After depositing my belongings in the room, we head, at my prompting, for a typical Qionghai village near Zhongyuan town, about twelve kilometres south. Branching off from 223 National Road, the village road with space for two cars abreast is initially coated with a bitumen surface. On both sides are some old brick houses, widely spaced apart between small farms or fields. One is crumbling or undergoing renovation. The houses and farms appear abandoned. After half a kilometre, the road narrows into a single-car cement lane that is thickly fenced on both edges by bushes and trees. It then turns into a gravel lane, which splits into two walking tracks large enough for bicycles, motorcycles, and trishaws. Perhaps there are houses and farms beyond but we do not get off because of the problem in parking. We reverse.

Red Women Detachment Memorial is seven kilometres southwest of Qionghai downtown. As a senior, I pay 25 RMB, half the normal admission price. A group of thirty-three Chinese tourists is posing in front of a huge irregular-shaped monument formed by numerous interlocking granite boulders. These boulders have been carved to show a bugle, a pigeon, a straw hat, and a link of chains, items familiar to the members of the legendary Red Women Detachment. The tourists range in age from the teens to the mid-thirties, obviously born after the Second World War. Some of them are wearing sporty water-blue shirts and shorts, decorated with prints of fishes, shellfish, and starfish. Are they proceeding to the beach soon after?

Propped in front of the museum is a 6.8-metre high white statue of a young woman in khaki uniform. Her right hand clutches the sling of a rifle that reposes on her right shoulder. On her back is her straw hat, which will protect her from the searing sun during her jungle mission. With her left leg slightly raised on a small rock, she is leaning against a stone support on which her left hand falls. She is a member of the gallant band that stoutly resisted the evil landlords.

Because of the museum’s concrete frontal design, the large greenish-blue tinted-glass panels that are fitted to it assume the shape of the national emblemic star, an apt background for the statue of the girl in khaki. Visible through these panels is a white sculpture of five beautiful young girls also in khakis within the temporarily closed museum. While one is holding upright a huge flag, three are eagerly charging forward with their now-antiquated rifles that seem too heavy for their slender frames. Their contorted facial expressions, their dynamic postures, the tilt of their guns, and the firmness of their stand signal their determination to confront, unyieldingly, the onslaught of superior forces and ammunition. Armed only with a handgun, their leader is urging them on. The plaque in Mandarin states: 豆蔻年華 (Dou Kou Nian Hua; “Maiden Years” or “Budding Beauties”). How many had died during that period?

When more than one hundred women joined the Chinese Red Army in 1931, the legend began. With barely a month of training, these Qiongya Red Army guerrillas, together with the Third Red Army Regiment, fought several battles in Hainan against the enemies. Wearing red armbands, these spirited ladies were eventually honoured as the Red Detachment of Women. Between 1994 and 2001, the number of surviving members dwindled from eighty-four to twenty-three. In 2011, only three were left: 101-year-old Wang Yunmei, 98-year-old Lu Yexiang, and 96-year-old Pan Xianying. Their heroism and courage was glorified in the 1961 classic The Red Detachment of Women.

Set in Qionghai, the film also portrays a young fighter carrying her new-born baby on her back, a character based on young Wang, who had given birth during the early stage of the revolutionary struggle. With little food, her infant died from malnourishment, a tragedy depicted in the movie. Scenes of Wuzhishan and Wanquan River enhanced the climatic emotions. Heroine Wu Qionghua was a poor peasant’s daughter constantly battered by her cruel capitalist landlord and his henchmen, who had killed her father three years earlier. Fortuitously freed with the aid of an undercover Communist posing as a wealthy overseas businessman, she joined the revolutionary underground. During a survey of her former tormentor’s compound, she impetuously triggered an unsuccessful attack, which enabled his narrow escape and retaliation. The rebels were surrounded and their leader caught and executed. Finally, a well coordinated rebellion succeeded, in which the matured heroine, as the new leader, killed her vicious enemy and liberated the land.

In the memorial park about the combined size of four or five soccer fields are a Second World War fighter plane (a Shenyang J-6) and an obsolete battle tank on display. I stroll around, passing the rows of living quarters of the lady warriors. Their rooms are small. A stage is in the centre of a tranquil pond. Four youths – two male and two female – in Red Army guerrilla uniform perform a ten-minute dance, which entertains the crowd of about fifty people. A leisurely tour will take about two hours but I have to rush. Fa Geng is waiting. He has to return the van to his friend, who is managing a business.

Sitting later on the pillion of his motorcycle, I feel nervous as he weaves me in and out of the oncoming traffic and traffic overtaking from my rear along the main road to his flat, where his father Guo Ping has prepared dinner. Along the way my mind wanders. Is it safe to be a pillion rider? The two-kilometre journey back to my hotel is on his bike too. Unknown to me then, my first experience on a motorbike turns out to be a confidence-building exercise for my travel around Hainan.