People makes travel different

Traveling becomes original — even in the most visited places — when we travel with and encounter different people. A place flares out its dynamics because of its people.

In this trip, I encountered mainly relatives. Everywhere I went, I heard the local dialect Hok Lo, a dialect I am familiar enough to understand the most part but unfamiliar enough to speak. It is quite comforting to hear such dialect being spoken. After all, it’s the sounds that I first heard as a little baby.

Most of the time I would attempt to answer in Hok Lo, however broken and wrong it sounded. If unsuccessful, I would answer in Mandarin. If not even, in Cantonese.

My mom was given away as a little baby girl and was adopted by another family. Her adoptive mother is still very healthy at the age of 97. It’s hilarious to meet her. I thank her for taking in my mother or else my mom would have no family at all. Grandma is far more agile than my mother when it comes to walking.

Knock knock. We did not call in advance or inform her in advance for our visit.

No one answered the door.

My mom called out loud. Still no reply.

At long last, we heard some shuffling in the main door. Grandma opened the door.

My 97-year-old gran!

She was delighted to see mom, and me and my sister. Last time I saw grandma was over two decades ago.

“Have you had lunch yet?” grandma asked.

“No,” mom and aunt lied, while blinking their eyes to each other.

“Oh, let’s go out and eat,” grandma said as-a-matter-of-factly. As far as I understand, she probably never ever leaves her home in these days. Everyday some neighbors just get veggies for her.

“Do you have any money?” my auntie asked, half teasing grandma.

“Of course I do, even just a few hundred,” my grandma said.

“Oh a few hundred. If we go out and eat, then you will have nothing left,” she seriously asked her.

Grandma got herself ready to go and said, “That’s okay.” After all, her daughter (my mom) came only every couple years, and her grandchildren (us) came only every couple decades. So she did not care much.

Of course it was all just a tease to her.

We did not need to have lunch and definitely wouldn’t ask an old granny to spend her life saving on us.

It’s lovely to see this grandma, I have to say.

We didn’t stay for too long. From my observation, my parents are not the touchy affectionate type who count spending time as most valuable way to express love. Rather, their love is expressed in terms of giving service or stuff.

Mom and sister and aunt all gave granny some money. All together it’s six hundred RMB. It’s not a lot, but boy, you should see the glow in gran’s eyes.

“Six hundred dollars, what am I going to do with it?” grandma smiled but was also a little lost.

Three generations!

From mom, I learned that gran has been disrespected by her grandson and grand daughter-in-law, and as a result did not really feel happy. So a little gesture of love makes her really very glad.

I am grateful that my mom was raised by them. Her adoptive father died rather young. During severe starvation, my grandpa would leave a bowl of plain tree-bark boiled congee (more likely called water) for my mom to drink, even he did not have anything in his stomach. When his own brother decided to throw away his own child, and complained that my grandpa was raising a girl that’s not his real child, my grandpa said, “How can you throw a person away. It’s a life. If we die of hunger, we die together. I cannot just throw a life away.”

God bless my 97-year-old gran. I hope I will have another chance to meet her in person in not too far future.

Another relative we met was my mom’s biological brother. Despite the fact that my mom was given again, she kept connection with her biological family. After she moved to HK and when she was able to visit her hometown again, she would make an effort to visit her biological family. My mom is a very kind person. She does not hold grudges against them (or anyone per se). She knew during her childhood, famine and starvation made life decisions hard.

When I was about 10, I met this uncle once in a fishing market. He has a little store to sell really terribly small fish. My mom’s biologically family is incredibly poor (although the adoptive one isn’t much better off). My mom always tries to give some money to her two biological brothers who live in poverty.

In this recent visit, logistically it’s quite different to arrange transportation to go to my uncle’s place. We thought perhaps we could just go to the fishing market to see if he’s there.

When we arrived, I remembered the whole setting twenty something years ago. China has developed a great deal, but the fishing market hasn’t changed much. I was holding my mom’s arm walking carefully in the slippery market, while our eyes scrutinizing the faces of all the hawkers, wondering if my uncle would be among one of them.

After 25 years, you know what, I spotted my uncle and recognized him right a way.

My uncle -- my mom's biological brother

I am a person who often look at a person and use my gut feeling to feel if someone is trust-worthy. This uncle left the same feeling this time to me, same as many years ago — a sense of honesty and trustworthiness.

We didn’t talk much, but I was delighted to see him. He is still selling very small fish, but his livelihood has improved a great deal due to the economic development of China. I am glad to hear. He said he would want to visit HK in April. Imagine, my uncle has been working in the same stall for his life — that we don’t have to make any appointment and just walk into the same fishing market we can find him. It tells how dreary and monotonous life can be.

“Okay, just don’t come with too many people,” my mom said.

We gave some money to this uncle and left too. When we walked out of the fishing market, my mom murmured, a tone most softer than her previous tone with my uncle, “Well, it is good for him to see HK a bit, for he’s never had a chance to go anywhere in his whole life. I cannot take him anywhere to see anything, but even a few days may be good.”

“I can, mom!”

I hope he will come and I will have a chance to show him around.

Some of the fish that my uncle is selling

Give me oil to this lamp to keep it burning

Couple years ago, in a flight from Hong Kong to Europe, I sat next to an Austrian old man.

He was in his late 70s, traveling alone. Being nosy and chatty, I asked what he was to do in the UK. After all, it’s over 24 hours of flying from Down Under to London. What prompted this old man, I wondered.

“I am trying to find my cousins, whom I have never met and looked for my family history,” he answered. There was a beam coming from the eyes of this old man, as if a great adventure awaited him. “My family came from Ireland and I was going there to search for my roots.”

I was happy for him and for what he was searching. Nonetheless, I didn’t quite see why the search of roots was something important.

It does not take me to long to realize that importance in my life. This recent trip to my parents’ hometown indeed roused some of those sentiments in me. Perhaps I am getting older. Perhaps the shadows of my 70-odd year-old parents have urged me to think upon the connection. Perhaps it’s the due to an ancestral hall.

I cannot remember at all in my first visit to Little Bridge Head whether I visited the ancestral hall or not. Mom said there used to be a much-worn-out building clustered somewhere in the village. But it was of little importance, I suppose, that I didn’t visit it. The villagers of Little Bridge Head decided earlier this year that they should renovate the whole hall. There came some bustles and hustles and fund-raising of course.

Finally, the hall is done. Mom said the grand opening of the new ancestral hall would bring all those who have moved out back to the village. It’s a high time to visit.

Considering how many deserted and broken old village houses around, the ancestral hall is quite a phenomenon. My ethnographic antennae, first nurtured in my undergraduate courses in Anthropology, was of great use this time. The rituals of the whole grand opening, I have to say, was a blast.

During the day before the opening, my sister and I walked around the hall, taking loads of photos. At 3pm, one of my uncles, whom we spent quite a bit of time with, got busy putting up auspicious couplets at the front door of his house, and hung red ribbons around, like every single household-owner. At 3:30pm sharp, he lit some fire-crackers, just like the rest of the village. Fire-crackers went on cracking for no less than an hour. It’s totally deafening and jolly.

Outside the hall, after hours of fire-cracker-ing

When my sister and I returned to the ancestral hall, the floor of it was covered by little red pieces of fire-cracker remains. It’s very much like what I felt my parents’ home-town was like when I first visited during Chinese New Year.

Here there, fire cracker everywhere.

The actual grand opening took place at midnight precise. All women were supposed to wear red dresses. My mom never wears dress so she put on a red jumper. I was in my usual black jumper and blue jeans. No one has ever told me to bring anything red. Guys were supposed to wear pink. It’s quite lovely a scene.

The ceremony started with a Taoist (kinda Taoist I believe) chanting something in the local dialect; slaughtering a live chicken with a sharp sword; splashing the fresh blood of the chicken over the old tablets of ancestors taken from the old ancestral hall; discarding those tablets into a heap of fire; inviting the newly carved tablets — with 12 generations of family ancestors’ names carved — into the new hall.

Ancentral tablets awaiting to enter the hall

Monk in pink splashing chicken blood to the tablets

Chicken before sacrifice -- poor guy!

When the new tablets were put in place, villagers started with stream into the hall paying their first tribute. Fruit. Rice dumplings. Cakes. Dates. And most importantly, incense sticks. All piled up in the altar.

I was much excited to partake in the whole ceremony. My passion in studying cross-cultural and religious ceremonies was high. Looking at how the people worshiped, what  offerings did they bring, what rituals did they observe helps me understand why my mother behaves the way she does.

For some years, because of my own faith, I have chosen to cut myself off from what would be dubbed as “idol-worshiping”. During this visit, I also had a chance to have a conversation with a cousin who’s a Christian. She’s chosen to abstain from the rituals so as to make a stance that being a Christian is different and those rituals were wrong.

These couple years, I have changed quite a bit. When I see my mom worshiping whatever she believes it, I simply see her doing what brings her comfort. Burning incense sticks in an ancestral hall is like a little child holding a very old and special stuffed bunny that she needs to use to feel comfortable enough every night to fall asleep.

Some can claim with verses in the Bible how important it’s to abstain from non-believing practices. There’s a ground for that. For me, whether the stuffed bunny is a real god or not is not the issue.

 

—-

 

The tablets in the ancestral hall list the patriarchal lineage of the family for 12 generations. That explains the male dominant tradition in the village and why my parents seem to also have gender preference. I used to feel quite offended by it; but the older I get, the more carefree attitude I have towards it.

The most striking thing about the whole ordeal of the grand opening of this ancestral hall isn’t rituals, isn’t what’s true faith and what’s not, isn’t fire-crackers either.

It’s to see my parents’ names.

As I said, the names of 12 generations are carved on the tablets and put on the altar of the hall. My father’s name is there, together with my mom’s, being his wife. Since both of my parents are still alive, they use a little piece of red paper to cover their names. Whenever a person dies, the red slip of paper will be removed and it’s therefore believed that he can “enter”  into the ancestral hall — to be one of those ancestors who obtains saintly / god-like status worthy of being worshiped.

All the names of sons, with their wife, are carved on these tablets. When they are alive, their names will be covered by a piece of red paper. After their death, the papers will be removed and they "officially" enter the ancestral hall.

I of course could not see my parents’ name. Thanks goodness they are still in good health. But not far from the ancestral hall is the village community that organizes the whole renovation of the hall. Outside its bureau were a few boards with the xerox copies of the names being carved on the tablets. It’s for people to make sure they got their names right.

I stood in front of the xerox copy staring at my parents’ names.

Recognizing one day they will pass away.

Indeed.

Life is not permanent.

We know, but we also don’t know.

That’s the most striking feeling in the whole visit to my parents’ hometown: finding the roots of mine. It’s recognizing I am indeed the daughter of my mother, and my father. We have a deep connection. While all the other names seem to be quite irrelevant to me, their names beam. They are not everyone else. They are my link to a past that I don’t know so well.

I have thought of writing the history of my mother’s life. After this visit, I realize I cannot leave my dad out. Whatever they feel towards each other, however the past has been through, whatever ups and downs that have been experienced, they have really shared over half a century together and woven a life that continues make a difference to our lives.

 

————

 

After the opening, my dad had to carry an oil-lit lamp to the old family house. Inside that deserted house was a few other similar lamps. I asked mom if I could take two home. Mom suggested me to get a them in a nearby market. Newer. Cleaner.

The point isn’t the lamps. I insisted on getting those left in my deceased grandmother’s home. I don’t need two new oil-lit lamps in Hong Kong. All I want to bring home is a connection to the past that people very readily sever.

 

I want to keep the glow of this family -- on and on.

Vaccinations and Malarial Pills

The doctor at Port Health Bureau did not stop hiccuping the whole time I visited him. He is a friendly doctor though and asked questions rather meticulously.

There are two offices for travelers to check out health and hygienic situations in countries you’re to visit if you live in Hong Kong. One is in Wan Chai; another Cheung Sha Wan. Doctor consultation, vaccinations, health advice and medications are offered. Appointments have to be made in advance and do call in couple weeks in advance to make sure you have.

Amidst his unremitting hiccups, the doctor suggested me to take Hepatitis A vaccinations (because I had Hepatitis B vaccinations taken before); typhoid vaccination; and offered the choice of taking Malarial pills. The risk of contracting Malaria is not high but mosquitoes have a special fondness of my blood so I got 80 pills. Malarial pills have to be taken even for 4 weeks after departure of the country.

7 or 8 years ago, when I visited Bangladesh, I had Malarial pills as well, some left-overs from my friend Pak Lum who volunteered at the House of Dying in Calcutta. Those pills were pretty nasty: giving me stomach discomfort and dizziness. I hope and trust the new Malarial pills are better. At least that’s what the doctor said.

After 2 vaccinations and 80 malarial pills, I am one step closer to Nepal and India.

Two shots: Hepatitis A and Typhoid.

80 Malarial pills

Parents’ Hometown: The Shore Heralding a New Life

Little Bridge Head, a small derelict village off the South China Coast, in the township of Shanwei is my parents’ hometown.

My parents were born there, raised there, and lived their very early years of married life there, until 1962, when Chairman Mao’s unremitting political upheavals such as Great Leap Forward and People’s commune gnawed at their stomachs and forced them to eat tree barks to survive. Like some other villagers, my parents had no choice but to flee. Starvation made the unknown life of smuggling themselves to HK much less intimidating.

When I was 8, I made my first visit to Little Bridge Head. My memory was vague, but the seashore in front of the old houses stayed vivid in my head. I have always loved the sea and always have the privilege living close to water. I think something had genetically imprinted in my DNA — a desire for the sea.

This time when I went back to Little Bridge Head, the sea is somewhat different. The coastline has been rounded up with two-meter high wall. A fish-farming company has bought the area and built miles of pools alongside the coast for fish farming. Rapid development has improved livelihood a great deal in the mainland; however, there is a cost. Nature is gone. Morals, sometimes, are traded for money.

On my first day during this current visit to Little Bridge Head, I took a brisk walk to the coast. I sat on the rocks where I sat on 20-something years ago. Two decades for me is not a short time. I was only a primary-schooler then, and now I have quite a few strands of gray hair.

After a while, my dad saw me and walked towards the shore too.

One cannot say Dad and I have a close relationship. He’s a dutiful father who worked hard to bring bread to the family. But seldom did he talk to us children, ever. He’s been emotionally absent since I have known him.

As I was sitting overlooking the sea, dad sat on a nearby piece of rock, facing the ocean.

“See that island over there?” he murmured and pointed at an island further out in the sea. “We took a small boat and sail there on our way to Hong Kong.”

Then dad turned to the beach and pointed at a small boat and said, “The boat we took was smaller than that one.”

The boat on the beach was about 15-feet long. Nothing fancy.

My dad seldom talked and I seldom listened. Those moments by the sea were rare, yet precious.

“It took a few days to get to that island.”

I tried to imagine the year of 1962, half a century ago, when my parents were only in their early 20s. They had no money at all, no personal belongings. They took the bold step with their first child, a girl less than 2 years ago, to smuggle themselves to Hong Kong.

Between words, dad was quiet, staring at the sea. I sat behind dad and saw only his back. In front of me seemed not the 75-year-old dad. Rather it’s him in his 20s.

Then he turned and pointed at a sandy corner in the left and said, “As a little boy, I swam there.”

All of a sudden, I felt a lump in my throat and my eyes went moist.

He’s not the dad what I felt emotionally absent all the years, neither the stranger or room mate living under the same roof. Suddenly, he’s a human. A human like you and me — with history, with sorrows, with memories, with life.

It’s the first time I felt a desire to love him. Not because I have to, neither because I want to. It is just because a person just like you and me – worthy of love.

And of forgiveness.

And during this family trip, I could not remember how many times I scecretly stared at my father and put him back into perspective, into the place where he was raised and belonged and felt my eyes totally ladden with tears.

If we strip the expectations coated on people by the names of “parents” “children” ” siblings” “spouse” “partner” and let them go naked — as naked as just a human soul, we may well up a different kind of understanding and affection for that person.

In my dad, I see a stranger.

In the stranger, I see me.

Between the stranger and me lies something called humanity.

Dad staring at the sea recounting his past. It's from this coastline that my parents boarded a small fishing boat sailing all the way to HK some 50 years to embark a new life. At the gate of the Tin Hau Statue in the city of Shan Wei. Dad and I took a brisk visit before we headed back to HK.

 

It's from this coastline that my parents boarded a small fishing boat sailing all the way to HK some 50 years to embark a new life.

 

At the gate of the Tin Hau Statue in the city of Shan Wei. Dad and I took a brisk visit before we headed back to HK.

Warming up

Whenever being asked, “How is your preparation going?”, I don’t quite know how to answer.

If what they mean is something tangible, which is often the case, I can wave my e-tickets. At least I have the tickets booked to fly to Delhi and return from Calcutta.

There are billion kinds of people with complicated personality and personal preferences — all affecting their traveling styles. Some plan meticulously; some rely on guided tours; some fixated on Lonely Planet; some roam aimlessly.

I plan. I do. Just in my own way.

Apart from getting my tickets booked, I have also done the followings:

1)  Eating Indian food.

I have been eating Indian food. Now, it does not sound like trip preparation at all, but to me it is. Food and cultures and sentiments are so interconnected. For me, knowing a bit how to order food in a new country is like learning simple phrases in the local tongue. Oftentimes I dine in local (inexpensive) places, places what may not have an English menu, so it’s handy to have some remote ideas what to order. Meanwhile, for a month and a half trip in India and Nepal, I reckon I need to love Indian food or else it’s gonna be pretty miserable. Educating my taste buds is, therefore, essential.

2) Reading books about India.

First a little confession to make. When I travel alone, I very seldom bring a travel guide book. I don’t mind getting lost and asking around and am not good at following instructions. For these past couple years, however, I have been traveling quite a bit with J and given him the privilege to be inspired by the almighty travelers’ bible, LP (in a nutshell, he does the hard work). So we use guide books, but J reads them. Though I don’t study the bible, I read almighty lots too!  For example, “Empire of the Soul” by Paul William Roberts, for example, won’t tell you where to go or which restaurants to dine in Delhi, but it offers some acute insights into the cultures and spirituality of Indians (plus the British dark and dry humor of the writer is a bonus). Another must-read, if you want to know a bit more about Indian society, is Indian writer R. K. Narayan. His fictions reflect the contemporary Indian social customs and inner conflicts. The many readings I have done probably won’t be helpful in the sight hopping. But I often think one will be more attuned to understand the cultures by reading books other than travel guides. Indeed, my travel “guides” have often been novels I read over the past decades.

Preparation by reading and eating.

3) Planing the route.

Very roughly. J is accommodating (I am even more so), so it shouldn’t be a problem to come up with a mutually-agreeable route. My desires are simple: Rajasthan; have a camel ride in a desert and at least camp out for one night; a close up to Mt. Everest in Nepal (even if means an hour Everest sightseeing flight); dusk or dawn of Taj Mahal, plus some chill-out time in Pokhara. For a 45-day trip, J should have a lot of time to fit in what he likes to experience while meeting my desires.

4) Booking

- Never ever did we book anything before trips. Our low budget makes it flexible enough to get and shop around as backpackers and makes it ridiculous to consider booking in advance. Yet I am wondering if we may try one evening at a ridiculously expensive palace in India, which can cost up to 300US. 44 nights of 10-dollar/night budget v.s. 1 night of 300US/night palace is quite a stretch. Hm, let’s see…

5) Others

- I have been listening to many traveling programs on India and this afternoon just fed my Kindle with over 800 books (so I am gonna be well prepared for long bus/train ride). Meeting a doctor in a week for vaccinations. Plus, painting Indian motifs (get my mind set ready for India).

painting with Indian motifs to get my mind attuned

One greatest preparation I think one can ever have — no matter where you go — is a mind set for changes and surprises, set for detours and miracles, set for anything impossible to prepare and too good to anticipate. That’s what I am lecturing my little soul.