Hakka Hamlet of Changting Tufang

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Changting Page 4

"Journey to Hakka Hamlet of Tufang!"
(Click Thumbnails for larger images)
Click for Changting Page 1 (Intro)
Click for Changting Page 2 (Hakka Museum, Old Town, Hakka Maids, etc.)
Click for Changting Page 3 (Hakka Cuisine and "Drinking Culture")
Click for Changting Page 4 (Changting--Lil' Red Religious Center)
Click for Changting Photo Album by Photographer "Babushka" (Great Photos of Hakka Festivals!)

“China’s two most beautiful small cities are Fenghuang in Hunan, and Changting in Fujian.” Rewi Alley

Rise and Shine! Martial music blaring from loudspeakers roused me from bed the next morning at 6:00 AM. Chinese love loudspeakers. Even farmers in their fields can guide their water buffalo to the accompaniment of news reports, exhortations and admonitions, and music ranging from the national anthem to the Beatles and Mancini’s “Baby Elephant Walk.”

Chinese without alarm clocks may appreciate the wake-up call, and the lively counting that accompanies folks performing their jumping jacks, knee bends, and push-ups. But my alarm clock is built in and it wasn’t set for 6:00 AM—or any other time. I preferred to rise when the Spirit moved me. I jammed in my earplugs so tightly they met behind my nose, but to no avail. I finally fell out of bed, struggled to my feet and ate the ‘salty’ rolls I’d bought the previous night.

Chinese say bread is either sweet or salty (salty meaning it’s not sweet). My Changting rolls weren’t sweet, but they were drenched in what looked like 40W motor oil, and stuffed with shredded pork and hot dog (not, I hoped, remnants of someone’s puppy in a pot). I’m usually careful what I eat, for as Isaac Newton almost said, “What goes down must come up .” But the rolls were actually quite tasty, especially when washed down with lukecold instant coffee.

About 6:30, firecrackers went off in the distance. At night it might have signaled at banquet, but at that time of morning they were either from a monastery, wedding, or a funeral. I joked to my friend that maybe it was Red Army gunfire. He said, “The Red Army did use firecrackers! They didn’t have weapons so they scared off the Kuomintang with volleys of noisy but harmless firecrackers!”

Firecrackers are now banned in cities like Beijing, Shanghai, and Xiamen, where we just play cassette recordings of firecrackers on giant amplified sound systems—or pop hundreds of balloons with pins. But towns like Changting still get a bang out of fireworks—from dawn to dusk.

Hakka Hamlet of TuFang (涂坊) After a hasty breakfast (at least by Chinese standards; it took half an hour), we set out to see the prototype of the museum’s miniature Hakka Hamlet.

Babushka warned, “It’s pretty bad road,” but I figured it couldn’t be any worse than roads we’d crossed in the Gobi Desert or Tibet. So we headed east on the 319 highway, past HeTian (河田), home of the famous HeTian chickens, towards South Mountain Town (南山, NanShan).

Changting’s countryside is unspoiled because of its relatively small population. The water is so clean locals drink it straight. The entire countryside is laid out in green plaids—grains, vegetables, and field after field of the famous Changting tobacco with velvety leaves large enough to make a small umbrella. The aroma of orange blossoms wafting in the breeze reminded me of Florida. Changting is experimenting, quite successfully, with American oranges.

Red-cheeked children in white and blue uniforms and red kerchiefs carried knapsacks and plastic umbrellas advertising a local beer. Several shouted “Hello! How wa you! O.K!” (Chinese children must begin English study by at least 7th grade).

A water buffalo’s calf was almost as shaggy as a Tibetan yak. It looked like someone had curled its hair. The humble Hakka farmstead behind the cows was fashioned from native earthen bricks, but the weeds between the bricks suggested it was returning to the earth that gave it birth.

Reconnaissance A sign about an hour southeast of Changting read, “Pengkou 29 km, Longyan 113 km, TuFang 15 km.” The Tufang road was a wide serpentine path winding south through an idyllic valley of tobacco fields, streams, ancient wood and stone villages, bridges, and towering stone aqueducts. I stopped for a photo. A lady sat under an umbrella selling cigarettes, bottled water, dried fruit, and soft drinks. She asked, “What are you photographing?”
“The fields,” I said.
“Why?” she asked. “They’re just ordinary fields.” She mumbled, “Foreigners!” I started to joke about reconnaissance, but bit my tongue. That line of humor could get me in trouble. Someday my wit will join with my lack of wits to hang me. It’s No wonder Susan Marie always complains, “Bill, be serious!” She even laughed when I asked her to marry me. Tough for the ego when you steel yourself to propose and the girl laughs in your face and says, “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

But life is short, and laughter lengthens it. And so does good air, at least according to Babushka. The air was so crisp and clean that I could taste the river in the distance. Babushka said, “Clean air and pure water not only gives us beautiful girls but also long lives to enjoy them!”

Bosoms Babushka pulled from his camera bag a colorfully embroidered Hakka maid’s apron. “I bought this for only two Yuan!” he said. “I like photographing beautiful Hakka girls wearing this apron. They have such nice little bosoms.”

If I tried that, Susan Marie would use the apron around my neck. But I hoped that maybe I could buy one of the handwoven palm fiber raincapes that are rapidly being replaced by plastic raincoats.

Endless rows of freshly pressed bricks, piled ten high, under plastic sheets, varied in color from red to black and yellow, depending upon the soil. Bricks, bricks, and more bricks—a far cry from the fine Tang and Song Dynasty ceramics produced here a mere 1,000 years ago, though more practical. Who needs a porcelain home or outhouse?

A few miles down the road it started to rain and our view vanished as poor Toy Ota was covered in mud. Fortunately, we soon came to a paved road, and a long lost work of Revolutionary art.

The Chuanxin Zou Malou farmstead, (穿心走马楼) in Yang KengCun Hamlet (洋坑村), must have been a beauty in its time. But now the white plaster panels and intricate wooden beams and columns are falling to pieces. The enclosed pond is covered with scum. Cows graze on the thistles and grass in the abandoned buildings, and every room is filled with piles of straw and rubbish. One can almost feel the ghosts of farmers—and soldiers bent on routing the foreign devils!

In the 20s or 30s, Revolutionary artists painted cartoons and propaganda on the white plaster sections. Block characters in blood red ink literally shouted slogans like, “The People are the only force of history!” An elaborate cartoon on one panel showed Red Army soldiers thoroughly trouncing the Japanese.

But the artwork, like the farm, was falling to pieces, the victim of time and vandalism. The normally ebullient Babushka complained bitterly, “These should be in a museum. They are crumbling before my eyes, and soon all we’ll have left are my photos.” (His sentiments were echoed by Wuyi Mountain’s famed photographer, Wu Guangmin (吴光明).

Alas—my flash was dead, so no photos. Next time!

Tufang Town (涂坊) had a nice concrete main street, but it was a poor place, with rows of modern brick buildings in various states of incompletion, behind which were dozens of classic Hakka earthen homes. The hamlet’s two gas stations were pumps set inside houses. Apathetic attendants perched patiently beside the pumps—cigarettes in hand. I was glad I had a full tank.

Tufang’s headman invited us to his office for tea and a chat. He was tall, well built, well dressed, and obviously well educated. I imagined he was pretty surprised to have a foreigner show up in his little two-ox town, but the surprise was on me!

Small, Small World! Bill and Kitty Job settled in Xiamen in 1987. Since you can’t really expect someone from Tennessee to teach English, they went into business instead. Their stained glass firm has been so innovative that the Wall Street Journal did a piece on their company. After Bill opened a factory in a remote town of West Fujian he invited me to visit, but I never had the time, though I was curious just where this village was.

And then Tufang’s headman told me that two Americans had helped build a kindergarten in Tufang, and were starting a factory. He grabbed his cell phone, punched in a dozen numbers, and handed the phone to me so he could introduce me to—Bill Job! It’s a small world after all!

Clouds Evaporate, Azure Glow 云蒸霞蔚 Without a guide I’d have never found the walled Hakka village on which the museum miniature was modeled. We strolled to the end of the concrete side road, wound to the left on a path across rice paddies and along a scummy duck pond, took the right fork, and followed a 3-foot-wide mud and stone path to a “T” intersection. On the left was the arched gate to the walled village. A grinning grandpa said, “You’ve come! Have some tea!”

If anyone ever says, “Have some coffee!” I’ll faint right on the spot.

A sign above the gate read YunZheng XiaWei (云蒸霞蔚), which means, “Clouds Evaporate, Azure Glow.” Whatever that means.

The village was an oblong circle of one-story earthen buildings with tile roofs and wooden frames. The scum on the courtyard’s duck pond was so thick it looked like a green plastic swimming pool cover. I could probably have walked on it (though I generally avoid walking on water in public—except at Baishuiyang, in North Fujian).

Residences were in front of the duck pond, and storage and workrooms behind it. A grandpa was patiently making millions of little sticks with a wood-framed saw like the one Christ probably used 2000 years ago. The sticks were for the massive temple candles that throb hypnotically and smoke worse than the Marlboro man. The elderly gent humored me as I photographed him from several angles, and even tilted his head and posed his handsaw for best effect. Aiyah. Foreigners!

Elusive View We explored half of Tufang seeking the rooftop Babushka claimed gave a bird’s eye view of the walled Hakka village. A grandpa said, “Go around the back,” but we kept searching.

We climbed five flights of stairs in three places. I was heaving and sweating and going stair crazy by the time we found the entrance was indeed in back. The grandpa we’d passed earlier grumbled, “Should have listened. Young people.”

We said our goodbyes to Tufang, but I want to return—preferably on Lantern Festival (the 15th day of the Lunar New Year). That’s when they have the famous “100 Pot Feast,” and wrestle the 300-pound pusa to win the Hakka maiden, and perform the lively Tufang version of the Zougushi parade, where children in make-up and ancient costumes are hoisted on poles and paraded down the streets.

I also want to travel further up the Tufang road to XuanChengXiang (宣城乡) Hamlet, which has the marvelous Eternal Dragon (永龙桥) wooden covered bridge. Maybe some day I’ll even accept Babushka’s invitation to rent a farmer’s home for the summer—provided it has A/C and cable TV.

SinoPec and Porcelain Unless they need gasoline, most people speed right past the SinoPec beside the 319 Highway’s 317.2 km marker. But beside the station is a brick kiln. Behind the kiln is a nondescript hill where once lurked a dragon kiln. The hill is an archaeological treasure trove of 800-year-old North Song dynasty pottery. Bare rings on the mountains two kilometers up the road were not UFO landing sites or crude crop circles, but the sites where the ancients mined kaolin (from the Chinese word “Gaolin”)—crucial to porcelain production.

It just goes to show that in a 5,018-year-old country, every hillside is probably an archaeological treasure trove.
(We will visit a restored dragon kiln in Wuyi Mountain).

Caution: all ancient artifacts are, in theory at least, turned over to the government. But locals sometimes forget theory, and at times inadvertently sell a bowl or three. I wouldn’t advise buying them though. Antiques are sold quite legally in many major cities like Xiamen, Quanzhou and Fuzhou.

Hetian Hot Tubs & Chickens Near the 320 km marker I turned south into Hetian Town. I took the left fork, which was just as well since a green mini bus was parked diagonally in the middle of the right fork. We hung a right at the market and Toy Ota squirmed between stalls offering pork, veggies, various fungi, dried herbs, a dozen varieties of tofu, and the famed Hetian chickens, who were still strutting and fretting across the stage , mindless of their mortality. I parked in a broad plaza and we walked to the hot springs, where one fellow scraped a dead pig in the boiling water and another rinsed his veggies.

A Bath A Day… Hetian villagers bathe daily because 1) the water supposedly cures all skin diseases, and 2) it’s free. Women bathe in a pool behind the pig scraper, but I didn’t check it out. Behind a wall to the left were at least 40 male par-boiled bodies ranging in age from 5 to 95. Some were submerged up to their necks, others stood about absently as if their brains had boiled too long. Fully clothed, I felt more self-conscious than the dozens of par-boiled bodies staring at me. One ancient scarecrow of a man muttered, “Even foreigners are coming here now.”

Each of the 20 or so Hetian Hakka clans has a ceremonial round stone tub. Babushka animatedly explained that these are where brides-to-be are bathed. Perhaps he’s still dreaming of photographing a bona fide bride to replace his 5-cent photo of the 12-year old.

Changting people also enjoy the therapeutic springs. Every Sunday, dozens of city folk take the 20-minute jaunt in a 3 Yuan green minibus to spend the day in Hetian. They bathe as long as they can stand it, anywhere from mere minutes to an hour or two. Then they have a hot lunch of noodles and HeTian chicken and head home. The entire outing may cost no more than 20 yuan for a family. Good clean fun—as long as the pigs and the people are scalded separately.

Chinese Viagra After a short break at the Hakka Guesthouse, we dined at Linjia Restaurant (恋家饭店) a small place run by my companion’s friend. Small, maybe—but the food was excellent, and inexpensive. Try them! (Address: 兆征路 106号--#106, ZhaoZheng Rd.).

We ate in a small room at the top of the narrow wooden steps. The proprietor immediately set out several small bottles of an alcoholic beverage before my host, who reassured me, “You need not drink this, but I’ve been away from home for awhile and will need it tonight.”
“Why?”
He laughed. “This is China’s Viagra!”
I thought he’d visited Guanzai Mountain’s “Root of Life” once too often.

I read the ingredients: essences of dog, deer, mountain goat, and everything else. But with 35% alcohol, I’d think he’d need to strike a balance between virility and veering off the bed.
Maybe Changting’s Red Army supplemented Red Army Cola with this Chinese Viagra, and the Long March spread its use to the rest of China. It would explain the population’s growth from 400 million to 1.3 billion.

Home Cooking Linjia Restaurant was not much to look at, but the food equaled that in the best local hotels. I enjoyed the laid-back, homey atmosphere as we feasted on various dishes—exquisite Changting tofu, BBQ beef ribs with cilantro, and tiny two-inch long deep-fried fish—bones and all. “These are ‘green’ foods!” My host explained. “Clean air, clean water!”
The corn soup had strips of what resembled boiled bicycle tires with white walls. I wasn’t surprised to learn it was snake. Tires aren’t as tough.
The BBQ cow hooves were a first for me. I’ve had pickled piggy toes but never munched on cow toes.

When the serious after-dinner drinking began I excused myself to phone Susan Marie, buy some oil pork floss rolls for breakfast, and spend the evening scanning Babushka’s photos into my computer. Then I hit the bed, which hit right back. It was harder than a board. I found a fluffy Chinese coverlet in the closet, but I couldn’t decide if to sleep on it and be comfortable but cold or under it and be warm and bruised. I had barely nodded off when I was awakened—but this time not by loudspeakers.

Rise and Smoke My second morning I was roused from bed at not at 6:00 AM but 5:30 by the TV blaring from the room across the hall. My neighbors had kindly left their door open to allow everyone to enjoy the predawn racket, and to let their cigarette smoke dissipate.

Chinese claim they are ‘sons of the dragon.’ I’m not sure if this dragon breathes fire or not but its sons sure smoke. China has more smokers than America has people, and the entire nation has but two divisions: Smoking Areas, and Passive Smoking Areas.

Flood Control I slammed my door shut and crammed my earplugs in deeper—and then the loudspeakers began. This was followed by ten minutes of fireworks. I read the writing on the wall and decided to take a bath. And then I discovered why Changting folk flock to Hetian every Sunday. I complained about the lack of hot water to the maid and she said, “Let it run awhile.”
“It’s run 15 minutes already!” I complained.
“Try a few minutes longer,” she said.

Changting had a killer flood in 1996, so maybe this is all part of a strategy to help keep the river in check I probably lowered the water table by 3 feet just trying to get a hot bath. I finally gave up and took a cold shower, which I thought wasn’t entirely fair since I wasn’t the one who had overdosed on Chinese Viagra.

The Last Supper After checking out and settling accounts, I had my last supper. Actually, it was lunch, but I’m taking a little illiterary leeway here. We dined at the Changting Guesthouse (长汀宾馆), whose cook has more medals than a Vietnamese general.
Changting’s premier hotel, which just had a 2 million Yuan facelift, opened in 1979 for foreign barbarians and domestic big potatoes, and not until 1988 could the masses mess around the place.

The manager said Changting Binguan’s location is perfect, with the Wu Long Mountain in back, Nan Ping Mountain in Front, and the Martyr’s Memorial next door (which insures guests sleep like the dead? ).

After a memorable meal, though I don’t remember what we had, we browsed Changting specialties in the tourist shop.

I was offered “7 Wolf cigarettes,” six-packs of Red Army Cola, Changting’s famous dried tofu, preserved plums, dried mushrooms and fungi, black porcelain (both Song Dynasty antiques and reproductions), and heat-and-serve vacuum packed foil pouches of Mao’s beloved pork and pickled vegetables, as well as Yanjiu Chicken. I thought of sending some home to my folks but getting the fowl through U.S. customs would be no poultry undertaking.

Caveat Emptor! I told the management that transparent packages labeled “Wild Mushrooms” in fact contained dried bamboo shoots. She responded, “It doesn’t matter. Anyone can see they’re bamboo, not mushrooms.” So… caviar empty. Or something like that.

Farewell, Little Red Shanghai. No wonder Rewi Alley fell in love with the town. It’s not just the mystical mist-enshrouded mountains and the ancient Hakka architecture, but the people. I can see why Changting maidens monopolize beauty pageants, and why Hakka men tussle over a 330 pound Buddha to win their favor. But I can also see why the girls like the men. One youth on a motorcycle had such a clear complexion and square jaw (even the movie star’s dimple!) that he could have given Mel Gibson a run for his money.

But West Fujianese’ beauty is not just skin deep. Their pride and self-confidence explain why West Fujian was home not just to the many Hakka who have excelled abroad, but to New China—which paradoxically is both one of the oldest and one of the newest nations on earth.

West Fujian—the Hakka Homeland and Cradle of Chinese Communism. Next time I visit Little Red Shanghai, I’m going to take my shoes off and stay awhile! ...

P.S. Don’t miss these great Changting Sites!

Source of the Ting River

Ancient Well (老古井Laogu Jing)
Changting’s oldest well, considered a miracle because it never dries up, whatever the conditions. On top of that, while Mao ZeDong lived in Changting, every morning he used the well to wash his face, brush his teeth, and clean his clothes (not necessarily in that order). And to make the well healthier, he brought in a well specialist, which I thought was a well-meaning gesture.

Tingzhou Hakka Research Institute (中国汀洲客家研究中心 Zhongguo Tingzhou Kejia Yanjiu Zhongxin)

Tingzhou Ancient City Wall (汀洲古城墙Tingzhou Gucheng Qiang)
Tang Dynasty, at least 1200 years old.

Dragon Hill against White Clouds (龙山白云—Longshan Baiyun) – the Jin Sha Temple.

Zhongshan Park and the Qiu Bai Pavilion (秋白亭 Qiubai Ting).
Every two-ox town in China has a Zhongshan Park (named after Sun Yat-sen, but called Lenin Park during the Soviet Chinese days). The Qiu Bai Pavilion is named after Qiu Bai, the young revolutionary martyr. To the rear of the Hakka Museum you can see where he was imprisoned, and where he was shot.

Hakka Girls. They’re everywhere. Please just take photos, not the girls.

Chaodou Rock’s Shuiyun Temple. The Buddha is said to have his back to tourists because he’s piqued that so few people repent and begin life anew.

Xiamen University’s Former Campus (厦门大学校本部旧址)

A Xiamen University professor told me China had 5000 years of history but that was 18 years ago, so now its 5018 years of history.

And 3 months.

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