Two Temples and the Water Monster: My weekend in a small, fast-changing village
A resident of Double Temple washes her clothes in the lake.
What I can only assume was, seconds earlier, complete countryside silence is suddenly pierced by the startling sound of fireworks popping like gunfire, their shockwaves ricocheting between the dozen or so houses that stand like crops amongst huge, brown fields.
But what, to this outsider, initially sounded alarming is, for the locals, a joyous racket. It’s 8am in Double Temple Village — around 100 kilometers from Shanghai and located outside Pinghu City of neighboring Zhejiang Province. Today is a special day.
The Shao family, one of a dozen or so households in the village, are hosting a jiuxi (banquet), an event of the scale only seen here once or twice a year. It’s Tangtang’s first birthday, and everyone will come together in a huge red tent to share in the festivities.
One of our first stops is the town’s namesake, two temples at the end of the field to the side of his house. The people here all practice Buddhism and are deeply superstitious.
One of the two temples, the village’s namesakes, where residents pray and an old woman keeps busy.
I’m in Double Temple with a friend, Shao Dongliang, who grew up here but was soon drawn in by Shanghai’s gravitational pull. A huge motorway to Shanghai is being ploughed just beside the village, and it might change the way of life here forever.
Since it’s so unnaturally early we decide to go for a walk around the village after eating some fresh strawberries and nuts.
It’s a foggy, gray day, and what I suppose would normally look like bright green reads as a muted shade of brown. It’s quiet again, and the smell of nature and crispy spring air, dusted with whiffs of firework smoke, prevails. Their two dogs, a mother and son who are both unnamed, follow us on our walk. “They’re good dogs,” Dongliang tells me.
One of our first stops is the town’s namesake, two temples at the end of the field to the side of his house. The people here all practice Buddhism and are deeply superstitious.
The structures look like old, rotting sheds from the side, separated by a small stream of water and a little bridge, but once you arrive at the front you are clouded with smoke from dozens and dozens of burning candles. My friend kneels on the knee bench sitting atop the wet mud and does a short prayer.
An old, hunchbacked lady more than 90 years of age busies herself inside one of the temples. They are her responsibility, and she is here for much of the day tidying up and making sure the candles keep burning.
A dark path leads past the spot where the water monster lives, who was blamed for the drowning of a local boy decades ago.
When he was younger the elders told him and the other kids to stay away, lest they be pulled into the water by that evil thing, whatever it is.
A house next to the spot of the water monster lies abandoned.
Dongliang tells me he wants to show me somewhere he hasn’t been in a long time. It still scares him, he says, even though he’s grown up now. It’s where the shuiguai (water monster) lives. I’m intrigued already. He takes me near an old, abandoned house next to a body of muddy water and points to the area, hesitant to approach it himself. A peaceful and pleasant scene with a small path between the building and the murky lake, darkened by a low hanging tree, greets me. It’s where she lives.
When he was younger the elders told him and the other kids to stay away, lest they be pulled into the water by that evil thing, whatever it is. “A young boy from the village drowned here about 35 years ago,” he tells me. “Everyone blamed it on her (the water monster), that’s why we were told never to come here.”
Our next stop is a room where a witch still practices her craft. It’s filled with burning candles, and people in the village like to come to see her when they feel sick or like they’ve run into bad luck or can’t sleep. She will pray for them and try to find the cause and then give them a special package of rice wrapped in red paper to make rice tea.
“Sometimes people don’t like to go to the hospital,” Dongliang explains. “They prefer to ask the witch to cure their sickness.”
His phone suddenly rings, snapping us instantly back to reality from a world with which I am completely unaccustomed. It’s time to head to the big red tent for the celebration.
All in all, dozens of dishes are delivered to each table, featuring more meat than you might like to eat in a whole month. There’s pork, beef, lamb, turtle, eel, fish, crab, lobster and the odd sprinkling of vegetable.
An elderly villager cuts up a birthday cake for her table.
The solitude of the witch’s house and the place where the water monster lives pales in comparison to the raucous energy of the red tent. There are 17 tables, each seating about eight people. That’s more than 130 people together eating, talking, smoking and laughing in celebration of little Tangtang’s first birthday.
A special table is set up in the house with 16 pairs of chopsticks, one for each of the family’s ancestors that have passed away. The first of each dish is delivered there.
A team of about a dozen slave over hot cooking pots powered by the constant burning of dry flax.
All in all, dozens of dishes are delivered to each table, featuring more meat than you might like to eat in a whole month. There’s pork, beef, lamb, turtle, eel, fish, crab, lobster and the odd sprinkling of vegetable.
Tangtang is carried around to every table by her mother, Shao Huhui. The little girl smiles, but clearly has yet to realize that these 130-odd people are here just for her. Huhui must be tired — Tangtang, although only one, weighs an impressive 10 kilograms.
I wonder how much effort and cost goes into putting on such a feast, and how much strain it puts on the host family.
A special table is set up with 16 places, one for each of the host family’s ancestors.
“Actually, to organize such a big event in our village requires everyone to participate in some way,” Dongliang explains as we sample a myriad of flavors new to me. “We need people to serve the dishes, wash the veggies and other food, make tea for the host’s relatives, and after the party, everyone will help to clean and tidy up the house. It’s hard work but everyone feels like it’s their duty to help and no one complains — after all, it might be your family’s turn to host next.”
That is, if Double Temple Village remains by the time another xishi (happy event) comes along worth celebrating. The Zhaxing Highway, which connects the nearby city of Pinghu with Shanghai, is already being built right beside the village.
Huhui, little Tangtang’s mother, comes and sits down for a few minutes to ask how everything is. She tells me that the construction of the new highway has damaged their home, and that they will need to leave soon to live in Pinghu. But she’s happy, especially because she thinks it will be better for her little one. “It’s good for the kids to have a better education in the city,” she says. That is all possible due to the generous government compensation that will come from the damage done creating the highway.
Shao Huhui holds her daughter Tangtang, with grandpa Hu Xueping, after the banquet has quietened down a bit.
What the masses have lost for the construction of this expressway is not only their homes that they’ve lived in for nearly a lifetime, but also a kind of spiritual memory. Not everyone likes the urban life. Life in the countryside is more free, unrestrained.
My friend’s mom, Fu Ying, sees the good and the bad. She thinks that city life is more prosperous and will reduce some of the stress of retirement. But she’ll miss the nature, peace and tranquility of village life. “The living space is bigger, the air is fresher, and you can grow your own veggies and fruit here.” She scoops up a bit of birthday cake and feeds it to her granddaughter, Jin Yuanbao, who sits on her knee.
I choose not to ask Dongliang how he feels about the fate of his village until we are on our way back to Shanghai. He thinks a while as he looks out the window. When he’s collected his thoughts, he prefaces his reply by agreeing that this kind of development is “a necessary thing.” And then comes the “but.”
“What the masses have lost for the construction of this expressway is not only their homes that they’ve lived in for nearly a lifetime, but also a kind of spiritual memory. Not everyone likes the urban life. Life in the countryside is more free, unrestrained.”
The rest of the trip is quiet — probably a mixture of pondering and exhaustion. When we finally arrive back in Shanghai and are about to part ways, Dongliang reminds me that I’ve been invited to the village’s next jiuxi, a massive wedding in May. “They’ve spent a lot, I heard — they’ll even have performances!”
Of course I’d love to go — I just hope that the dizzying pace of development hasn’t changed too much of Double Temple between now and then.
