A man sat in the surf, his yellow silk robe covered in artfully arranged colorful patches swirling in the foam. He wore an oddly peaked yellow hat embroidered with the sign of the Buddha and drank deeply from a medicine-gourd-shaped bottle. Then he laughed, spraying spittle and liquor high into the air. He was possessed with the spirit of Ji Gong, an eccentric, wandering 10th century Chinese monk.
These were jitong, called dang-ki in Taiwanese, who were falling into trances and, so the story goes, allowing their bodies to be taken over by the spirits of gods and immortals. They started shaking, they fell, they screamed incomprehensible words, they sang and moaned, they ran into the ocean, and they mutilated themselves as the drums beat louder. They are a common sight at temple festivals in southern Taiwan, and those versed in the local folk religion will often listen closely to what they say for clues about the future and the deity’s will.
There were hundreds of them: the whole arc of the beach was overrun with people who were not people, but bleeding, screaming gods. Each one wore a bright red sash. They had attendants, people who sprayed antiseptic and pressed ghost money into wounds, who kept them from drowning in the ocean, who kept onlookers like me from getting too close, and who found them whatever tools they asked for.
Why now, why here, and why so many? Because they, by allowing themselves to act as the earthly vessels of these motley spirits, called in Wen Hong.
All for the Thousand Years Grandfather, you could hear the drums.
What struck me was that not everyone on the beach believed. Certainly the dang-ki believe. What is claimed to be spiritual possession requires some degree of faith to work, especially if that possession entails shrieking, singing, and self-mutilation. It’s also claimed that, when possessed, the dang-ki don’t feel any pain and their wounds heal quickly. Those directly involved with the temples must believe as well. Others, though—onlookers, photographers, locals who come out to see the show, visitors like us—generally don’t.
I am an avowed atheist. I feel comfortable in Taiwan because nobody cares whether you believe or not. Often, even if you are Taiwanese, as long as you do the rites, nobody minds whether you actually peg your faith on them. In the West this idea is often met with contempt. Why would you perform a ritual you didn’t believe in? I found it freeing: you could meet your family and cultural obligations, but there was still space for you, as an individual, to believe as you liked. It was eye-opening to observe such an outpouring of tradition and belief and feel completely welcome, with nobody breathing down my back about my own faith. While I do believe the dang-ki are entranced (I view it as more of a garden-variety hypnotism with the weight of belief behind it) nobody cared that I saw no gods in their eyes. I was still welcome. A local who had come to see the gods rushing in, whether he believed in the gods’ existence or not, would be treated no differently.
I appreciated the history of most of these gods. They were, more often than not, based on real people. The human origin of so many folk gods means that, at the very least, they have some foothold in verifiable history. Gods are often created when those who pray to a deceased person of note enjoy enduring good luck. More people come to pray, and that newly minted god grows in popularity. Such gods are being created even now: in the Taiwanese city of Hsinchu, there is a temple to Chiang Kai-shek who is worshipped in much the same way, often by those who hold him in living memory.
I can easily imagine a King Boat Festival in 500 years that includes a dang-ki possessed by the spirit of, say, Sun Yat-sen. The gods dancing on the beach in our time, however, are of an older vintage.
A woman threw a red spiked ball wound with red cord and caked with blood into the air and caught it on her back. She was wearing an embroidered yellow smock and blowing raspberries in a distinct rhythm. Another had a similar spiked ball stuck into the skin on the crown of his head, tied in place with one of the ubiquitous red sashes.
A man sank into the sand in a ballerina’s split, grabbed some incense and held it aloft. He stared straight at me, and I wondered what he could see. Me? Nothing? Ghosts? Whatever a god sees?
The woman removed the spiked ball from her back; an attendant took it. She danced in jerky motions up to two more women, also wearing smocks. One had devil horn-like ears fashioned out of ghost money stuck in a headband. All three waded waist-deep into the sea, unconcerned with the tumult of the surf. They began to sing and moan in a weird melody, at once harmonic and dissonant. I waded a little further out, lifting my camera above the waves, happy that I’d worn my quick-dry hiking pants but aware that my shirt was also soaked. I took a few pictures, even a short video.
I could hear the drums, and feel the waves. Firecrackers erupted into tufts of smoke, clouds of incense wafted out to sea. The women moaned and sang, and I tried to keep my balance. The unrelenting sun beat down, waves of heat following the rhythm of the drums. I had long since run out of water.
One woman held incense, another brandished a sword. The third held nothing in her open hands, her arms outstretched, begging the sea to grant her incomprehensible, raspberry-blown wishes.
I don’t know when I stopped taking photos. I was barely aware of my camera in my hands, and yet it remained dry. It was hot and bright. I was thirsty. I was engulfed by heat, smoke and noise. There was no end to it: dang-ki raged and pleaded at the ocean all around me, saltwater in their wounds. It’s a good thing that they feel no pain.
The women started moaning in crescendo, following the steady swell of the waves. They came more roughly now; the tide was coming in. I could hear the women but the sun was so bright that it was difficult to see. My back was to the ocean.
"Aaaaaaaahhhh!” they cried, on the crest of a wave. "AAAAhhhhhh!”
I felt lightheaded.
"AAAAAHHHH!”
At their third cry, there was a gust of wind as a large wave pummeled my back, and I was forced closer to shore. I could hear the drums. Everything went white. I could smell smoke. I couldn’t see.
"Jenna, are you okay?” Joseph’s voice pierced the din, and my vision came back. I was still holding my camera, and it was still dry. The women had ridden in to shore on the wave.
I was very dizzy, hot, and quite disoriented.
"I’m okay, but what the hell was that?” I asked in Joseph’s general direction. I don’t think he heard me.
I stood in the wet sand, holding my forehead and surveying the crowd as my dizziness abated. The women had congregated around their idol, and their temple delegation seemed pleased. Joseph wandered off, and a chair appeared under me. I sat for a few moments. A bottle of water was handed to me and I took a swig. A few people around me were very solicitous; I noticed one was holding one of those spray bottles of antiseptic used on the dang-ki.
My rational brain knew this: it was hot, and the drums, smoke, and chanting had gotten the better of me. Now, others were making sure I was okay. I wondered if I’d just acquired a few dang-ki attendants of my own, and how long I’d been in that trance. It couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds, maybe a minute, counting the time when I stopped taking photos. Not more than ten seconds of blindness.
It didn’t matter that I don’t believe in spirit mediums and possession. It didn’t matter that I was a woman, or even that I was a foreigner. Those around me interpreted what they saw as possession; I viewed it as earthly entrancement—after all, what is more earthly than having your head scrambled by heat, sun, sand, and smoke? There was room on that beach for both interpretations.
I was fine, though, and after a few minutes the attendants dispersed. When my dizziness abated fully, I wandered off to take more photos.
There were both male and female dang-ki, although other aspects of King Boat are the provenance of men. Only men may build the boat and carry ghost money and offerings to it on the beach. Depending on which family oversees the festival, some years women are not allowed to join in the communal firewalking (yes, I have firewalked. No, it’s not as scary as it sounds,
but then for communal firewalking they don’t make the coals very hot).
On Earth as it is in heaven: there are aspects to traditional festivals that women may not participate in, even in 2013, but nobody questions a god’s right to call upon a woman to act as the conduit of its spirit. If the gods do not discriminate, it is not for men to say that women cannot act.
This is the final insight that King Boat afforded me: the three dang-ki in the surf with me were women, and despite the gender discrimination that local and expat women rail against across Asia, they were treated no differently than the men.
I considered this in the days and weeks following the festival. Although things are not perfect, I have been able to live in Taiwan, as a woman, without experiencing severe gender discrimination. I felt the weight of sexism in India and China, and although I could not articulate it then, an inability to accept that level of sexism in daily life is one of the reasons why I did not stay in those countries. In both countries, I was admonished at times for my feminist outlook. In Taiwan, certain ideas regarding how women should act and look persist, but there is more space in the culture for women who can’t or won’t meet those expectations. Of course, these expectations are somewhat fluid in all three countries and Taiwan is far from being a feminist utopia: I am aware of the fact that the personal decisions of Taiwanese women often face their families’ friendly fire, and that as an expat I am exempt from this. Compared to the rest of Asia, however, I have felt more accepted here as a woman and a feminist.
All those adjectives-turned-pejoratives one hears the United States—feminist, liberal, atheist—are just descriptors here. Labels you can wear or not. Others may disagree with you, but won’t use your own labels against you.
On a quiet corner of the beach, a man and a woman were dancing. They were both possessed; they were both wearing red sashes and each held a fistful of incense. They were moving their arms in a coordinated motion. Both had scars, now clotting, running down their backs. The man held his incense out over the woman’s head, and she pulled hers back. Then he retracted his arm and she stretched hers forward, holding her incense over his head.
A swath of fireworks exploded—thousands, all at once. The drums began banging together, joined by gongs and cymbals. A thousand balloons were suddenly released from a spot on the southern end of the beach as people clapped. Those still possessed began to come out of their trances, all at once, and reverted to being humans. Red sashes were shed. The Thousand Years Grandfather had arrived.
Jenna Lynn Cody grew up in upstate New York, but has lived abroad for most of her adult life. After a semester in India and a year in China, she attempted to settle down in the USA. Unable to sit still, however, she took off again for Taipei, Taiwan, where she has lived for the past seven years with her husband, Brendan. She works as a corporate trainer and blogs at Lao Ren Cha.
OUR LITTLE PIECE OF VIETNAM
By Sharon Brown
Summer in Vietnam is hot. Not just hot, but a stifling, perspiration-soaked, still-hot-after-four-daily-showers heat that pervades every moment spent outside of an air-conditioned space. Yet you wouldn’t know this by looking at Vietnamese women. Unlike places where climate dictates what people wear, in Vietnam, dress has little to do with temperature. Despite the heat, Vietnamese women often cover themselves from head-to-toe in business casual work clothes, or long silk "Vietnamese pajamas,” large sunglasses, face masks, elbow-length gloves, and stockings: every inch of them shielded from the sun. Respecting this form of dress, a combination of cultural formality and a desire for white, unblemished skin, was part of life as an expatriate in Vietnam. But at nine months pregnant, dressing to go out in the heat became one of the few discomforts of an otherwise easy pregnancy.
Aside from the heat, being pregnant in Vietnam was enjoyable. During my previous visits, I had been repeatedly asked whether I was married ("Why not?”), whether I had children ("Why not?”), and when I planned to accomplish both of these desirable goals ("Soon!”). Now that I was on my way, my growing belly made me quite popular. Neighbors, street vendors, women in the markets, all acknowledged my pregnancy with friendly comments and smiles. The most common question was, "Con gai? Con trai? (Girl? Boy?)” My response, "Con gai,” was always met with approving nods. I’m sure if I understood more Vietnamese, this question would not have been the last. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, I was spared further conversation due to my inability to communicate beyond, "Girl? Boy?”
For two years, my husband and I had been living in Ho Chi Minh City where he was working as a teacher at an international school. We had moved to Asia to further explore the diverse cultures and destinations we had come to know only briefly on a previous trip. Once in Vietnam, we immersed ourselves in the southern culture with an apartment in a traditional urban neighborhood, Vietnamese language lessons, frequent visits to local restaurants and food stalls, and even learning how to navigate a motorbike in Ho Chi Minh City traffic. Being health-conscious, we especially loved the holistic Eastern approach to health, emphasizing balance, prevention, individual responsibility, and of course, regular massages.
When we learned I was pregnant in August of 2009, we were excited to experience this new phase of life in a country we’d grown to love. After our initial celebrations, we began to discuss healthcare options. I watched the documentary "The Business of Being Born” and read books promoting natural-birth options. I learned about the domino effect of unnecessary interventions that can occur in hospital settings, where artificial induction could lead to caesarian section and where medical intervention sometimes works against the body’s natural ability to birth a child. Since I was terrified of needles and all manner of operating equipment, an epidural and cesarean were things I hoped to avoid at all costs. Yet, while I wanted a natural-birth experience for our baby, I wasn’t looking forward to the painful part of natural childbirth. I had read that things typically discouraged in strict medical settings—movement, water, natural birthing positions—could help to ease some of the pain. I wanted my birth experience to be as natural, and yet still as painless, as possible.
When I began searching for an environment and practitioner who would accommodate a natural-birth plan, my husband was supportive, but ultimately, he just wanted to be there.
I began with what I knew. "I could fly home to deliver. There are lots of birthing centers in Florida.”
"That’s a long way to go to have a baby. Isn’t there anything around here?”
"Singapore has water birth and hypno-birthing classes. Women go there from all over Southeast Asia to deliver.” I envisioned delivering in a day spa, gazing out the window at the gleaming towers of downtown Singapore.
"That would be cool, but it sounds expensive. Do they accept Vietnamese insurance?”
"Hmmm, probably not. Let’s see… Thailand has an international hospital that promotes natural birth. I’ve heard the nurses will even fly here to accompany you on the plane.” My mouth began to water at the thought of three meals of Thai food a day.
"Thailand would be sweet, but what if the baby comes early? How would I get there in time for the birth? What about a hospital here?”
"A hospital here?” After a year of Vietnamese lessons, I could confidently order two beers at the corner store and tell my neighbors I was going to the market, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t learn enough to ask for a birthing ball by May. Was there even a Vietnamese word for birthing ball?
With my husband’s encouragement, I learned of a nearby international hospital and began contacting other women who had delivered there. Over multiple glasses of ca phe sua da, sweet Vietnamese iced coffee, I interviewed other new expat mothers. Each woman I talked with had a different story, but each had a happy ending. Many of the women also wanted control over the birth of their child and were satisfied with their experience. They encouraged me to follow through with our decision to deliver in Vietnam. The hospital was staffed with French and Vietnamese professionals; everyone
spoke some combination of English, French and Vietnamese; and they adhered to the highest of international medical standards. Only the story of a nurse standing on the table, physically pushing on the mother’s abdomen gave me pause, but ultimately we decided to stay for practical and financial reasons. It would not meet many of my hopes for a natural birthing environment, but it would be safe and professional, and hopefully, we would have some control over the experience.
We made our initial appointments at the international hospital and began taking childbirth preparation classes from a British midwife with other expatriate couples expecting in the spring. Aside from one woman who was flying home to deliver, the others were all delivering at the local international hospital and all had the same doctor, Dr. Thomas, a Frenchman practicing temporarily in Vietnam. Neither my husband nor I had heard of Dr. Thomas; we had met with a Vietnamese doctor at the hospital. She was professional and experienced, if not overly warm, but so far we were satisfied with her care. Yet after our first class, we began to doubt our choice.
Most of the women in the class had questions and concerns similar to my own, and the midwife’s answer to them all was, "If you are with Dr. Thomas, you will be fine.”
"What if I don’t want medication?”
"If you are with Dr. Thomas, you will be fine.”
"Will they strap me down? What if I want to walk around?”
"If you are with Dr. Thomas, you will be fine.”
"What if I don’t want to be induced unless medically necessary?”
"If you are with Dr. Thomas, you will be fine.”
And then me: "What if I am not with Dr. Thomas?”
"If you are with … oh, well. I would talk to Dr. Thomas and see if he can take you on.”
Later that day, my husband and I made an appointment to see Dr. Thomas. I knew I would not have a truly natural birth experience in the hospital, but I did hope to have some control over what happened. I wanted to be free to walk around during labor, to avoid artificial induction, to deliver without medication, and to nurse and bond with our baby immediately after birth. I also hoped to avoid lying on my back with my feet up in stirrups, but that, I was told, was the only option for a hospital birth in Vietnam, even with Dr. Thomas.
How Does One Dress to Buy Dragonfruit? True Stories of Expat Women in Asia Page 9