Nong Tang: A Walk Back In Time

    At the historic Peace Hotel in Shanghai’s busy commercial district, a doorman hails a taxi for us. Michael is on a consulting mission to Shanghai. After fifty-seven years, he has come home to the city of his birth.

    “Where to, sir?” the taxi driver asks.

    Michael takes out a small piece of paper from his breast pocket and pronounces in Mandarin, “I Yee Jin Lu.”

    The driver seems puzzled, looks at the street name, and checks his directory.

    “No such street. Where did you get this name?”

    “I lived near that street, in one of the nong tang, more than fifty-seven years ago.” Nong tang, each a labyrinth of small lanes lined with low brick houses joined end to end, built in the early twentieth century, some earlier, a relic of a time bygone.

    “Fifty-seven years!” The driver laughs, shaking his head. “They’ve been pulling these things down all over the city to make way for new constructions. Progress, my friend. With the Beijing Olympics in 2008, many foreign visitors will be coming to Shanghai. Can’t show those slums. Lose face!”

    “But the street’s got to be there still.”

    “These old street names, they’ve been changed. Who knows what your street is called nowadays.”

    “Is your public library open on Sundays?” I break in.

    “It’s open every day. In China, Sunday is like any other day of the week.”

    “Then take us to your central public library.”

    We walk briskly up the white concrete steps of an ultra modern architectural phenomenon, through steel and glass swivel doors, and stop at the information desk of Shanghai’s Central Public Library. Michael presents his piece of paper with the name of the street. The librarian checks in her computer, frowns, checks again.

   “Where are the nong tang? There’s got to be still some left in the city.” My husband sounds impatient.  

   “I’ve found it,” the librarian says quietly.

   “What?”

   “I’ve found I Yee Jin Lu. It’s in the cross-reference street directory. The name’s been changed to An Shing Lu.”

   Another taxi takes us across town, meandering through narrow streets flanked with open storefronts. At a crossroad near the North Railway Station, the driver finally brings his cab to a halt.

   “An Shing Lu,” he announces, pointing to the street in front.

   “I’m actually looking for a nong tang called Tak Yun Fong which runs into An Shing Lu,” Michael defines his destination more precisely.

   “I wouldn’t know. These nong tang are fast disappearing. I will let you off here. This is a short street. Go look for your nong tang.”

   Michael and I proceed on foot towards one end of An Shing Lu, barely missing cyclists along the way. We pass lots of fruit stands where flies hover around apples, pears, pomegranates, strawberries. There is the sweet, stagnant smell of decayed fruit in the air. We pass meat shops. Butchers hack with cleavers at fresh kill, while some push bloodied water from shop floors with straw brooms towards gutters on the street. Fishmongers dress and clean recent catch, leaving gills and entrails in bins by the roadside, a heaven for flies.

   “Jennie told me the characters Tak Yun Fong were on the entrance to the nong tang,” Michael says. Jennie, Michael’s oldest sister who lives in Calgary, would have a better recollection of the place. But she has no ambition at all to come back.

   We have reached the end of An Shing Lu. No sign of Tak Yun Fong. We retrieve our steps, heading for the other end of the street. We are on the last stretch of the street, looking warily to the left and right of us, hoping to see a hidden entrance to an alley. Just as we are losing hope, we come upon it – the gateway to the nong tang – a grey stone arch sandwiched between a couple of two-storey houses. The archway is the width of a narrow storefront. It has a whitewashed upper level that frames a red-shuttered window above the arch. The big bold characters Tak Yun Fong are above the arch, below the window, in fresh red paint. This, then, is the doorway to my husband’s childhood. Just beneath the triangular apex of the entire gateway structure are the numerals 1929, also repainted in red. 1929. The same year the grand Peace Hotel was completed.  

   Michael takes in a deep breath. We enter through the humble arched gateway with greater excitement than the first time we walked under the Arc de Triomphe. We are on the main stem of the nong tang. Smaller side lanes meet it from our right, like capillaries joining a main artery. To the left of us is a high wall marking the boundary of the non tang.  

   “I remember a well somewhere near the end of the main alley,” Michael says with high spirit. “One time my ball bounced into the well.”

   “Was that where the residents got their water?”

   “Actually the well was more for cooling water melons. Even back then, we got our water from public taps in the lanes.”

   We head towards the far end of the main alleyway, for Michael believes his house is in one of the last side lanes. We turn into the second last one. On both sides are two-level brick houses, connected end to end like townhouses, except that they are old and dilapidated, their external bricks broken and darkened with age. Some have crude awnings and all have washing hanging on bamboo poles protruding from the upper windows like flags of many nations. We walk under the colourful array of shirts and pants, towels and underwear. Children stop in their play as we pass them, watching us as though we were from another planet. Adults follow us with their eyes, more curious than suspicious. We pass some outdoor taps and sinks. A man in vest underwear and boxer shorts is brushing his teeth at one. At another, a woman is rinsing rice. We approach an old man sitting on a stool outside his door, smoking a long bamboo pipe.

   “Lo shan-sun, I was born here during the war. My surname is Sze. Would you know which house my family had lived in?” Michael asks in hesitant Shanghainese.

   “I don’t remember any family with that surname. I moved here in 1955.” At least, I am able to catch what is said, though I cannot speak the dialect.

   We continue down the side lane.

   “We lived in a two-room unit at the end of the corridor on the ground floor. I remember a small front room on the left occupied by a tailor. There was a staircase on the left further down the corridor, before we reached our unit. Another family lived upstairs. Too bad Jennie can’t remember the lane or house number.”

   “Maybe this isn’t even the lane. Let’s try other ones. If only someone from back then still lives here.”

   “The older people we knew then are long gone, and I would expect the young ones to have moved out. Anyone who could leave would have left.”

   We turn into another side lane, third from the end. About halfway down, Michael stops and studies the house on his left. It has a black wood door with the number 42 on it.

   “I think this might be the house,” he says half to himself. “I have the vague impression of a window with fancy bars looking out from the little room on the left.” He points to the few refurbished black iron bars with a swirl design on the window to the left of the front door.

   “The tailor’s room,” I chime in, my adrenalin flowing.

   “Yes.” Michael’s voice resounds with the thrill of recognition. “He lived in that room. He had made me a cloth puppet for my fifth birthday. I remember playing with it in his room and hanging it on that window bar for kids outside to see.”

   We look at each other in triumph. We knock. No answer. We turn the door knob. To our surprise, the front door is unlocked. Stealthily, we step into the corridor faintly lit only with daylight from the doorway. To the left of us is a closed door which must open into what was once the tailor’s room. Michael sentimentally rubs his hand on the closed door. We grope our way to the end of the corridor, passing a staircase to our left, and knock on the wood door at the end. After a long anxious moment, a middle-aged woman in a jogging suit opens the door.

   “My wife and I are visiting from Canada. I lived here over fifty-seven years ago, when I was a child. I’m hoping to see the place if I may,” Michael says, this time in Mandarin.

   It takes the woman a few good seconds to register what Michael has just said. Then she opens her door wide and invites us in.

   “Recapturing the past?” she asks in a pleasant voice.

   Michael nods, looking somewhat embarrassed. The woman introduces herself as Mrs. Huang.

   There are two rooms separated by a sturdy room divider. As I pass the open doorway to the first room, I look in and see two single beds and a table between them. Surprisingly, on the table is a computer monitor. Our hostess takes us into the second room which is quite spacious, with a window that looks out to a courtyard behind the house. A bed doubling up as a sofa sits against a wall. Beneath the window is a square dark wood table with three chairs. A green counter-height refrigerator sits atop a low cupboard near a door to the courtyard.

   “I slept in the bedroom with my father and mother. Actually I was told I was born in that room. My two older sisters slept out here.” Michael gesticulates with excitement.

   An old woman walks in from the courtyard.

   “My mother,” Mrs. Huang indicates. We exchange greetings.

   “We are eating lunch soon. Please join us,” Mrs. Huang’s mother says in a courteous voice.

   We decline politely. “We don’t want to trouble you. I just want to see the place,” Michael says. “It’s as I remember it. We had a table there, where your table is. I was too young to recall, but my sisters told me every time we heard the sirens, my mother would make me hide under the table, in case loose objects fell down. Of course it wouldn’t have been any use if a bomb was dropped on us.”

   A teenage girl enters.

   “My daughter,” Mrs. Huang says. “She has an English name, Jackie.”

   Jackie tells us she is attending university in Shanghai. She is probably the reason for the computer in the bedroom. Mrs. Huang brings over two mugs of tea for us.

   “Excuse our humble home. We don’t even have a proper place for you to sit,” our hostess says apologetically.

   “This is absolutely fine,” I assure her, sipping the tea while sitting on the sofa-bed.

   “My mother used to sit by the window, looking out to the courtyard, mending clothes or darning socks. I’d be playing in the courtyard with neighbourhood kids. Sometimes we played out in the lanes till my sisters called me in for supper,” Michael reminisces.

   “You must be very young then,” says the old lady.

   “I was five when we left for Hong Kong in 1948. Now we live in Canada. Never thought I’d be back here today, and with my wife. I’m very happy the nong tang is still here,” Michael says, his voice vibrating with emotion.

   “Ours is one of the last nong tang to go. The government may take it down soon, to make way for new constructions,” Mrs. Huang says regretfully. “There’s been talk about it. I don’t know how long we can hold out.”

   “That’s really bad news!” Michael says.

   “We are taking up too much space in the city. Besides, they want everything to look nice, especially with many foreign visitors coming to Shanghai during the Olympics.”

   Jackie and her mother take us into the tiny fenced courtyard strung with clothes-lines. The number 42 is also painted above the door that leads from the courtyard into the house. A gate in the fence opens into the lane behind.

   They walk out into the lane with us. They introduce us to their neighbours who have come out to see the Chinese visitors from abroad. No one has heard of Michael’s family who lived there during the war years. We stop at the old well – a slightly raised round cement structure, sealed with a wooden lid.

   “The well is dry. We have fresh tap water in every lane. Besides, almost every family has a refrigerator nowadays,” Mrs. Huang says.

   “To cool water melons,” I add with a smile.

   “You’re right!” Mrs. Huang laughs.

   Before we part, Jackie says to us, “I hope you’ll come back again soon, because in a year or two, our nong tang will probably be gone.”

   We walk past the doorman into the Peace Hotel which has recaptured much of the glitz and glamour of its pre-war period. We tread across the thickly carpeted grand lobby, passing beautiful stained glass, below chandeliers and tiffany fixtures.

   “Funny nothing here dazzles me anymore,” I observe.

   “Because you’ve experienced what gives the city its pulse and lifeblood. Everything else pales beside it,” Michael says, his voice at the point of breaking. After a pause, he continues, “I’m happy I’ve seen my nong tang once again after all these years. I will miss it very much.”

*****

In 2006, a year after our visit to Shanghai, we were very happy to receive Jackie’s email informing us that the government had decided to spare their nong tang from the bulldozer’s wrath. As far as we know, the nong tang of Michael’s childhood still stands today, a heritage treasure from a bygone era, a hardy testimony to time, war and revolution, and still home to some of Shanghai’s humbler residents.