Jinshan

“When you get on a bus, you have to get off too,” my dad once said metaphorically, as he arrived at the seaside resort of Jinshan (金山). This little town perched on the Pacific Ocean is probably one of his most favourite places. Located on Taiwan’s magnificent North East Coast National Scenic Area, it is a wide valley which faces the blue, blue sea, with its back against lush, green mountains that is often adorned with clouds and mist. Dad loved the local seafood, often caught early in the morning, and freshly prepared to be eaten in the many restaurants along the white sandy beach. He also loved the delicacies of duck and goose, especially the wing bits which he loved to nibble on.

When I was little, I was told, we went to Jinshan on a family outing. Probably not more than three, I was petrified of the water, even though I was safe in a raft, and dad walked within hand’s reach beside me. I cried and cried and wanted to be taken ashore again. It was a terrible experience, watching all these giant waves crash against us, I think I must have feared that my loved ones would be swept away and lost forever. I cried and cried, and made my dad promise that we would never go near the sea again.

I rode the minibus today, and watched the same waves crash against the barren beach this morning. Indeed, a loved one is now lost forever. The ocean was not pacific as I remember, but murky and gray. The waves were violent, tumbling in a white rage, as they battled against the jagged rocks. The wind was piercingly cold, dampness wound together with salt. An island shaped like a tortoise poked its body not far away from shore, almost surreal in the thin layer of haze. Rugged cliffs wound along the shore, revealing a different kind of wild and raw beauty that this little island has to offer.

We headed up a mountain overlooking Jinshan, towards a tower that potentially could serve as the final resting place of dad’s urn and ashes. In recent years, a number of majestic temples have been built in and around scenic areas with good ‘feng-shui’ with the purpose of housing urns containing remains of the deceased. ‘Spirit and Bone Tower’, these buildings are literally called (靈骨塔, lin-gu ta), and they are grand structures normally containing a great hall with statues of various Buddhas and Bodhisattva, and on the different storeys are rows and rows of little safe-like containers where you can purchase a spot and place the remains of the deceased in.

Like in real life, an ‘urn safe’ is hard to come by, and are as hot as real estate. The best positions are often taken, especially those closest to light or the window, or those not too high up or not too low down. You can purchase a safe and you will receive also a Certificate of Ownership, which is (ironically) for life. According to local customs, every person is born at a different time and date, and these details read together with the horoscope determine which position and direction is the most suitable for a restful stay. Certain people, like my dad, must have a place facing the North, while others, like me, will fare better if I were to face West.

So together with my mum and brother, we wandered through the many hallways and corridors of this gigantic building in search of a suitable place for my dad. Again, like in real life, a safe for the urn does not come cheap. You can choose to be squeezed together with many others in an appartment-styled complex, or choose to have a more quiet VIP-mansion treatment with your personalised box with a window view to the sea. The difference is the price tag, which can amount to thousands or tens of thousands of Euros. The funeral business is a propserous, and apparently profitable one, here in Taiwan.

Dad was always a thrifty person, and he never wished for luxury or excesses. We picked a place for him in the standard urn room, which is fairly reasonably priced, and located in a good place suitable for his person. But before deciding anything definitive, I proposed that we ask dad for his opinion.

It may seem crazy and pure mysticism to a foreigner, but there are ways you can communicate with the deceased. Since dad’s death, a temporary shrine has been erected in our living room, and it is before this shrine that we offer fresh fruits and food to dad twice a day. You can ask the deceased simple questions, like whether he has finished his meal before taking the food away, or complicated ones like the ones I plan to ask dad about what he thinks about the temple we visited today. Tradition holds we take two coins and flip them into the air. A head and a tail means yes... two heads means that the deceased is humoured at your question and laughing at you, while two tails is a definite no, and may be interpreted as being angered if it appears too often consecutively. One must wait a few more moments before asking again. Some say this is just about probability, about chances...but I have come across (personally) times when a head and tail does not appear, even after ten or twenty throws. This, people say, may be because the spirits are angry or unhappy about something...it may be because the proper rites have not been followed, or maybe because not everyone in the household is present, or maybe because a drink is missing. So tomorrow after dad has his morning meal, I plan to ask him, and I am curious how he will answer.