Granny Chi’s, originally named Chi Shu-dai and later renamed Chi Tai,
is a ninth-generation member of the Chi clan in Shui Hau. Born in 1928,
she was primarily a farmer in her younger years and also worked as an
amah for a while. At 22, she married fellow villager Chan Sau, who served
as the village head from 1965 to 1995. Together, they had nine children.
Chi describes herself as a bit of a busybody. She has loved singing rhymes
since childhood and still enjoys singing with her relative Tsui Tak-tai,
also from Shui Hau.
My birth name was Chi Shu-dai, but when I applied for my ID card, the staff changed it to Chi
Tai. I was born in Shui Hau. I’m the fifth child in the family, the youngest daughter. My dad
was from Shui Hau. He died young, so I have no memory of him. My mum was a Hakka from
Shap Long in Pui O. My home village is Shui Hau Village on Lantau. I’ve lived on the farmland
left behind by my great-grandfather.
I used to grow two rice crops every year. The first crop was planted in March and harvested in July. The second was planted in August and harvested in November. Back then, every household in Shui Hau Village had a head of brown cattle for farming. I would get up at daybreak to take care of our ox. I took it out to graze and brought it back later so the adults could use it to plough and harrow the farmland. The ox couldn’t reach the four corners of the fields, so it was my job to loosen the soil with a hoe. At noon, I’d bring lunch to my elder brothers and my mum. We ate sweet potatoes and taro for both breakfast and lunch. We didn’t have the money to buy fertilisers. After cutting down the weeds, we’d burn them into ash, which was used to cover the waste in the dry toilet. We’d pile it all up to make fertiliser.
I’d run all over the hills with my elder brothers and sisters. We would pick wild fruits such as rose myrtle and Indian gooseberry. At night, we’d throw bundles of rice straw at each other for fun. We played until we were tired and then went to sleep. I also followed my mum to pick chi hau and small oysters. The lighter tasks were done by women — such as working in the fields and picking chi hau. The heavy tasks were done by men — like carrying heavy stuff, fishing in the sea, and collecting sea urchins.
Hardships? There were plenty. My mum died when I was 12. I had an elder uncle in Gold Mountain (San Francisco, the US) who sent money to another uncle to look after me. Because of that, I was able to attend Tung Koon School1 in Cheung Chau for three months. But my aunt was very mean. She made me carry buckets of water and sold me off to work as a maid. That family didn’t want me because I was small and not strong enough to farm, so I ended up living alone in the old house that my parents left behind. Every week, my aunt gave me just enough rice to fill three mugs. I survived by picking pandanus seeds by the seaside to fill my stomach.
Later, a friend helped me find work as a live-in maid for Cheung King-pak, the principal of Cheung Chau Anglo-Chinese School.2 My most vivid memory of the Japanese army is when they asked me to dry a big pile of $10 Hong Kong banknotes. There were so many that they covered the whole house. During the four years I worked for the school principal, he was very kind to me. I earned $20 a month. It wasn’t much, but I was still better off than many!
I used to grow two rice crops every year. The first crop was planted in March and harvested in July. The second was planted in August and harvested in November. Back then, every household in Shui Hau Village had a head of brown cattle for farming. I would get up at daybreak to take care of our ox. I took it out to graze and brought it back later so the adults could use it to plough and harrow the farmland. The ox couldn’t reach the four corners of the fields, so it was my job to loosen the soil with a hoe. At noon, I’d bring lunch to my elder brothers and my mum. We ate sweet potatoes and taro for both breakfast and lunch. We didn’t have the money to buy fertilisers. After cutting down the weeds, we’d burn them into ash, which was used to cover the waste in the dry toilet. We’d pile it all up to make fertiliser.
I’d run all over the hills with my elder brothers and sisters. We would pick wild fruits such as rose myrtle and Indian gooseberry. At night, we’d throw bundles of rice straw at each other for fun. We played until we were tired and then went to sleep. I also followed my mum to pick chi hau and small oysters. The lighter tasks were done by women — such as working in the fields and picking chi hau. The heavy tasks were done by men — like carrying heavy stuff, fishing in the sea, and collecting sea urchins.
Hardships? There were plenty. My mum died when I was 12. I had an elder uncle in Gold Mountain (San Francisco, the US) who sent money to another uncle to look after me. Because of that, I was able to attend Tung Koon School1 in Cheung Chau for three months. But my aunt was very mean. She made me carry buckets of water and sold me off to work as a maid. That family didn’t want me because I was small and not strong enough to farm, so I ended up living alone in the old house that my parents left behind. Every week, my aunt gave me just enough rice to fill three mugs. I survived by picking pandanus seeds by the seaside to fill my stomach.
Later, a friend helped me find work as a live-in maid for Cheung King-pak, the principal of Cheung Chau Anglo-Chinese School.2 My most vivid memory of the Japanese army is when they asked me to dry a big pile of $10 Hong Kong banknotes. There were so many that they covered the whole house. During the four years I worked for the school principal, he was very kind to me. I earned $20 a month. It wasn’t much, but I was still better off than many!
Back then, my cousin and Ah Sau (Chan Sau) were living in Sai Ying Pun. Ah Sau worked at the
Pok Fu Lam cemetery3 clearing bones. When they had time off, they’d come to Cheung Chau
to see me. When we were little, Ah Sau lived in the upper village in Shui Hau, and I lived in the
lower village. The adults didn’t allow boys and girls to play together, but I knew he was from
the same village. I also knew he was a good boy and was careful with money. He was an orphan
too and had no complicated family ties. He had his own farmland. It was good he knew how to
farm. With him, I wouldn’t be rich but I wouldn’t starve either!
In the past, people rarely married someone from the same village because they were afraid of being too closely related and their children might be born with problems. Before we got married, we checked carefully to make sure we were not related. Before I really got to know Ah Sau, there was this boy from Mong Tung Wan who often came looking for me. He was dumb and clingy. I said to him: “Just go away. Why are you always watching me wash clothes?” He also bought movie tickets and asked me to go to Cheung Chau Cinema4 with him. I ended up giving the ticket to someone else.
I married Ah Sau when I was 22. Two years later, I gave birth to our eldest daughter. After that, we returned to Shui Hau to farm. We had six dau5 of farmland, but no savings to buy cattle, so we had to borrow one from my sister-in-law who lived in Pui O. Each harvest yielded more than 100 catties of rice. The second crop was better in quality, so we kept that for ourselves. The rice we grew had smaller grains. It was soft, smooth and fragrant.
Later, we started growing black glutinous rice, which was worth more. Some people would soak it to make black rice wine to nourish health. For the first crop, we sold the rice with the husk on. Of course it was the stronger one who handled that! And I didn’t have time as I was busy looking after the kids. Ah Sau would carry the rice to Mui Wo and Tai O to sell. The money he earned was used to buy fresh vegetables, preserved radish, and dried seafood like salted fish and dried shrimp.
In the past, people rarely married someone from the same village because they were afraid of being too closely related and their children might be born with problems. Before we got married, we checked carefully to make sure we were not related. Before I really got to know Ah Sau, there was this boy from Mong Tung Wan who often came looking for me. He was dumb and clingy. I said to him: “Just go away. Why are you always watching me wash clothes?” He also bought movie tickets and asked me to go to Cheung Chau Cinema4 with him. I ended up giving the ticket to someone else.
I married Ah Sau when I was 22. Two years later, I gave birth to our eldest daughter. After that, we returned to Shui Hau to farm. We had six dau5 of farmland, but no savings to buy cattle, so we had to borrow one from my sister-in-law who lived in Pui O. Each harvest yielded more than 100 catties of rice. The second crop was better in quality, so we kept that for ourselves. The rice we grew had smaller grains. It was soft, smooth and fragrant.
Later, we started growing black glutinous rice, which was worth more. Some people would soak it to make black rice wine to nourish health. For the first crop, we sold the rice with the husk on. Of course it was the stronger one who handled that! And I didn’t have time as I was busy looking after the kids. Ah Sau would carry the rice to Mui Wo and Tai O to sell. The money he earned was used to buy fresh vegetables, preserved radish, and dried seafood like salted fish and dried shrimp.
The government began building South Lantau Road in 1955. I worked as a labourer, starting
from Cheung Sha Fire Station. We built it section by section all the way to Shek Pik Reservoir,
earning just over $20 a day. Tai kam (Tsui Tak-tai; the term “tai kam” refers to the wife of the
brother of one’s mother)6 and I mixed cement and mortar together. I shoveled the sand onto
the truck, and she mixed it into concrete. We also went to Shek Pik Reservoir to plant trees.
When the government built Shek Pik Reservoir in the 1960s, the Waterworks Office hired Ah
Sau to manage the catchwater system. He earned over $300 a month. That was when we finally
had a proper income and started to save money.But from then on, we stopped planting rice
and only grew some vegetables and sweet potatoes.
In the countryside, village folks owned their own land. But if you stopped farming, weeds would take over and it’d be a real struggle to make the land usable again! In the 1970s, Ah Sau sold part of our land to get some money. With that and our savings, we had enough to build a new house. We hired local villagers to help. The men earned $30 a day, and the women $20. Some carpenters were in charge of the main construction. The women carried river sand from the estuary and also helped lay bricks. Everyone worked together. It was all about “you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours”. When it was your turn to build a house, I’d be there to help too.
Ah Sau was really capable. He was a hardworking farmer and skilled in carpentry. He also got along well with everyone. The villagers signed their names to support him to be the village head. It takes the right spark for people to click, or it can be torched by a pirate’s trick. From 1965 to 1995, he served as village head — 30 years in total. If someone wanted to build a ding house (a small house that male indigenous villagers are entitled to build under the New Territories Small House Policy), Ah Sau would help write letters, sign documents and even run errands to deliver them to government offices in Central.
I think Ah Sau’s biggest contribution to Shui Hau Village was lobbying the government to build the Shui Hau Village Office, the football pitch in Lower Wan Lung, and the Chan Ancestral Hall. He had good relationships with villagers from Shui Hau and Mui Wo, District Office officials, and members of the Rural Committee. Everyone calls him “Sau Gor”. Is he sweet to me? Well, sometimes. Let’s just say, not as good as the best, but better than the worst!
I have nine kids — three boys and six girls. My eldest daughter was born at Cheung Chau Sap Chi Wui Hospital,7 the second to fourth were born at our home in Shui Hau. The fifth was delivered in a village house in Mui Wo, with the help of nurse Sung. The other three were born in Cheung Sha Hospital.8 The grandest birth was that of my youngest daughter, Mink (Chan Fung-ming).9 I was having contractions, but Cheung Sha Hospital wouldn’t take me in because having a ninth baby was considered too risky. The nurse called a high-speed ferry to rush me to Tsan Yuk Hospital in Sai Wan, where I gave birth to Mink.
In the countryside, village folks owned their own land. But if you stopped farming, weeds would take over and it’d be a real struggle to make the land usable again! In the 1970s, Ah Sau sold part of our land to get some money. With that and our savings, we had enough to build a new house. We hired local villagers to help. The men earned $30 a day, and the women $20. Some carpenters were in charge of the main construction. The women carried river sand from the estuary and also helped lay bricks. Everyone worked together. It was all about “you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours”. When it was your turn to build a house, I’d be there to help too.
Ah Sau was really capable. He was a hardworking farmer and skilled in carpentry. He also got along well with everyone. The villagers signed their names to support him to be the village head. It takes the right spark for people to click, or it can be torched by a pirate’s trick. From 1965 to 1995, he served as village head — 30 years in total. If someone wanted to build a ding house (a small house that male indigenous villagers are entitled to build under the New Territories Small House Policy), Ah Sau would help write letters, sign documents and even run errands to deliver them to government offices in Central.
I think Ah Sau’s biggest contribution to Shui Hau Village was lobbying the government to build the Shui Hau Village Office, the football pitch in Lower Wan Lung, and the Chan Ancestral Hall. He had good relationships with villagers from Shui Hau and Mui Wo, District Office officials, and members of the Rural Committee. Everyone calls him “Sau Gor”. Is he sweet to me? Well, sometimes. Let’s just say, not as good as the best, but better than the worst!
I have nine kids — three boys and six girls. My eldest daughter was born at Cheung Chau Sap Chi Wui Hospital,7 the second to fourth were born at our home in Shui Hau. The fifth was delivered in a village house in Mui Wo, with the help of nurse Sung. The other three were born in Cheung Sha Hospital.8 The grandest birth was that of my youngest daughter, Mink (Chan Fung-ming).9 I was having contractions, but Cheung Sha Hospital wouldn’t take me in because having a ninth baby was considered too risky. The nurse called a high-speed ferry to rush me to Tsan Yuk Hospital in Sai Wan, where I gave birth to Mink.
I had wanted my kids to learn farming and help me out, but there’s no future in farming. Shui Hau School opened in 1954, and I sent all the kids there to study. Later, they moved to the city
to work, got married and had children. I visit them sometimes. I’m a village woman. I don’t
know how to appreciate what’s good out there, and there’s nowhere nice to walk around.
But young people have their own way of thinking. Older folks shouldn’t interfere with how
they live. What matters most is they still know how to worship gods and pay respect to the
ancestors. Old customs must not be taken away, and don’t add what’s new.
I grew up singing rhymes. When I got tired from farming, I’d sing a bit to lighten my mood. I especially loved singing the rhyme about bird names. Some rhymes were playful banter flirting with the boys. You’d tease them or even throw a few insults. “There’s a bowl of dog poo water on the table. Each person takes a sip and moves along!” 10 If you didn’t have a sharp tongue and tease people a bit, they’d walk all over you!
Villagers would sing at weddings and other happy occasions, like when a son got married or when a couple had been married for a month. When a boy in a family got married, his name was “raised” during the evening wedding banquet. A group of men played gongs and drums, singing the “name raising song” and hanging a piece of paper with the groom’s name on the east wall of the house. The atmosphere was lively.
For the one-month celebration, the groom’s family would invite the bride’s family over to sing rhymes. They knew who could sing and would nudge these people to stay for dinner and even overnight to keep singing. The bride’s aunts would stand in a row and sing a cappella, and the men would sing in response. Those who didn’t know how to sing would get teased with a few verses, make a funny face and walk away. That was ages ago!
I always liked to look good. When I made some money working in Cheung Chau, I had some silk outfits made. Each set came with a top and pants. Some were in black and others in pale yellow. They cost a little more than $10 each. I’d dress up nice and neat and head off with my relatives to sing. We usually went to San Tau Village and Pak Mong Village.
I was all over the place when I was young, haha! I’d explore every nook and cranny of the village just to hear the older folks sing. I paid close attention, and once I got the hang of it, I loved singing the rhymes. Even people from the next village used to say: “Ah Dai is welcome to come over to sing.” Getting praised made me happy! There were rhymes in Mui Wo and Tong Fuk too. Tai kam even knows the rhymes from Shek Pik. A few years ago, she often came to my place to sing and chat with me. “Tai kam comes over every day. When she doesn’t, her heart feels grey.” I created this rhyme myself!
I grew up singing rhymes. When I got tired from farming, I’d sing a bit to lighten my mood. I especially loved singing the rhyme about bird names. Some rhymes were playful banter flirting with the boys. You’d tease them or even throw a few insults. “There’s a bowl of dog poo water on the table. Each person takes a sip and moves along!” 10 If you didn’t have a sharp tongue and tease people a bit, they’d walk all over you!
Villagers would sing at weddings and other happy occasions, like when a son got married or when a couple had been married for a month. When a boy in a family got married, his name was “raised” during the evening wedding banquet. A group of men played gongs and drums, singing the “name raising song” and hanging a piece of paper with the groom’s name on the east wall of the house. The atmosphere was lively.
For the one-month celebration, the groom’s family would invite the bride’s family over to sing rhymes. They knew who could sing and would nudge these people to stay for dinner and even overnight to keep singing. The bride’s aunts would stand in a row and sing a cappella, and the men would sing in response. Those who didn’t know how to sing would get teased with a few verses, make a funny face and walk away. That was ages ago!
I always liked to look good. When I made some money working in Cheung Chau, I had some silk outfits made. Each set came with a top and pants. Some were in black and others in pale yellow. They cost a little more than $10 each. I’d dress up nice and neat and head off with my relatives to sing. We usually went to San Tau Village and Pak Mong Village.
I was all over the place when I was young, haha! I’d explore every nook and cranny of the village just to hear the older folks sing. I paid close attention, and once I got the hang of it, I loved singing the rhymes. Even people from the next village used to say: “Ah Dai is welcome to come over to sing.” Getting praised made me happy! There were rhymes in Mui Wo and Tong Fuk too. Tai kam even knows the rhymes from Shek Pik. A few years ago, she often came to my place to sing and chat with me. “Tai kam comes over every day. When she doesn’t, her heart feels grey.” I created this rhyme myself!
