TSUI Tak Tai
At 19, Tsui Tak-tai married and moved from Shek Pik Tai Tsuen to Shui
Hau Village. Her husband passed away young, leaving her to raise their
three children on her own. Tsui loves singing rhymes as a way to express
her feelings and reminisce about her life experiences. She is skilled in
many things: farming, clam-digging, oyster catching and fishing. She also
helped build the catchwater for Shek Pik Reservoir. Villagers admire her
resilience and optimistic nature.
A one-legged hwamei can hardly fly over a high mountain.
A person with only one hand struggles to make ends meet.
It takes hard work with both hands to earn a living,
And steady shoulders to keep moving forward.
When the stomach is empty, the mind is in turmoil.
How to find the leisure to weave fine linen?
－ A Wai Tau dialect folk song of Shui Hau Village
A person with only one hand struggles to make ends meet.
It takes hard work with both hands to earn a living,
And steady shoulders to keep moving forward.
When the stomach is empty, the mind is in turmoil.
How to find the leisure to weave fine linen?
－ A Wai Tau dialect folk song of Shui Hau Village
I was born in Shek Pik Tai Tsuen. I’ve been living in Shui Hau Village since I got married at 19.
My husband Chi Kwan-fat was a year younger than me. His original surname was Chan, but he
was later adopted into the Chi family. Our marriage was arranged by our families even before
we were born. Before we got married, I once saw him from a distance. He wasn’t tall but was
very handsome. We tied the knot on 22 October 1945, shortly after the war ended. That day I
wore a red gown and was carried on a bridal sedan chair. Many people came to celebrate with us.
Two years after we got married, my mother-in-law passed away. My father-in-law was overbearing. He would often shout at me, making me cry. Maybe it was because my husband wasn’t his biological child. My husband would tell me: “He’s getting old. Just put up with him. Let him be.”
My husband worked too much. When I was 29, he died from tuberculosis, leaving me with three children — our eldest son, eldest daughter, and a daughter who was born after his death. I was devastated, but there was nothing I could do. A married woman can’t return to her parents’ home. Some families suggested I remarry with someone from San Shek Wan or Shap Long. But if I did that, my children would be treated worse than dogs. Why would I do such a stupid thing? My husband owned quite a bit of farmland — several dau in total. It was enough to plant about a dozen catty of grain seeds.1 So I worked through the hardship bit by bit.
“Meals are never guaranteed, like a boat that never docks in the same bay.” Every morning when the sun rose at 6am, I’d get up and cook a pot of rice. By 7am, I’d have eaten and head out to the fields. At noon, I’d come back home for lunch. It was cold rice with brown sugar. My children ate the same. Sometimes we added shrimp paste and salted shrimp. Either I bought them or I made them. Then it was back to the fields. When the sun set, I’d cook dinner. There was no free time as I had to farm and fish. Life was so tough my hands became all wrinkly.
Two years after we got married, my mother-in-law passed away. My father-in-law was overbearing. He would often shout at me, making me cry. Maybe it was because my husband wasn’t his biological child. My husband would tell me: “He’s getting old. Just put up with him. Let him be.”
My husband worked too much. When I was 29, he died from tuberculosis, leaving me with three children — our eldest son, eldest daughter, and a daughter who was born after his death. I was devastated, but there was nothing I could do. A married woman can’t return to her parents’ home. Some families suggested I remarry with someone from San Shek Wan or Shap Long. But if I did that, my children would be treated worse than dogs. Why would I do such a stupid thing? My husband owned quite a bit of farmland — several dau in total. It was enough to plant about a dozen catty of grain seeds.1 So I worked through the hardship bit by bit.
“Meals are never guaranteed, like a boat that never docks in the same bay.” Every morning when the sun rose at 6am, I’d get up and cook a pot of rice. By 7am, I’d have eaten and head out to the fields. At noon, I’d come back home for lunch. It was cold rice with brown sugar. My children ate the same. Sometimes we added shrimp paste and salted shrimp. Either I bought them or I made them. Then it was back to the fields. When the sun set, I’d cook dinner. There was no free time as I had to farm and fish. Life was so tough my hands became all wrinkly.
If you farm, you’ll have rice to eat!
Sometimes when I needed money
to buy food or tools, I’d row my
boat to Cheung Chau to sell my
grain. One tam could fetch me
$20 to $30.2 I also raised chickens
and pigs, harvested small oysters,
scads3 and goose barnacles. We
never worried about not having
food to eat! The chickens I raised
grew quickly. Every morning I’d feed the chicks. They ate all day. In just three months, they
would weigh several catties. I used to have a small boat that I took out fishing. Because the
water currents changed every day, there were only a few days each month that were good for
going out to the sea. I was best at catching scads. I’d cut some mullets into small pieces and
use them as bait. I just threw them into the gaps between rocks and stirred the water a bit. On
a good day, I could catch up to 10 catties. To make sun-dried salted fish, I’d use karut croaker,
rockfish and baby grouper. I was also quite good at catching small oysters. The oyster shells
would stick to big rocks, so I’d use an oyster knife4 to chip and chop them and scoop them
out. Over the years, I’ve accumulated about a dozen oyster knives. “The oyster girl faces west
had better marry the fish boy.” A cheeky, naughty song, that one!
When the tide was low during the days around the first and 15th days of each lunar month, I’d head out to Shui Hau Wan at 4am to 5am to dig for chi hau. I had good eyesight back then, so I could easily spot chi hau eyes. The sand around them was softer. I’d stick my chi hau sickle into the sand, and when it hit a chi hau, you’d hear a “clack-clack” sound. Then I’d use the hook of the sickle to scoop it up. The trick? You need sharp eyes and you need to keep poking around. I learned to use the sickle by observing others, then I made my own sickle. When I went to Shui Hau Wan, I always brought along two bamboo baskets. I put all the chi hau I caught into the baskets. In the end, I’d use the sickle to hang one basket in front and one behind, and carry them home. At home, I’d cook the chi hau with ginger and spring onions. Sometimes I tossed in some melon. Or I’d dry them to keep for later. I wasn’t a fan of chi hau. They were mostly for my kids. Sometimes I’d take a batch over to Fung Wong Bungalow Store and sell them for $15 a catty.
Even in 2018 when I was 92, I was still out there digging. One time a tourist asked me how to find them. I pointed to a chi hau eye and told them to dig there. They did and they dug out some big ones! These days, too many people come here to dig. They trample all over the sand, so you can’t find chi hau eyes anymore. Now it’s just guesswork. Oh well, whatever!
Back in 1960, when the government was building Shek Pik Reservoir, they hired people from Shui Hau Village to work as labourers. I helped build the catchwater road,5 which stretched all the way to Cheung Sha. At first, I was making $3.5 a day, but later it went up to $20 or even $30. In three years, I managed to save $12,000. That was enough to marry a wife [like most men did back then]!
Construction work paid better. So I stopped working in the fields. But the downside was I couldn’t get fresh groceries. Tai O was a three-hour walk away, so a round trip took six hours. That just wasn’t doable. So I ended up eating salted eggs, Chinese sausages and fermented tofu every day. By then, all my kids were working in the city. Life was tough. It’s not something you can explain to others. I worked as a labourer for less than 10 years and retired at 55.
When the tide was low during the days around the first and 15th days of each lunar month, I’d head out to Shui Hau Wan at 4am to 5am to dig for chi hau. I had good eyesight back then, so I could easily spot chi hau eyes. The sand around them was softer. I’d stick my chi hau sickle into the sand, and when it hit a chi hau, you’d hear a “clack-clack” sound. Then I’d use the hook of the sickle to scoop it up. The trick? You need sharp eyes and you need to keep poking around. I learned to use the sickle by observing others, then I made my own sickle. When I went to Shui Hau Wan, I always brought along two bamboo baskets. I put all the chi hau I caught into the baskets. In the end, I’d use the sickle to hang one basket in front and one behind, and carry them home. At home, I’d cook the chi hau with ginger and spring onions. Sometimes I tossed in some melon. Or I’d dry them to keep for later. I wasn’t a fan of chi hau. They were mostly for my kids. Sometimes I’d take a batch over to Fung Wong Bungalow Store and sell them for $15 a catty.
Even in 2018 when I was 92, I was still out there digging. One time a tourist asked me how to find them. I pointed to a chi hau eye and told them to dig there. They did and they dug out some big ones! These days, too many people come here to dig. They trample all over the sand, so you can’t find chi hau eyes anymore. Now it’s just guesswork. Oh well, whatever!
Back in 1960, when the government was building Shek Pik Reservoir, they hired people from Shui Hau Village to work as labourers. I helped build the catchwater road,5 which stretched all the way to Cheung Sha. At first, I was making $3.5 a day, but later it went up to $20 or even $30. In three years, I managed to save $12,000. That was enough to marry a wife [like most men did back then]!
Construction work paid better. So I stopped working in the fields. But the downside was I couldn’t get fresh groceries. Tai O was a three-hour walk away, so a round trip took six hours. That just wasn’t doable. So I ended up eating salted eggs, Chinese sausages and fermented tofu every day. By then, all my kids were working in the city. Life was tough. It’s not something you can explain to others. I worked as a labourer for less than 10 years and retired at 55.
My grandchild was born in 1981. Then I moved to Tsing Yi to live with my eldest son and help
take care of the baby. Two years later, I moved back to Shui Hau. With Ah Dai (Chi Tai),6 I went fishing, dug for clams, and grew melons and vegetables. I kept this up well into my 80s.
I love radish! And my memory is still sharp. Even in my 90s, I still remember things from long ago. My grandson Ah Cheong (Wong Wai-cheong) has taken lots of photos of me making cha guo. They come with three flavours: Chinese fevervine, mugwort and ramie leaves.
I’ve been missing my husband all these years. He passed away in the hospital on Kowloon Hill.7 That place was too far away. I didn’t even get to see him one last time. But then, what good does it do to keep missing someone? Women are like seeds — wherever we marry, that’s where we take root.
I love radish! And my memory is still sharp. Even in my 90s, I still remember things from long ago. My grandson Ah Cheong (Wong Wai-cheong) has taken lots of photos of me making cha guo. They come with three flavours: Chinese fevervine, mugwort and ramie leaves.
I’ve been missing my husband all these years. He passed away in the hospital on Kowloon Hill.7 That place was too far away. I didn’t even get to see him one last time. But then, what good does it do to keep missing someone? Women are like seeds — wherever we marry, that’s where we take root.
Photos for this article were taken by Wong Wai-cheong during his studies at the School of Design, The Hong Kong Polytechnic University, from 2009 to 2012.