Penang's Cina Wayang (Chinese opera) – for gods and ghosts

Growing up in Ayer Itam in the 1970s was like being part of a celebration that never truly ended. The wet market was the heart of our lives, a place where food was abundant, varied and, to my young palate, simply sedaplicious. We carried our own tiffin carriers, sometimes even our own eggs, to hand over to the char koay kak lady or to Pak Dollah, the mee goreng man. They accepted them without fuss. That was how we Penangites are—prudent, practical and never wasteful.

Ah Heng, the rojak man, set up his cart along the road, right in front of my house. I can still picture him skewering green mango halves with a lidi, then smothering them with thick rojak sauce and crushed peanuts—a truly scrumptious snack. His bangkwang slices, prepared in much the same way, were another favourite of mine, refreshing and crunchy against the richness of the sauce.

In time, Ah Heng moved from rojak to koay teow th’ng. Although I missed his rojak, his heart-warming bowls of noodles soon became the kind of comfort one craved to start the day. Minced pork, tender slices of meat, liver and fish balls all came together in a fragrant, nourishing broth. And always, there was the finishing touch of spring onions and bak yu phok (fried lard), which somehow made everything taste even better.

In those days, everyone knew everyone, and gossip travelled faster than a speeding bullet. By the time I reached home, my mother already had a full report of my mischief, often with additional commentary, eyewitness accounts and expert opinions from half the neighbourhood. In Ayer Itam, nothing stayed a secret for very long.

Nowadays, Chinese opera shows are increasingly rare, held mostly during the Hungry Ghost Festival or for the birthday of a deity. But in the 1970s and 1980s, they were a regular spectacle, and the carnival atmosphere was electric. Food stalls and small traders filled the grounds, turning the place into a wonderland for children. There was the thrill of “tikam”, where a few coins bought you a ticket and the tantalising possibility of a mystery prize. There was ice cream potong, tucked neatly between two wafer biscuits, and the excitement of spinning a wheel in the hope of winning a water pistol.c There were plenty of other treats too, and before long, the air was thick with the aromas of freshly grilled roti bak kwa, smoky cuttlefish and all manner of other temptations. For a child, it was almost impossible to know where to look or what to eat first.

The crowds were huge, with families arriving early, carrying their own stools and finding a spot to settle in for the night as they took in the classic Teochew opera tales unfolding on stage. The drama on stage often rivalled the commotion below. People jostled around the food stalls, children darted between the crowds, and above it all came the soaring voices of the performers, punctuated by the sharp clash of cymbals and the insistent beat of drums. Everything seemed to happen at once: lights, costumes, music, food, smoke and chatter, until the whole night became one glorious, chaotic affair.

As evening settled over Ayer Itam, my brothers, sisters and I needed only to cross the road in front of our house and slip through a narrow alley to reach the open space where the cina wayang would take centre stage. I was mesmerised by the splendour of the costumes, embroidered with dragons, phoenixes and other auspicious creatures, their glittering headdresses catching the light. The music filled the night air, rising and falling with a drama all its own. We sat spellbound, hardly daring to move, as the performers whisked us away into a whirlwind of murder, sword fights and romance. Each performer, dolled up in heavy make-up, poured heart and soul into every gesture, every movement and every line.

Every change of scenery was achieved with a simple pulley system that revealed floor-to-ceiling, hand-painted backdrops, transforming the stage in a matter of moments from a blood-soaked battlefield to a serene courtyard. To us, it was theatre at its most captivating, where every scene brought a new twist and anything seemed possible. In many ways, the experience was not unlike the public theatre of Shakespeare’s day, where audiences gathered together for an evening of drama, spectacle and escapism.

A small band of musicians, tucked away at the wings of the makeshift stage, provided the stirring accompaniment that carried the performance along. The gaohu, erhu, yehu, pipa, dizi, gongs and cymbals created the unmistakable voice of Chinese opera, at once haunting and rousing. The stage itself glowed like a beacon against the night, lit by fluorescent tubes and spotlights that cast an almost magical light over the drama playing out before us.

Ironically, I fell in love with Chinese opera even though I could not understand a single word spoken on stage. I pieced together each story by observing the performers’ faces and gestures, learning to read the drama through movement and expression alone. The male characters, with their flowing beards, spoke in deep, rumbling voices, while the female characters sang in high, lilting tones that seemed to pierce the heavens. Some wore long white silk extensions on their sleeves, which they sent swirling through the air, stretching every gesture into something larger, more expressive and almost hypnotic. In moments of despair, the heroine would fling one arm towards the heavens, her sleeve trailing behind her, before sinking to the ground in grief.

At home, I would tie my father’s white handkerchiefs to my wrists and practise the sweeping gestures I had seen on stage. To me, it was poetry in motion, and for those few moments, I was the star of my own little wayang. My parents, however, saw no artistry in it and certainly no future. The moment the rotan (cane) made its own sweeping appearance, my operatic career was over. And just like that, the curtain came down on my brief dreams of becoming a Chinese opera star.

When I revisited Chinese opera in 2019, I went armed with a camera to capture its world on the open grounds near Universiti Sains Malaysia along Jalan Bukit Gambir. To my astonishment, apart from three other photographers, there was only a single audience member, a solitary elderly man. Just one!

It was a far cry from the old days, when entire communities would gather, gossip and bond over the thrill of a live performance. The cina wayang was also a social occasion, a meeting place, and a cherished part of community life. Today, it seems many prefer the comfort of their homes, wrapped up in Netflix marathons rather than sitting beneath the stars and being swept away by the drama of the stage. It was difficult not to feel a little heartbroken at what had been lost. Yet the gods and ghosts were still there, bearing witness to a performance worthy of a full house, even if the living had chosen to stay away.

Arriving early gave me a glimpse of the magic before the curtain rose. I watched as the performers transformed before my eyes, their familiar faces slowly giving way to layer upon layer of elaborate paint. Each brushstroke brought a character to life, revealing their identity, their role and, ultimately, their fate. The colours told their own story. Red spoke of loyalty and courage, black of strength, while white or yellow often signalled deceit and the villain. Gold and silver added an otherworldly quality, giving the faces an air of mystery and making the transformation all the more mesmerising.

Colour was only part of the story. The painted lines and patterns carried meanings of their own. A face might be painted entirely white or marked only around the nose, and the more extensive the white, the more sinister the character. Watching each face take shape was a mesmerising experience. The precision was remarkable, every line and detail applied with extraordinary patience. Even tiny patches of real hair were painstakingly affixed to create fringes and sideburns that looked remarkably natural. By the time the last brushstroke was in place, the transformation was complete. Ordinary faces had disappeared, replaced by characters who seemed ready to step straight into another world.

The opera troupe had come from Thailand, and I found its members wonderful subjects to photograph. They lived in modest tents within the temple grounds, never far from the stage where they performed. What struck me most was how warm and close-knit they were. There was an easy camaraderie among them, perhaps born of years of travelling and performing together. I could not help but admire their dedication to an art that is slowly disappearing, and their determination to keep it alive.

I felt privileged to have witnessed the performance, yet it was difficult not to feel a twinge of sadness at how little attention this traditional art now receives from the local community. It seems such a pity, especially in Penang, where Chinese festivals can draw such enormous crowds. Surely there is still a place for the cina wayang among us.

Still, I choose to hold on to hope. With effort and awareness, there is every chance of a revival. We need to rekindle our appreciation for these timeless treasures and ensure that they continue to shine for generations to come.

-------------------------------------
Written and photographed by Adrian Cheah
© All rights reserved
16 August 2019