Penang's Cina Wayang (Chinese opera) – for gods and ghosts
Growing up in Ayer Itam in the 1970s was so much fun. Living near the wet market was even better, as you could buy food easily at any time of the day. Back then, we would bring our own tiffin carriers and even supply our own eggs to the char koay kak lady or Pak Dollah, the mee goreng uncle. Ah Heng, the rojak man, parked his cart in front of my house. He would string halved green mangoes on a lidi (coconut leaf) stick and top them with rojak sauce and crushed peanuts. Another favourite of mine was the sliced bangkwang (turnip), also topped with rojak sauce and crushed peanuts. Ah Heng eventually gave up the rojak business and sold koay teow th'ng. Everybody knew everybody back then. News even travelled faster than a speeding bullet. Before I could reach home, my mum would have known what I was up to.
Nowadays, Chinese opera shows are few and far between, except for a few staged during the Hungry Ghost Festival or certain celebrations, such as a deity’s birthday. Back then, they were more frequent and the atmosphere was entirely different. A vibrant carnival air surrounded the event with plenty of food stalls and petty traders. It was a blast for kids! They could try their luck at tikam (pay and select a ticket on a board with a prize written within it), enjoy ice cream potong sandwiched between two wafer biscuits, spin a wheel to win something, savour freshly grilled roti bak kwa and more. The turnout would be huge and some would even bring their own stools to watch classic Teochew opera stories come to life right before their very eyes.
My brothers, sisters, and I only had to cross one road right in front of our house and walk along a little alley that led to an open area to watch the performances. I was simply mesmerised by the elaborate costumes adorned with auspicious creatures like dragons and phoenixes, glittering headdresses, and dramatic music. We watched, transfixed, as the performers took us through an intricate web of murder, sword fights and love. Each of them, dolled up with heavy make-up, gave the performance of their lives.
Every change of scenery was accomplished through a pulley system that unfurled floor-to-ceiling hand-painted landscapes or interiors of a courtyard.
A small band of musicians, partially concealed at the wings of the makeshift stage, provided the theatrical soundtrack for the opera. Traditional musical instruments such as gaohu, erhu, yehu, pipa, dizi, gongs and cymbals contributed to the distinctive sound of Chinese opera. The stage itself gleamed like a beacon in the darkness, illuminated by fluorescent tubes and spotlights.
Ironically, I fell in love with Chinese opera, even though I could not understand a single word the performers were saying. I tried my best, but I could only interpret each story through their facial expressions and gestures. The male characters, with their long beards, emitted deep, growling tones. The female characters had high-pitched voices and spoke in a melodic tune. Some had white silk extensions attached to the sleeves of their garments, which amplified their emotions as they flung their hands. It was a dramatic statement; in moments of despair, the heroine would throw her hand up in the air, only to collapse to the ground in anguish. I would practice this at home, tying my father's white handkerchiefs to my wrists and imitating their gestures. It was like poetry in motion to me but my parents would not have any of that. They considered it silly and would draw out the cane, putting an end to my operatic pursuits.
Revisiting the Chinese opera in 2019, I armed myself with a camera to document its world on the open grounds near Universiti Sains Malaysia along Jalan Bukit Gambir. Apart from three other photographers who were present, only a solitary elderly man joined the audience! Can you believe it, just one person! Gone are the days when such performances would bring local communities together, offering a chance to gossip and nurture stronger bonds while revelling in live shows. Sadly, today's locals seem more engrossed in their Netflix programmes, shackled by the comforts of their homes. Thank heavens, the gods and ghosts were privy to a brilliant performance.
Arriving early, I had the opportunity to capture the dramatic transformation of the performers into either opera beauties or villains. Exaggerated designs were meticulously painted on their faces to symbolise each character's personality, role and destiny. Specific colours were employed to signify distinct attributes: a red face conveyed loyalty and bravery; black denoted courage; white or yellow faces indicated duplicity, often representing the villain; and golden or silver faces carried an air of mystery.
In addition to colour, lines also served as symbols. For instance, a face could be entirely painted white or focused around the nose. The larger the white area, the more diabolical the character's role. Witnessing the application of makeup was truly awe-inspiring. The skill and meticulous attention to detail were remarkable, with even small patches of wigs made from real hair meticulously added to fringes and sideburns. When the transformation was complete, it was nothing short of resplendent.
This passionate opera troupe was from Thailand and its members proved to be captivating subjects for photography. They lived in humble tents pitched within the temple grounds where their performance took place. Their warmth and a distinct sense of camaraderie among fellow members were palpable. I observed and wholeheartedly appreciated their dedication to this fading art form and their arduous efforts to preserve it.
I felt privileged to have been there but also saddened by the fact that this traditional art form is not receiving encouraging local attention or support. Yet, I remain hopeful that through continued efforts and awareness, especially in Penang where Chinese festive occasions are celebrated with much grandeur, we can rekindle an appreciation for these timeless treasures and ensure they endure for generations to come.
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Written and photographed by Adrian Cheah
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16 August 2019