Situated in an extremely strategic point, roughly halfway between mainland China and Taiwan, Penghu has had the historical good (or bad, depending on your point of view) luck to lie at a nautical crossroads for merchants, militarists, and pirates plying the seas between Japan and Southeast Asia. For this reason, the islands have long been in the crosshairs of colonizing powers from Asia and Europe, eager to possess this very fortuitously placed toehold in the Taiwan straits.
Though marginally under the control of the Ming Dynasty during the period when that court held sway throughout China, in 1622, the Dutch became the first westerners to attempt permanent settlements on Penghu. Before long, however, the Dutch were convinced to leave Penghu for Taiwan by the still-powerful Ming imperial court. As the Ming fell, Penghu was a crucial way-station for Ming loyalist Koxinga, who, after deforesting the island of Kinmen, stopped in Penghu on his way to Taiwan.
Integrated into the Qing empire in 1683, Penghu spent the next few centuries being visited for various lengths of time by a motley collection of foreign forces; except for the Dutch, who tended to build in stone, little in the way of foreign footprints from this period remain. What does remain from Penghu’s distant past are numerous ancient villages, most notably the beautifully preserved – and well worth visiting – Erkan village on the westernmost island of Hsiyu; houses in this town / living museum are centuries old, and most villagers trace their ancestry back to the original brothers Chen who came from Kinmen following Koxinga’s disastrous experiment in forest management.
In 1895 the Japanese empire colonized Penghu along with the rest of Taiwan, building a plethora of buildings around Magong city in that peculiar Asian / Western hybrid style which the Japanese fancied back then (many of these are still there). Not ones to step lightly, the Japanese also knocked down the wall ringing the old city, leaving only Shuncheng Gate standing for future shutterbugs.
No article on Penghu would be complete without mention of the archipelago’s abundance of temples. No mere small roadside prayer-shacks these: We’re talking full blown three-and-five story Buddhist and Taoist maxi-malls, replete with statues, carved granite columns, alters to Matsu and more, not to mention some of the most ornate temple artwork you’re likely to find on either side of the strait. These ostentatious places of worship are clustered in sets of one, two and three in small hamlets all over the islands. In between these towns (most of which boast the population of a Hsinchu cram school on a Wednesday afternoon) there is little else. The effect of coming across one of these enormous multi-layered complexes after ten minutes of riding through empty scrubland offers a striking juxtaposition. It’s weird, like seeing Taipei 101 jutting from the side of Jade Mountain, or coming across the Core Pacific Mall…well, anywhere, actually.
Naturally, there’s a reason behind Penghu’s tremendous cultural wealth, though it has more to do with the economics of brain drain than spirituality. Stopping at a temple to chat with locals – mostly elderly – we heard different versions of pretty much the same story.
“Who built this temple?”
“Ah, this temple was built by Mr. Chen. He was born and raised here, but moved to Taiwan, started a successful company and got rich. He built this temple in his hometown as a way of honoring his ancestors!”
“Sounds like a devoted man. Does he ever come back?”
“Every lunar new year. At least he used to. But he’s missed the last few years…”
Reading between the lines tells a more complete story:
- Local boy leaves a town offering little opportunity outside of the dried-fish trade, promising to return once he’s made it big and share his largess with the village that nurtured him.
- Local boy strikes it rich in Taiwan or Mainland China, along the way getting used to creature comforts like restaurants that stay open past nine and supermarkets with imported-food sections, perhaps even acquiring a city-born wife who nixes the idea of spending her golden years (or any years, for that matter) discussing methods of sea-urchin preparation with windswept neighbors.
- Local boy – now a worldly man torn between duty and pragmatism – comes up with a culturally acceptable solution: Build the largest and most ostentatious temple he can afford in the tiny hamlet in which he was raised (but has long outgrown).
Penghu is replete with stories like these, brought to life by these audaciously crafted wood and granite temples, lying largely empty on the side of the road.
