Performers — most of whom seem to believe Matsu likes loud techno and pole dancing — entertain the crowds during the long wait before the scheduled 11:10pm departure. Massive truck-mounted speakers blast electronic beats as nubile young things gyrate seductively, lion dancers chat up girls, and teams of sweaty performers dressed as minor deities chain-smoke and chatter. “It’s bloody hard work,” says one as he lifts a papier-mache lion’s head, brocade and sequins from his shoulders. “It’s bloody heavy, and bloody hot.” He lights a cigarette and takes a drag, falling into a contemplative daze. The procession has not even begun and he has a long night ahead.
The big moment approaches. Crowds around the temple compact into an impenetrable mass. Great horns blast a long, solemn note announcing that Matsu, Queen of Heaven, is about to set off. The fireworks shooting over the temple, which had been growing in intensity and splendor throughout the night, suddenly stop. The intersection outside the temple gate has been arrayed with thousands of firecrackers. Men with blowtorches light the fuses. Everyone pulls back. Then a deafening blast and a burst of smaller explosions as the firecrackers disintegrate into a billowing cloud of smoke and shredded paper. Horns sound again and the crowds bow like a wave. Matsu’s palanquin inches forward through the smoke. At the next intersection, the process is repeated. Then a third time. It is midnight and Matsu is on the road.
By now, Wang should be four hours ahead on the road to Changhua, part of a string of thousands of pilgrims stretching for kilometers. “It doesn’t matter that I’m not walking with the main palanquin,” she had said during our conversation on the train. “Some people think it’s not right, but I don’t think it matters. After all, Matsu looks down from heaven and in one glance takes in this whole little island of Taiwan. It doesn’t matter where I am.”
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