The annual Matsu pilgrimage from Tachia, Taichung County to Hsinkang in Chiayi County and back -- a roundtrip of 280km -- is one of the biggest events in Taiwan's religious calendar. This year, a high level of participation by the Taichung County Government in this folk event has led to the creation of the Matsu Cultural Festival, which kicked off in February.
But the main event is still very much the province of various temple organizations, with all the attendant, rather haphazard and even crazy aspects of popular culture manifesting themselves. And it goes on in an atmosphere of apparent indifference to the increasingly heavy media and tourist presence.
The pilgrimage set out from Tachia's Chenglan Temple (鎮瀾宮) last Sunday. As Sunday became Monday, nearly 24 hours after the pilgrimage had got underway, Nanyao Temple (南瑤宮) in Changhua City was filling up with people waiting for its arrival. "It's always a bit late," said a woman from Yuanlin who had come up Sunday evening to join the procession.
At 4:30am Monday, she and others were still waiting. The progress from Tachia had been particularly slow, with people coming out in force to hold up the procession. The right to touch to the sacred palanquin is prized and, as the procession passes from one area to another, through invisible boundaries known only to locals, there are virtual scrums as a new set of people fight to carry the palanquin.
For the women waiting at Nanyao Temple, dressed in loose, long-sleeved clothing giving them protection from the next day's sun, their towels, thermos flasks, incense and prayer flags all prepared, this meant waiting through the night.
So, during the early hours of Sunday morning, the atmosphere of the temple resembled nothing so much as a bus depot. People were waiting, asking for updates on the possible arrival time of the procession, confused, bemused and weary. "But you really shouldn't say you are tired," pointed out a mold-maker from Changhua. "This is a sacred duty, so people will not be happy if you complain about being tired."
In the courtyards, people tried to get some sleep before heading out again. Slow but inexorable, the procession itself never stops but pilgrims and performers move ahead of the main procession so they can eat and rest. Others, like the women from Yuanlin, join the procession for a day or two. "This afternoon, I have to go to work," one woman said, trying her best to put a good face on the prospect of the long day ahead.
Others, like Ah-chung, a volunteer helper at Nanyao Temple, had closed his business dealing in chicken meat for the duration of the procession. "We kill for a living, you see," said his friend Ah-sheng, only half seriously and as an explanation for his dedication. "It brings you good fortune for the rest of the year," said Ah-chung, adding that he had helped at the temple every year since he was a child. "Taking the time off is worth it."
Taking the time off is one thing. Actually taking part in the eight-day walk is quite another. While the uniformed votive groups were still out in force, made up mostly of middle-aged women, an increasingly large number of people had abandoned walking for either a bicycle or even a scooter. There are even tour groups transported by coach, accommodation booked ahead at temple dormitories, so that they can take part in the major rituals without the tedious and tiring interludes on the road. Compared to previous years, the numbers sleeping on temple floors had fallen significantly.
Even though the Matsu pilgrimage has become such a high-profile event, it has not yet lost its roots in the world of popular superstition and ritual. The battles to touch the palanquins are fraught affairs in which the fact that no one is seriously hurt never ceases to amaze. And then there are various Eight Generals troupes, collections of young local toughs who express their devotion in ways not always suitable for families in the audience. This was underlined at one stop a few kilometers outside Changhua, at the Japanese Doll betel nut stand.
Five boys sat on plastic stools at the side of the main road to Hsiluo. Their faces were covered in blood. In their hands they held spiked cudgels. They sat in exaggerated poses, occasionally getting up to make a few martial movements. The youngest couldn't have been more than 15. They seemed only vaguely aware of the crowds around them. Occasionally a helper would take a big mouthful of water and spray it on their wounds.
When the sacred palanquin arrived, each boy would take his turn to perform before it, holding it up for a good quarter of an hour. As part of the show, they would hammer their foreheads with the spiked cudgels. "That's enough now," people would call, as they drew more blood. "All right, all right. We have to get moving," another called, but this had little effect on the boys and their private ritual. All this was watched by the Japanese Doll betel nut girl, who stood out in the semi-darkness of the dawn in her day-glo pink mini and halter top. It was a scene that encapsulated something about rural Taiwan; an incongruity that, anywhere else, might be thought of as surreal.
And so, day after day, the procession wound on, the palanquin changing hands, fought over, never resting as it moved from Tachia, to Changhua, to Hsiluo and finally to Hsinkang before turning back.
At Nanyao Temple, the women who had sat patiently for six hours set off just before dawn. The sacred palanquin had arrived, stood before the altar for five minutes, was fought over in the crowded entrance of the temple, then set off once again, a new group of pilgrims close behind it. Time had to be made up, and the procession proceeded at the double.
With all the waiting, walking and weariness, the Matsu pilgrimage generates an intense religious fervor that is sometimes hard to reconcile with the everyday world of urban Taiwan. That is probably part of the appeal, both for the devotees and for the tourists. And tomorrow, Matsu finally returns home, as will the weary pilgrims, now well armed with blessings for another year.
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