Piano island of Gulanyu in the eyes of Melbourne teacher
By admin on 2014-12-30

The Opium Wars and Chopin piano recitals aren't usually mentioned in the same sentence. But on a tiny island off China's southern coast, these contrasting elements of history met in the mid-19th century when Gulangyu, in Fujian Province, became known as "the Piano Island". Thanks to the extraordinary generosity of an Australian Chinese philanthropist, in the 21st century the island has regained the title. 

Leafy Gulangyu lies just off Xiamen (formerly called Amoy), which became a "treaty port" in 1841 when European powers forced Imperial China to open its markets, principally to the British opium trade. The island was designated an international foreign settlement and became a secure haven for Europeans, Japanese and wealthy overseas Chinese who built lavish mansions, consulates and churches there.

A stroll around Gulangyu's lanes still reveals dozens of ornate villas which, up until World War II and the Communist revolution, echoed to the sounds of expats' parties and music. You can still hear the music. On closer examination I find small speakers embedded around the foreshore parks, playing everything from Chopin to a syrupy version of Auld Lang Syne. Meanwhile, real piano music flows from the open windows of decaying Sino-European mansions.

Gulangyu's musical tradition took root when the island was an enclave of elite, if not decadent, foreign culture. Music was played widely and taught seriously. The tradition, particularly of pianoforte, survived the serial traumas of Japanese occupation, Maoism and the Cultural Revolution, and is again thriving. "There are more pianos on this little island than in most Chinese cities," says my Gulangyu guide, Tony Loo.

In fact, it is said that there are more than 500 pianos on the little island.

This is also the home of a famous Chinese musical family, the Yins. In 1967, just as Red Guards were preparing to destroy all pianos as bourgeois toys, it is said that patriarch Yin Chengzong rolled a piano into Tiananmen Square and, by playing odes to Mao Zedong for several days, put his instrument at the heart of the revolution and out of harm's way.

An East-meets-West mixture of Corinthian columns and pagoda roofs, french windows and phoenixes embellish the grand mansions and villas of Gulangyu. "Every house has its own story," Loo tells me, pointing out an old British consulate, a Japanese hospital and a Spanish church. Further on we find the grandiose Villa Huangrongyuan, built by a wealthy overseas Chinese who then lost it in gambling soon after completion.

On a hill overlooking the sea I come to a unique museum. Inside are displayed some 30 pianos and pianolas, many of them rare, and all of them beautifully restored. Perhaps more extraordinary than finding them on this small Chinese island is to meet the Melbourne man who founded the museum and donated this priceless collection which he had assembled over 35 years.

Marcel Hu, a gracious, silver-haired Chinese Australian, was born on Gulangyu in 1936. True to his island's tradition he took up music, studying at the Royal Academy in Brussels before settling in Melbourne, where he taught music and became a dealer in Oriental art and antiquities.

"A piano is a beautiful object and should be respected," he tells me as we tour his remarkable collection. "I felt very sorry to see them being discarded in Australia. I even rescued some before they went to the tip." When he sits to play for several minutes an enthusiastic crowd of museum-goers gathers to listen.

"On Gulangyu I was given a great opportunity to appreciate music, art and nature," Hu says. "It was a benefit for my whole life, so I am happy to return it." When he suggested to the island officials that he relocate his collection (languishing in a warehouse in Australia) they welcomed the idea. In 2000, the Gulangyu Piano Museum opened with a performance by Australian concert pianist Geoffrey Tozer.

As I leave, the smiling Marcel admits that, yes, after closing time, he sometimes wanders from piano to piano, tickling his favourite ivories.

"We gained music, religion and football from that foreign period," says Loo as we take the short ferry ride back to Xiamen, diplomatically omitting the mass opium addiction that also came with the new "commerce".

Perhaps because of its history - including Portuguese, French, British and Dutch invasions - Xiamen seems far more cosmopolitan than many Chinese cities of a similar size (2.1 million people). With its broad avenues, litter-free streets and rows of prosperous new apartments, the special economic zone of Xiamen looks more like Taiwan than mainland China. This is not surprising, since it faces the so-called "renegade province" of Taiwan just 160 kilometres across the water and much of the investment here is from Taipei.

Xiamen is big on awards and proud of being named best sightseeing city in China and most hygienic city in China. Fittingly, I find myself staying in the longest hotel in China, the Xiamen International Seaside Hotel.

Thirty minutes' drive from Xiamen is the Riyuegu hot spring resort, where I sink into a series of heated pools of graded temperatures set in lush gardens and bamboo pavilions. I wander on to find a trio of traditional therapists who lay me on a mildly heated stone slab and then overhaul me with simultaneous head and foot massages, a manicure and pedicure and even an ear-cleaning routine. It's vigorous and invigorating, and such intensive care doesn't turn out to be expensive care: each treatment costs only 40 yuan (about $ 7).

I soak away my tensions at this sophisticated new hot spring resort. There's a score of different pools of varying temperatures, many of which are enhanced by ginseng and other herbal infusions. Meanwhile, the adjacent Riyuegu Resort hotel is upmarket and suitably serene. I levitate back to it where the manager, Aristo Chan, neatly sums up this spa-with-a-difference: "This isn't just a soak, it's a culture."