Correspondent Tom Wilmer recalls....When Tommy Chiu, my guide from the Hong Kong Tourist Authority asks if I'd like to visit a Taoist temple across the bay on Kowloon side, I readily agree.
Wong Tai Sin Temple is doing a brisk business today. Women and men, mostly elderly, kneel before offerings of fresh fruits and bundles of smoldering josh sticks.
Some of the praying people clutch bamboo canisters in their hands. Each container holds exactly 100 bamboo slivers corresponding to a specific, ancient Chinese poem.
The worshipers methodically shake their bamboo cups back and forth in rhythmic cadences.
Tommy explains, "If you completely concentrate on a specific question while shaking the sticks, eventually one stick will pop out and land on the ground. But for this to work you must clear your mind of all thoughts other than your question.
If you are successful, the bamboo stick pertaining to your question will hop out of the cup, then we go and find a soothsayer.
You pay him fee, then tell your question and stick number, but not your question. The fortuneteller will look up the poem and answer your question in special book of 100 ancient poems. Would you like to try the sticks and go to the soothsayer?"
Without hesitation I consent and Tommy leads me over to a crusty wooden table outside the entrance to the ornately fenestrated open-air temple.
A grizzled, ancient toothless-woman seated on a stool behind a decrepit card table wordlessly dispenses bamboo canisters. She smiles slightly at me as her claw-like hand extends a container.
"How much do I pay her?" I ask Tommy.
"Oh, nothing at all. There's no charge. It is covered by donations."
Tommy ushers me over to a gap in a long row of worshipers and I assume the position between two middle-aged women who ware intently shaking their cups.
As I kneel, I discretely watch the women for a moment and then mimic their movements—although, in my case, absolutely nothing happens, except for a bunch of sticks rattling randomly around and around. Not one sliver makes the slightest attempt to jump up and out of my cup.
Tommy looks down at me and peacefully intones, "Concentrate! You are not concentrating. You must focus totally on your question or nothing will happen”.
With all my might I try to clear my mind. Still nothing.
But then something incredible starts to happen— my sticks slowly levitate upward like a miniature volcanic peak.
The sticks remain suspended for about five minutes and then suddenly one stick flicks straight up and out and flaps on to the floor.
Tommy smiles, “Good! Number 68.”
We walk toward a broad stairway (reminiscent of a dingy subway entrance) at the rear of the temple and descend to the wizards’ lairs—a subterranean catacomb squeezed tight with glass-fronted oracle offices.
En route, we pass through a courtyard with head-high brass urns, decorated with seething serpents and dragons with reddish flames that lick skyward from the open tops.
At the edge of the temple courtyard a long row of crudely fashioned tables are piled high with fresh oranges, lemons and other delicacies.
When I inquire about the fresh fruits, Tommy replies, "Oh, those are left by the people as sacred offerings."
“So what happens with all the fresh fruit and other offerings at the end of the day?"
Tommy chuckles and confides, "Oh, some of the people are Indian givers. They pick up and take offerings back home with them when done."
There are about 180 soothsayers who work and hold regular office hours at Wong Tai Sin Temple. Tommy says, "Most people have their personal favorite fortune teller. Some are charlatans, but I suppose at least ten percent are legitimate and make very accurate predictions. There are very many Hong Kong and Kowloon residents who will not make any important life decisions without first checking with their soothsayer—they use their mobile phones in case of after-hours spiritual emergencies."
Unfortunately, Tommy's favorite oracle is away on vacation but he selects a reputable substitute a few stalls down the corridor from the number one guy. Our fortuneteller's office, like the others, is not much bigger than a Motel 6 bathroom.
As I scrunch past his desk, attempting to reach a chair, my camera bag scrapes the wall and skews out of plumb a line of the fortuneteller's favorite sacred prints. "Sorry," I say sheepishly, but he just looks at me blankly and Tommy doesn’t bother to translate as he proceeds to tell him my stick number.
The soothsayer scratches his whiskered chin and ponders for a moment. He then swivels around in his chair and pulls a tattered red book from atop a filing cabinet.
He proceeds to look up my number in the red-bound volume of ancient sayings keyed to the 100 bamboo sticks. He goes about his work with the same abandon as if he was searching for an address in a phone book.
My question concerned the possibility of finding outlets for my creative and spiritual energies that might provide adequate economic remuneration, but I describe my wish in very vague terms to test the soothsayer's abilities.
After a few silent moments he closes the book of poems, swivels back around, grins at Tommy and laughs impishly.
They smile smugly at each other and then turn their heads in unison and gaze at me. The soothsayer enunciates the answer in Chinese.
Tommy and the soothsayer giggle in unison, then Tommy translates: "He says the answer to your question is, 'a job awaits you that promises to be very rewarding spiritually but the pay will be awful.' "
"He says the question for you to ponder is, are you willing to accept such a job?"
A few weeks after returning to California, I am sitting in front of my computer taking a momentary break from writing when I start daydreaming about the Kowloon Taoist Temple episode.
I suddenly realize exactly what the soothsayer was referring to — my wish had actually come true a long time ago—the day I decided to become a travel journalist.
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