Whether for outsiders or locals, spirit money manufacturing has nearly become synonymous with Chungkang. "When we were in primary school, you only had to stick out your hands and people could tell whether you were from Chunan or Chungkang--red hands meant Chungkang, because all the kids there grew up half playing, half helping out in the paper money factories," says 57-year-old Su Shuei-fa, whose life has been inextricably linked to the paper money. He's still around it every day.

According to Yao Chengkuan, director of the Chunan Paper Products Processing Association, currently there are about 150 large and small paper money factories in Chungkang, and about 80% of the residents work in them. It's a key economic resource.

Manufacturing sacred paper money for use in religious ceremonies is an ancient profession. Even if today it is mechanized, most people still think of it as a kind of low-level cottage industry catering to popular beliefs. And Chungkang--aside from the annual Matsu birthday celebration when guests flood the town--is a quiet, even desolate place. In fact, Chungkang was the earliest place in Miaoli County to develop, and was once a vibrant port.

As early as A Study of the Land in Taiwan by the Ming dynasty minister Shen Kwang-wen, the name Chungkang can be found. The name, which means "central port" in Chinese, aptly describes the reason for its early success.

In early maps, Chungkang is the closest port on the west coast of Taiwan to Chuanchow in Fukien, and it stood halfway between the major ports now called Tamshui and Lukang. It drew both its name and settlers from the mainland from its geographical centrality. According to Chunan township gazetteers, the port had large-scale immigration at the height of the Ch'ing dynasty.

At the end of the Ch'ing, the port became obstructed by silt, and it lost its value as a port. The local center of activity shifted to Chunan. And when the railroad was built, it only stopped at Chunan, further isolating Chungkang. Today, Chungkang isn't even recognized as a formal place name; it's just what people call the five westernmost neighborhoods in Chunan. But it never let its traditional industry slip away, just as Lukang is today still a center of carving and incense, its historic industries. Young men not willing to go away to work learned the ancient trade, and generation after generation in the same family entered the ranks of paper money manufacturers.

Not more than 20 years ago, spirit money making was still all done by hand. The first thing to do was cut the paper. The master, relying only on experience, would eye the sheets, calculate the most efficient way to cut them up, decide how to cut the pieces to a uniform size, and then let fly with the hammer. "The hammer alone weighed twelve catties, [7.2 kg] and you couldn't get the paper to come out all the same size without having just the right knack. Often the hammer would slip out of your hand, and the axe head would come flying off," says 70-year-old Master Chen.

After cutting the paper came "mounting," that is to say layering on the tinfoil. The tinfoil is naturally silver, so if you wanted to make gold paper money, then it was necessary to boil the flower of the locust tree to get the gold coloring, which was then applied to the paper.

By 1971, modern technology had percolated into the industry. Though machinery naturally knocked handicraft workers out of the picture, it also brought a new high tide to the business.

"After mechanization, all you needed was NT$150,000 for a paper cutter and a printer, plus a couple of pairs of hands, and you could become a home sized factory," relates Mr. Tsai, who, in his own words, "unable to blend in Taipei," brought his wife to Chungkang and bought a little house to start up a factory. Now chemical dyes are used to rapidly color and produce the paper money, putting an end to the hammer and mounting.

But mass production has also ended the sanctity of the old days, and made it simple crude printing. The old generation of masters wouldn't let women step across the paper, nor allow kids to play on the stacks. Today, says thirtysomething manager Liu, "It's no different than any other printed matter! Some workers even climb up on top for a nap when they're tired!"

While the young people can't see it, the change in manufacturing ways has not been lost on the babushkas who burn the paper money as offerings in the Tse-yu Temple: "Machine-made paper burns much blacker, while the mounting on the handmade stuff will burn completely and turn to white ash. The manufactured paper money is like counterfeit, the handmade is better!" So even if the handmade is three times as expensive, some of the older folks will prefer it. Thus, four or five factories also produce the handcrafted originals.

From the Ming to the present, Chung-kang has flourished and flopped, waxed and waned. And still the ancient industry survives. But seeing Yao Cheng-kuan with his cordless phone and European sedan giving directions amidst his 20 machines, who can say now whether this industry qualifies as "traditional"?

[Picture Caption]

Spirit money spread out along the roadside to dry makes a unique sight in Chungkang on sunny days.

At Chungkang, bundles of spirit money are still tied with raffia rather than with the modern rubber band.

At Chungkang, bundles of spirit money are still tied with raffia rather than with the modern rubber band.