Master of a good night’s sleep
Print Edition
Back on the old days, tradesmen lugging heavy bags of tools were common sights in Shanghai’s longtangs (lanes). Their cries were a familiar sound. “Anyone wants their coir mattress repaired?”
The responses nowadays would be few. Spring mattresses have largely replaced the traditional zongbeng, or wooden bed frame filled with a mattress made of crisscrossed ropes of fiber extracted from the husks of coconuts.
“Business was good then,” says Ping Weigong, 75, harking back 20 years when he and others who made and mended zongbeng were in big demand.
Piles of coir mattresses needing repair were often heaped at the front door of their shop.
“Young people today cannot understand how important a zongbeng was for a family,” he says. “It was a most precious piece of furniture.”
Thousands of coir ropes were woven into a tight net that was neither too soft nor too hard. The natural fiber gave the mattress just the proper elasticity. When covered with cotton-filled sheets and quilts above, the bed was warm and cozy.
Made of natural coir, the zongbeng was resistant to damp and mold. It could last for three decades if well maintained.
In the early 1960s, Ping was apprenticed to learn how to make and repair zongbeng.
“It was a good job because everyone at that time slept on zongbeng,” he recalls.
That demand is gone nowadays but Ping carries on the tradition for those who still have the mattresses.
He had to close his shop, however, because he couldn’t continue to pay rent. So, today, he pedals to customers’ homes, carrying the same heavy tool bag of his craft forebears.
“Sometimes I take the Metro,” he says, “because elderly people over 70 years old like me can travel for free.”
Most of his clients are old, too, and have been customers for decades. Coir ropes can still be ordered from makers in Jiangxi and Zhejiang provinces, but Ping’s annual order has shrunk from 150 kilograms decades ago to just 50 kilograms.
The iron knives, hammers, wooden wedges, screwdrivers and other tools he carries for his trade were all made by himself.
Though orders are few, Ping still makes the occasional zongbeng. It takes him three days. First, he makes a net of white nylon ropes as the base. Then he weaves the coir mattress, one rope at a time. They are anchored into small holes in the bed frames, secured by small wooden chips.
Weaving is the most time-consuming part of construction.
“It may seem boring,” Ping says. “You have to be patient and strong. Making and mending zong beng has helped me keep fit.”
Ping carries his business cards and distributes them to people he meets. He used to advertise in the city’s yellow pages and in the Xinmin Evening News. He thought about joining the modern age and advertising online, but he can’t afford such luxuries.
Ping has two sons who have been living in the US for more than 20 years. They are in the decorating business. The younger son learned the skills of zongbeng from the father, but he doesn’t have any use for them today.
But Ping won’t quit. He says he will keep on plying his trade until the day he can no longer physically do it. “On that day, I might donate all of my tailor-made tools to a museum, if they want them,” he says.
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