So my last posts were a little exaggerated…But we really didn’t do anything all that exciting except explore around my home town and go into Taizhong a few days out of the week. I’ll stop with the story-telling because what happens next doesn’t need any embellishing.
Coming up: Hong Kong
Chef listened intently as I briefed him on the dangers of the passage. “You may lose a limb. The natives are a fierce bunch…if they catch you offguard you will be trampled to death for sure. Avoid anyone and anything bigger than yourself. Stay with me. If you get lost in the wilderness I have no way of finding you, so don’t fall behind. Are you sure you are ready for this?”
“I’m sure.”, he replied.
“Then our journey begins.”
Our mounts were raring to go, ignorant of the trials that lay ahead and which we would cast them into. We departed from the village of Sand Deer and continued past the Well of the Dragons. At this point an imposing mountain range guards the way to the island’s center, and our steeds labored onwards and upwards. From the peaks we got a clear view of the Eastern Sea, on the other side of which lay our destination. At this point the journey starts to get treacherous, with frequent tempests and uneven ground that can throw you from your mount, as well as dangers from the numerous natives who inhabit these parts.
After crossing the Eastern Sea, we passed the monoliths that mark the way to center, and then it was over the bridge and through the cavernous tunnel which always drips with water. Upon emerging, a fantastic view of the wilderness Utopia revealed itself, and we knew we had arrived.
The journey had been an exhausting one and I knew a place where we could rest; a castle tower situated on the border. It’s the first of such castles you encounter on a journey coursing from west to east. Tired visitors we were, our spirits picked up when we were greeted by natives.
We trekked to the top of the tower where a large banquet was being served. I feasted on local dishes while Chef poked at his meal with disdain. Chef is a master when it comes to the kitchen, and the dish set before him was quite unlike anything he was expecting. His well-trained tastebuds wouldn’t allow him to stomach the meal.
After we descended the tower stairs and departed from the castle grounds, we found our steeds well rested for the remainder of the journey. They needed all the strength they could muster, as night was falling and we were heading into the thick of the jungle. We followed the path further into the wilderness, lighting our torches to guide the way, and reached the end of the trail where a great caravan usually rests before snaking its way out of the valley. This was the heart of the island. From there we headed northeast, around the great lake where geysers spew and at the center of which lies a hut village only accessible by canoe. There was one more spot I wanted Chef to see.
We finally stopped at the edge of a clearing and got a good look around. Thousands of natives had gathered for the nightly festivities. Chef and I dove into the fun. Strange culture as it is, the natives display their goods at the market during the night, and there is certainly no lack of customers. This area of the jungle seems to come alive only after the sun has gone down. Everything can be found here, and the food is both wonderful and strange. Any visitor to the island must experience this scene to truly understand the people.
After Chef and I had our fill we saddled up once again for the long journey back. It was a satisfying trip, but there was plenty more adventures to be had. The next one would take us off the island and over the great sea.
To be continued…
Chef disembarked onto the strange new land upon which I had been cast five months earlier. His next objective was to track me down like a modern day Stanley looking for Dr. Livingstone amidst an Oriental jungle. His trek to the center of the island was as fraught with danger as the travels of his predecessor.
Chef got his first taste of Taiwanese traffic as the bus driver nearly killed every last passenger on the road from Taoyuan to Taizhong. From Taizhong it was a comedy of errors trying to get a taxi to drop him off at the right place, as the streets and alleys are so confusing not even the locals know their way around (If you want to avoid a similar situation, I seriously advise handing the cab driver a map in Chinese with the route indicated). Chef sent me an S.O.S. to no avail. After interrogating passersby they were able to locate the outpost I have been living in, however I was nowhere to be found. I had received the signal and had gone on a rescue mission to find him with the help of a Guatemalan guide, but after our search turned up empty I returned home, only to find Chef waiting to greet me at the front gate.
Chef’s body was anxious for a good night’s sleep in the makeshift bed I had prepared on the floor, yet his mind was too excited to rest. Eventually after talking into the morning hours he was able to snore the night away.
The next day I saddled up my scooter and invited Chef on a tour of the area, including the villages of Shalu, Wuqi, Longjing, Qingshui, and all the way to the outskirts of Dajia. He jumped on the back of my steed and we headed out. Two foreigners, one white and one black, navigating the back streets of Taiwan guarantees head turns from the local villagers. The looks I get are pretty strange, as it’s rare for a white man to be seen in these parts, but the looks Chef got were all the more unusual.
When we finally arrived in the outer reaches of Dajia, I gave my steed a rest as Chef and I visited a watering hole. The activities of the locals fascinated Chef, and as I had already grown accustomed to them he pointed out things to me I do not usually pay attention to. He seemed particularly captivated by the untamed hairstyles some men and women were sporting, and the more he was surprised by it, the more I laughed within.
Upon returning home I acquired a ride from my Guatemalan companion for Chef to use, as my steed was exhausted from hauling us around all day. It would have been too much of a strain for my scooter to carry both of us on a regular basis, and besides, I had my own schedule to take care of and I was hoping Chef would explore the island on his own.
The next day, as is my routine, I went to study the culture and language of the inhabitants of the island along with a team of international explorers. I left Chef behind to fend for himself. Needless to say, he didn’t wander far from base camp. I planned to take him into the heart of the wilderness the following day, into the treacherous expanse of Taizhong.
Time would tell if both of us would make it out alive.
To be continued…
I have more pictures of my travels than I have time to talk about, so if you’d like to see them, check out the following link:
I have become fascinated with the Japanese culture. I can’t believe some of the stuff that comes out of my classmate’s mouth. Here’s a conversation that took place a few days ago:
Teacher: So the word here is to hug (抱). Is it your custom to hug?
Me: Yes, Westerners love hugging. One of my friends had just come from South America, where they like to hug and kiss you, and was visiting Japan. When he met a friend there he ran up and hugged and kissed her on both cheeks. She said her own husband had never done that before.
Teacher: [to Japanese student] Is that true?
Japanese classmate: Yes, we won’t hug eachother.
Teacher: When your husband comes home, or when he leaves for work does he kiss and hug you?
Japanese classmate: No, never. We just wave at eachother.
Me: What about saying “I love you”?
Japanese classmate: We don’t say that. My husband has never said that to me.
Me: What about your parents?
Japanese classmate: They’ve never told me they love me either. And I never heard them tell eachother “I love you”. This is just the Japanese way.
Me: What about if you have kids, won’t you tell them you love them?
Japanese classmate: No. I’ll tell them, “You’re very cute”, or “You’re very smart”.
Me: Everytime my parents call, at the end of our conversation I’ll tell them I love them.
Teacher: [to me] What about hugging?
Me: Yes, I hug my dad, and my mom will kiss me on the cheek.
Japanese classmate: [cringing in disgust] You hug your dad?
German classmate: Sure! Even male friends can hug, or give a pat on the back.
Canadian classmate: If you don’t say “I love you”, then how do you go on dates or marry?
Japanese classmate: [exaggerating] We just say, “Marry me”.
German classmate: Ha! If you said that in Germany every man would run for his life!
Japanese classmate: My husband never told me “I love you” before we got married.
Korean classmate: Before we got married my husband HAD to say “I love you”, otherwise I wouldn’t have married him. However, he hasn’t said it since we got married. It makes me want to hit him.
Me: Japanese marriages sound more like business than love.
Japanese classmate: Yes! That’s what it is.
Teacher: Taiwanese people don’t hug eachother either. In secret, but not in public. Okay let’s look at the next word: I apologize (抱歉)。
German classmate: I think Japanese people say “I’m sorry” a lot.
Japanese classmate: Yes, we do! Even when it’s not our mistake, we will say “I’m sorry”.
Teacher: So for Japanese people it’s easier to say “I’m sorry” than “I love you”.
Japanese classmate: Right!
Me: Okay, when I come in tomorrow I’m going to tell all of you “I LOVE YOU!”, so you can feel what it’s like.
The first time I saw a Taiwanese drama, I burst out laughing when a young woman ran through the rain to catch her boyfriend, only to tell him, “I like you”. It was a really heavy and dramatic moment with what I thought was such a light word. Most of the time, if you hug a Taiwanese person they will stand as stiff as a board, unsure of how to react. It’s fine for boys to hug boys and girls to hug girls in Taiwan, but other than that no touching allowed, especially in southern Taiwan. But Taiwan comes no where close to the level Japan is at. My Taiwanese teacher was stunned.
Besides coming from the states where hugging is a part of life, I have Latin relatives and friends who absolutely require hugs. It would be a major insult not to hug them. Saying “I love you” is similarly a part of our everyday lives, and it astounds me that some Japanese can go through life without ever being told that phrase.
The main overriding factor in all of this is that Japanese people don’t want to stand out. Anything that leads to other people looking at you funny is too much to handle.
Some more insights:
Japanese people don’t hold hands.
Japanese women walk behind the men and will carry their bags for them.
Japanese women like for their husbands to do all the ordering for them at a restaurant.
Japanese people will purposely lose to foreigners to give them face (Koreans may do the same). We had a big laugh about World War II with that one.
Japanese people are very passionate about things like work, but are not very warm-hearted.
Japanese people have different dialects which are nearly mutually unintelligible. Some Japanese believe parts of Japan are so different they can be considered as a different country with different people.
I also found out why Japanese people don’t offer their seats to people in need when on the subway. If you are in need of a seat, people will look at you funny and you will be embarassed. If you offer your seat and the person refuses, you will be looked at funny and will be embarassed. So it’s best not to ask or offer.
Honestly, the more I learn about Japan the more I’m captivated by it. Maybe next year I’ll take Japanese classes here at the University.
Before I came to Taiwan I made a list of all the complaints expats were posting on their blogs about China. I’ll run through the list one more time and see if what they said was actually true.
Fact: Hasn’t happened to me yet, but my friends have had moments where they felt they were going to die.
Not in Taiwan. Taiwan’s health care system is superb.
Have to agree with that one. Although, it’s even worse when you’re on a scooter driving *next* to the taxis.
Hmm…perhaps.
AND SCOOTERS.
If your Chinese is bad, absolutely. Don’t even try asking for directions, just buy a map.
Not in Taiwan.
Well, in Taiwan the lines exist…it’s just that people love to cut in line.
Not in Taiwan.
Not in Taiwan. For the life of me I can’t remember seeing a bootleg DVD stand here. Certainly not as blatant as it is in Chinatown.
Not in Taiwan.
Not in Taiwan; prices are fixed here. You can haggle at the night market if you want.
That’s a rule for anywhere in Asia.
You gotta do what you gotta do.
Eh? I forgot why this was an issue. It’s not a problem here.
Not in Taiwan. Sure, the kids will say something, but adults just look at you when you pass by. No one has really bothered me.
Kids will point. Adults will stare. Girls will take pictures. You get used to it.
Not in Taiwan. There’s plenty of vegetarian dishes for Buddhists. I have a friend who is a vegetarian and he does okay.
Ahhh…I just keep checking off the list of how many pig parts I’ve eaten so far.
Boy, that’s gotta be frustrating. Hasn’t happened to me yet.
Waiters are no where to be found.
True.
Only if your Chinese needs work. I haven’t had any more problems here than I did back in the states.
Huh? Taiwanese complain all the time. I feel sorry for the people working behind the counter.
Wow, if that’s true I’m never moving to the mainland.
Yeah, particularly the situation with animals here.
Taiwanese police…no comment.
Obviously. Such is life.
It’s hard to find an actual lawn here in Taiwan. My Chinese teacher says she envies Americans who can roll, play, or have picnics in the grass. Taiwan is such a small island there isn’t enough room for yards, at least in the suburbs. There is a big yard at school, and after it was mowed the other day I had to take a big whiff of it because I had forgotten how good grass smells after being cut. Mankind has some sort of connection with the earth, and when people are lawn-deprived they start getting creative. Taiwanese people have taken potted plants to the extreme, seemingly trying to outdo their neighbors in quantity and quality, or perhaps as a way to show off their gardening skills.
Some look nice:
Others…Not so much.
These seem to be popular with the farmers; fences made out of the springy insides of a mattress. I don’t know what to say about this one…although it looks ugly it works.
There’s a fundamental difference between visiting a place and living there. I was in Canada for a week, and although it felt like a home-away-from-home, I don’t know what it’s like to actually live in Canada. A month isn’t long enough to really get a feel for a place either. If I had left Taiwan after that first month of misery, I would have never known the real Taiwan. It’s been six months since my arrival and everyday it feels more like home. The culture shock has worn off enough that I’m starting to take a deeper look at everyday life here. Put yourself in my shoes as I go through an average day.
Roosters crowing in the crisp morning air mixes with the jarring melody of the garbage truck making its daily rounds, disturbing your slumber and reminding you how pointless it is to have an alarm clock. You get out of bed and race downstairs to get the garbage which you have carefully pre-sorted into trash, recyclables, and compost. When you make it to the street corner you greet your neighbors and size up how “trashy” they are as you await the truck’s arrival. The sun above you is playing hide-and-seek behind a haze of pollution, but you’re sure it will unabashedly emerge by the afternoon. After flinging your garbage into the truck, you head back inside to start getting ready for school.
The morning shower is a refreshing start to the day, but as you shampoo your hair you realize you could never do it quite like the treatment you get at the barber shop, and feel kind of cheated. Your toilet paper doesn’t come on a roll so you have to separate the napkin-textured sheets one from the other like tissues. And as you rub on some deodorant, you wonder why department stores have such a small selection of the stuff, seeing as people here lose half of their body weight in sweat on a daily basis. After cleaning up you have a choice; run down to a local breakfast shop to buy a meal or make your own. You opt to fix yourself a nice big bowl of cereal to remind you of home.
You head outside after which you strap on a face mask and don a helmet, and contemplate putting a windbreaker on backwards like everyone else. You straddle your scooter and start it up, and then briskly zoom away from home in an attempt to avoid the dogs who pursue you down the street. If you weren’t awake by now, merging into deadly morning traffic definitely sobers you up. You deftly wind your way past all manner of obstacles and join your fellow students in a spontaneous bike gang. Once you arrive at school you separate from the pack and park in an ocean of scooters, the sunlight glimmering off wave after wave of bike mirrors. You plunge into the current of students flowing away from the parking lot to the main campus grounds.
As soon as you’re around people the questions start. Is he staring at me? Is she staring at me? Are they thinking about staring at me? The answer to all of those questions is usually “yes”, and you have to stop yourself from imitating the Taiwanese as a fellow foreigner crosses your path. You are relieved to reach your classroom and find shelter among those who are accustomed to seeing your appearance. You greet your classmates using five different languages, the majority of those you only how to say greetings in. Class time is devoted to learning how to think backwards, write pictographs, and sing in tones while you speak.
When class is over your stomach grumbles its discontent. The general rule for food is: if it looks delicious it will probably disappoint you, and if it doesn’t it will probably amaze you. For today you decide to cook instead, and save eating out for dinnertime. You’re in no hurry so you willfully neglect your scooter and take a leisurely stroll to the market where you can buy some ingredients.
The back alleys leading away from your place are littered with decaying houses so overgrown with weeds they look like part of the landscape. The abandoned furniture inside leaves a reminder of the lives of the previous inhabitants, and gives you the feeling that that they left in a hurry, taking nothing with them but the clothes on their backs. Piles of trash are scattered everywhere, which leaves you wondering if the garbage truck even fits down these narrow passages. Men chewing betel nut stop their conversations about nothing to say “Hullor” to you as you pass by, with juicy red grins stretching across their faces. You walk by the middle-aged women who are busy scrubbing their clothes on a washboard and wringing them out to dry. Little children giggle at the sight of you and run behind the legs of their indifferent parents. The family dog is lazily sun-bathing on the sidewalk and doesn’t even notice you stepping over him.
Further along you pass by rice patties attended to by hunchback old ladies wearing stereotypical straw hats. The wind sweeping over the blades of grass is probably the most calming sound in the entire world, so you enjoy a moment of contemplative relaxation before moving on. The little old ladies are not the only ones with an affinity for nurturing vegetation. The lack of yards in Taiwan makes people potted-plant crazy. Landscaping is rare because every available plot of dirt has a well-looked-after vegetable–stressing function over form. You pass by several community gardens where plants you have never seen before in your life are thriving in the rich soil.
Mixed in with the houses are small factories where everything from shoes to rotors are manufactured, usually by no more than four people. The machinery sound is deafening and the overpowering smell of chemicals burns your nostrils. You can’t imagine why people would live next door, but sure enough, every house has an occupant. You notice that the workers aren’t wearing any safety equipment and the machines looks so old and dangerous they could qualify as Medieval torture devices. The dingy dungeon-like atmosphere inside complete with open flames adds to the effect.
No matter where you stand on this street you’re in sight of an ornately-decorated temple, with vibrant figurines on the outside and creepy-looking shrines on the inside. Incense is smoldering unattended at the entrance. You notice a man on his scooter stop briefly at the front of one of the temples to shake his clasped hands at the altar before setting off again. Other people are outside separating sheets of fake money to burn for the dead. The market isn’t too far away from here, and you’re glad because the sun is really starting to bake you alive.
When you reach the market you notice that the entire anatomy of a pig on display. Pig tongue, pig hoof, pig intestine, large shanks of pig leg, and even pig heads dangle from hooks. The meat has been sitting outside for hours in the hot sun attracting flies, but no one seems to mind. You carefully avoid stepping on vegetables for sale which have been laid out on the street–the sellers seemingly oblivious to the soiled asphalt. The sound of Taiwanese folk music mixes with American hip hop in an amalgum of antipodes. Although this is a pedestrian street, people who are too lazy to walk weave their scooters in and out of foot traffic, tempting trucks who are envious to squeeze through. One lady with a bucket full of live ducks on her scooter nearly runs you over.
After gathering your ingredients you begin the journey back home. A clamorous procession leads away from a nearby temple. Giant floats with musicians bang out a monotonous tune, and someone casts a string of fireworks in their direction to send them on their way. A monk stands stationary on the street corner, saying nothing and presenting a bucket to passersby in hopes of a donation. A cripple follows suit and starts begging people for spare change, and as you walk by he calls out to you using the only English word he knows; “money”.
When you get home you light the propane stove and cook your lunch. You’ve given up trying to find Western ingredients and condiments and instead enjoy a meal of cooked meat and vegetables on a bed of rice. For a beverage, you’ve grown accustomed to drinking tea for nearly every meal.
You turn on the TV and notice the programs are either in Taiyu or Mandarin, or a combination thereof. You flip past a kids show featuring puppets engaged in extremely “bloody” battle, moving in an oddly lifelike way. Soap operas are also popular, especially the ones set in ancient China. You skip past singing competitions, game shows, infomercials for Chinese energy pills, American sports programs, and people with bad English teaching English. You settle for a news station and try your hardest to understand it, both in reference to language and culture.
The afternoon is devoted to chores. Any task that requires talking to people in Chinese can turn into a long and drawn-out mess usually ending in “mei-ban-fa”s (a way of saying “it can’t be done”), so you’ve dedicated the next couple hours to handling those tasks. While you’re checking off your task list a local who you are tutoring text messages you to find out where you want to meet for his English lesson. After chores, you meet at your favorite hang-out and hit the books. You spend the next hour racking your brain wondering why in the world your own language is so confusing.
After you and your student part ways you notice it’s starting to get dark. Bats have begun flittering overhead, dining on a feast of otherwise loathsome mosquitoes. Tonight’s a good night to eat something downtown, so you mount your trusty scooter/steed and ride towards the city. Getting there is a maze of confusion with the traffic system partly to blame. Impatient Taiwanese risk life and limb at every intersection. As you get further into the city the streets get busier and more dangerous, and it becomes pointless counting how many times you nearly get into an accident.
A million lights tell you you’ve reached downtown, like an electronic fireworks display in your honor. Neon signs point the way to noodle shops and Christmas lights are strung around every tree possible. Entire buildings are turned into illuminated advertisements. Even the vehicles around you are decked out with all manner of distracting bulbs. Swirling police-type lights attract attention to the binglang stands, which are completely glass-walled structures where miniskirt-clad women chat on their cellphone while they wait for the next customer.
You exit off the main strip on the way to the night market. You jam your scooter between two others on the sidewalk-turned-parking-lot and start walking towards your favorite place to eat. You pass by dark, narrow alleys where you imagine a hundred kung-fu fights have taken place. A vehicle upon which is mounted a giant loudspeaker comes along, advertising in the most annoying way possible the latest political candidate or some greasy mash the driver is hawking.
The closer to the night market you get the more lively the street becomes, until it’s so bustling with activity that you have to elbow your way through the crowd. Vendors duel with megaphones to see who can attract or annoy more customers. The odor of stinky tofu sends a gut-jerking reaction through your body, and you hold your nose and hurry past.
Your nose is relieved as you step inside the restaurant and get a whiff of hot pot, and the workers inside instantly recognize you and give you a hearty welcome. They recommend trying their latest dish, cooked right in front of you on a stove that resembles a metal table. Their suggestion is eagerly received, and you thank them for their warm hospitality.
Emerging from the restaurant, you notice the night market has begun to empty as you feel the light pat of raindrops on your shoulders. Like birds before a storm, the flock of people who once packed the street are now on their way home to roost. You make a sprint for your scooter where you keep your raincoat, and manage to zip it up just as the downpour begins. The trek back is even crazier than before because now you’re fighting the forces of nature, and when you finally get home you cast off your dank raincoat, shake the rain off your shoes, and look for the nearest towel.
You crash on the couch, exhausted from a busy day. You finish writing whatever homework you have left and then lumber upstairs to start getting ready for bed. You take a shower to wash away the grime which has been sticking to you since the hot afternoon, and you miss the option of being able to soak in a bath as bathtubs are hard to come by here.
After showering, you enter your room and turn on the AC so you can sleep without drowning in your own sweat overnight. Sliding open your balcony door and stepping outside, you take a few moments to inhale some of the fresh after-rain air, careful to close the door behind you so the air doesn’t get out and the mosquitoes don’t get in. The sound of the neighbors singing karaoke is wafting in your direction, and from afar you see the nightly fireworks display. Despite everything that happened today, while standing on your balcony overlooking the city towards a not-too-distant Chinese mainland it finally hits you–you’re in Taiwan.
You crawl into bed, turn off the lights, and dream of tomorrow. Perhaps all of this is really just a dream. You’ll find out when you wake up.
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