Pretzel Logic

About a decade and a half ago, I saw a man doing yoga on some cardboard just outside the Tainan City Culture Center. At least, that’s what the homemade sign on a similar piece of cardboard said, just above the request for donations. At that time, the only thing I knew about yoga was the lotus position, which made sitting like a Native American seem a lot easier than sitting like an Indian. This guy in Tainan must have been a part-time contortionist. He could scratch his left ear with his right big toe after swinging his leg around the back of his head. He assumed positions that made me cringe in intestinal discomfort.

A few years later, my wife was able to get a teacher to come up to Chiayi once a week to give a class at our home. Along with a half dozen friends, we would follow the instructions of a master whose title was Dada. No, it was not an avant-garde painting class, but actual yoga exercises as proffered by Dada’s group, which is a polite, apolitical way of saying religion (sect? cult?). He gave me a book about some of their practices, from which the only thing I remember now was the prohibition of cutting the hair in the pubic region. He also give me some regulation underwear sanctioned by his group, which I tied the wrong way and brought back terrible memories of junior high gym classes.

The exercises were great and I was really proud that I was able to perform most of them with a relatively high degree of proficiency. Dada also showed a few difficult postures that were designed to increase strength, a concept that seemed in direct contrast to what I had always thought yoga was all about. For me, yoga was just a series of different positions used to enhance meditation, with the ultimate goal of calming the mind and thus the body. Dada showed us various exercises that developed the body so that the mind could better control it and find serenity.

Our class disbanded after about a year and I did not stick with the regimen. I was (and still am) too competitive, too Western, too much into organized sports. However, yoga has grown in popularity throughout Taiwan. There is a 24-hour channel that just runs yoga shows, usually with lean, straight-backed artisans leading a small “class” through various routines. A number of centers have opened around Chiayi and apparently flourish. At the front of one of them is a huge advert with a skinny Indian assuming a position that only a man with double jointed knees and lacking muscle mass could possibly hold. The soles of his feet are almost on his chest, with his toes just inches below his chin. This alone shouts “masochist” to me, but this feeling is reinforced by his eyes, which pop out to the size cue balls. His face screams “I know I’m supposed to be loving it, but…”

Which brings me back to the yogic shape shifter back in Tainan. I actually saw him again on a visit to the Culture Center earlier this year. He was still performing on cardboard, wearing only a pair of dark blue pants like last time, and still asking for tips. His hair had flecks of gray, but he was still squirming about assuming different postures that made his small physique appear both fluid and rock hard. I now wonder if he would be a good candidate for the Taiwanese yoga asana, or posture yoga, team when it becomes an Olympic sport. I imagine a woman, her waist twisted like a cleaning rag so that the back of her toned shoulders are facing the front of an uplifted leg, the foot pointing upward like a sword, while her other leg curls underneath and seemingly wraps around her buttocks. She slowly turns her face to the camera and while exhaling slowly whispers, “Just do it.”

Fashionable Poetry

Speakers of English are constantly harping about “Chinglish”, random, ridiculous writings found all over Taiwan and China, usually created by businessmen and government officials as attempts to appease, entice or instruct foreigners. Obviously, such abuse of the English language is not restricted to East Asia. I am certain that similar examples of inappropriate word usage or incorrect grammar can found in other non-English-speaking countries. However, it is taken to a whole new level in East Asia. Signs on walkways tell pedestrians to “Slip and Fall Down Carefully” or provide the direction “To the Boat(s) for Ticket-holding Fits”. There are scrumptious foods like “grilled chicken ass” in the frozen food section of a supermarket, “selected fresh crapmeats” on the menu of a seafood restaurant or “bottled water” in a can available at a convenience store. A “Don’t Disurb” sign at a hospital makes to plea not to leave any over-populated Chinese cities. My all-time favorite is the grocer with the sign “Spread to Fuck the Fruit”. Apparently, when looking up the translation of the Chinese word for “dry”, he inserted the wrong tone and came up with his own version of strawberries and cream.

Perhaps what irks most English speakers about these incoherent messages is that one would think that whoever came up with them would have a relative in the States, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, England or even Scotland with whom they could get a spell check. I could imagine government officials being reluctant due to nationalistic feelings (“Of coulse, we knows what we doing!”) or the knowledge that their superior’s English sucks worse than theirs, but the businessman must realize how such mistakes would hamper their enterprise.

However, the fashion world seems to be immune to any ill-effects of Chinglish. In fact, sayings that appear on various pieces of attire verge on poetry, their meanings clouded in double entendre and multiple layers of understanding approaching the levels of classical poets. The following are examples gleaned from some of my students with my humble attempts at interpreting them.

“Rob a Dub Dub”

Obviously, it is an advocacy of one of China’s important industries, the pirating of western films onto which a new soundtrack can be applied. The repetition of the final two words illustrate one the obstacles many of these entrepreneurs face, that of dubbing and overdubbing a dialogue into not only Mandarin, but also one of the two dozen dialects spoken in the country, thus creating that much beloved theatrical nuance of a voice emanating slightly later than when the actors’ mouths actually move.

LOVE of beauty

Is TASTE

THE

creation of

BEAUTY

is art

This e.e.cummingsesque selection reflects the Oriental passion for culinary delights. Coming from America, where portion size dominates the presentation of any dish, be it a T-bone steak or a submarine sandwich, I have always been struck by the Taiwanese knack for combining outrageously incongruent foodstuffs to appeal to the eye of the diner. Perfect examples include colorful ice cream sprinkles being placed on pale potato salad, while corn flakes are used as a garnish for an ice cream sundae.

Bouncing

off the

WALLS

Businawreck

MARYLAND

The political message of the passage, an indictment of the American government, would be self-evident if I were able to place the winged red, white and blue shield that appeared between “off the” and “WALLS” on my student’s shirt. However, copyright laws, coupled with my lack of interest to search through Google Images for a reasonable facsimile, make it impossible for me to recreate actual scene. The fervor of the words, though, is still palpable through the next to last line, especially when spoken quickly, as was certainly intended by omitting the spaces between the words.

I hope that the minute selection above has piqued your interest in viewing Chinglish not as an affront to your mother tongue, but as a means of expression, one albeit nonsensical and ridiculous, but also a window into the soul of the inscrutable Asians.

Back to the Future

Last week, two old students visited me at my cram school. They had attended my classes over fifteen years ago and the only way I knew who they were was when I recognized their mother, who, in typical Taiwanese fashion, had not changed much at all. The younger brother was as tall as me and told me how he had already gotten a master’s in computer science and had just finished his military service. At a recent interview, he was asked to have a five-minute conversation in English. He said that it stretched out to almost twenty minutes as they discussed his travels to Japan and the Czech Republic, as well as one of his passions, American sports.

I had actually run into the older sister a few months ago at the Foreign Affairs Office in Chiayi. When I had entered, I first spoke to a young official sitting at the counter nearest the door. Suddenly, I heard my name from the back of the room, but when I looked along the counter and at the rows of empty chairs to the left, all I saw were two female civil servants at their work stations. So, I simply ignored the call, thinking that I must have heard something that sounded like my name.

“You don’t recognize me, do you, Hugo?” asked one of the women. As I walked further into the office, I saw that she looked to be around twenty-five years old, but you know how hard it is to tell with Taiwanese women.

“Sorry, but do I teach one of your children?”

She rolled her eyes and then looked straight at me. “I was one of your students!” She had graduated with an English degree and had been working at the Foreign Affairs Ministry for more than a half dozen years now. Though I must admit that I had no idea who she actually was until I returned home and dug up an old picture of her class, it was great having a conversation with her, hearing how English had helped her at work and boosted her career.

Unlike most English teachers in Taiwan, I often get to see how my teaching has affected my students. Dozens of former students have gone onto study in the US, Canada, the UK, Australia and New Zealand. One former student who had been a liaison between an Italian company and the Taiwan Hi-Speed Rail told me about his new-found appreciation for wine. One day, I ran into another who had attended Wenzao, the premier language university located in Kaohsiung, and we spoke about her semester in Frankfurt mostly in German, her second foreign language at university.

So, to all those teachers out there who look at their job as simply a job, realize that, for better and hopefully not worse, you have a huge impact on individual students that will last their entire lives. What you need to recognize is the atmosphere that you create in your own class goes beyond grammar and proper pronunciation. The one common thread that runs through the successful students I have met over the years is a lack of fear of screwing up coupled with a knack for remembering mistakes and not making them again.

As most of you will be at your current position for a short period of time, realize that you are providing the building blocks, the base on which the next teacher can expand your students’ ability and shape their future, a future that they cannot imagine, but will be upon them in a short time. Hopefully, you will have provided them with advantages that will open the world to them and their dreams.

A License to Spin the Wheel

The license plate of my car has the numbers 3866. “Eight”, or “bā” in Mandarin, is the luckiest number in Chinese numerology because it sounds like “fā”, the Mandarin word for “generating wealth”. In Cantonese, “six” has a similar homophonic distinction, but also a similar pronunciation to the Mandarin word for “flow” and is considered beneficial in business, i.e. “cash flow” or “customer flow”. Even the “three” sounds like the Chinese word for “birth”, thus rendering it auspicious as well, since birth is part of the three traditional major events of a man’s life (birth, marriage and death).

Numerology is big business in Asia. License plates with all eights are sold for over US$100,000 in different Chinese provinces. Shortly after I came to Taiwan, I remember reading about the lucky winner at an auction held by the Taiwanese DMV for a “super 8” plate, one containing six 8’s. I don’t remember how much was paid, but it was some astronomical amount. Just a few years ago, someone paid NT$ 3.5 million (over US$120,000) for another “super 8” plate. The car to which the plates were registered was worth only NT$600,000, or a little more than a sixth of the cost of the Taiwanese version of a vanity plate. It was intended to be a Father’s Day gift, which, in Taiwan, falls on August eighth, or “bā-bā”.

Since I have never had an accident in my car and it has never given me any major mechanical headaches, I could give credit to the luck of the numbers. The fact that I usually only drive on long trips to bigger cities and rarely around Chiayi doesn’t hurt either. I have also considered how the letters “LT” that precede the numbers may have had any impact on my driving past or future. While the “T” does not have much of a descriptive history, the “L” comes from the ancient hieroglyph for an oxen goad and the Semitic shepherd’s crook. Maybe the “L” metaphorically protects me and any riders, much like a goat-herder’s staff keeps the wolves at bay.

Taiwanese license plates are simply black numbers with a white background, definitely better than the old New Jersey puke-yellow-on-dull-blue that I remember. I saw that the design has been changed and the plates now looks like they have been partially faded by the sun. And, of course, they had to retain the assertion that NJ is the Garden State. If only I had a more favorable attitude towards cranberries, then I wouldn’t snicker every time I hear that nickname.

I must admit though that I do prefer the colorful displays put forth by various American states. However, that may not last for long. I read about an Oklahoma man suing the state because he objected to a picture of a sculpture on his license, arguing that it violated the idea of separation of church and state. The statue, Sacred Rain Arrow, depicts a mythical Native American warrior aiming an arrow straight up in the sky in an attempt to end a drought. Various renderings of the work appeared at the Olympics and the Smithsonian, but apparently, the “Christian” saw the license as a means of endorsing a specific religion. Incidentally, one of his main arguments is his refusal to pay extra for a plate without that small bit of Oklahoma culture. I wonder how he would felt with a white cowboy riding a bucking bronco. Would he have taken the animal rights tack? Somehow I doubt it.

The Not So Wild West Comes to Taiwan

Just the other night, I saw a commercial about some breath-freshening agent. As is often typical with memorable TV ads, one remembers the storyline, but forgets the actual product. It might have been toothpaste, maybe mouthwash, possibly breath mints. What stuck in my mind was the warning that appeared at the bottom of the screen, which to me, signaled the final submission of Taiwanese society to the morals of the so-called enlightened West.

A party full of Asians is in progress as the advertisement opens. A man at the bar eyes a pretty woman across the room, who returns the gaze with an alluring grin. Right there, I realized how bogus this set-up was. Western women, who have striven for equality, especially over the last half-century, have arrived at a place where they can stride across a room and walk up to a man, confident in their beauty, personality, sexuality, ability and whatever other “-ty” they want to exhibit. On the other hand, stunningly attractive Taiwanese women, like the one on TV, have perfected that bored look that screams, “Drop dead. I want nothing to do with you,” a look that Western women rarely use. In my opinion, this facial expression stems from centuries of Asian women being forced to cultivate their appearance instead of their minds and thus resulting in an attitude that says, “If you want any of this, you need to show that you’re worth it.”

So when the beauty in the ad glides towards the relative handsome guy, perhaps it is a recognition of the fact that a higher percentage of Taiwanese women enter university than men and a growing percentage of women are entering the Taiwanese workforce and political arena. In the words of an earlier American ad, Taiwanese women have come a long way, baby, and can now confidently approach a man and deal with him as a peer. However, we soon see that the man is not an equal to this Asian Diana because he has bad breath and has nothing to remedy his malady. So, he resorts to drinking the water out of the fish bowl at the end of the bar. Here is where a cautionary notice appears at the bottom of the screen stating that ingesting fish bowl water is not good for one’s health and places the fish’s life in peril.

In Taiwan, there are warning labels on cigarette packs with pictures of rotting teeth and gum disease that remind me of the black lung pics Larry Flynt used to put on the backs of his Hustler mags. In China, I saw poster-size blow-ups of bloody traffic accidents above the urinals at highway rest-stops, condemning drinking and driving. Similar to broadcasts in the States, Japanese wrestling broadcasts lead off with the notice that “trained professionals” perform the stunts and that one should not try them at home. Such warnings I can live with. And admittedly, the wording for the admonishment on the above ad is a bit tongue-in-cheek, but it made me wonder if Taiwanese had gotten as ridiculous as Americans who need a warning label on a cup of boiling hot coffee before sipping it to test its temperature. (It’s coffee in a Styrofoam cup, so, of course, it’s hot, stupid.)

Helmets on motorcyclists became required only about a decade ago. Now, middle school students are told to wear helmets if they ride a bike to school. Backseat riders have to buckle up or the fines will be meted out. People still put toddlers in bamboo chairs strapped onto the footboards of scooters, though there is a call to ban such seating. The Chiayi night market no longer wraps around the athletics stadium. Instead, it has been set up next to a department store on Bo-ai Road, where the vendors are provided with safer electric power and cleaner running water for the price of being better regulated by the government. After a legislator had visited the US and was so impressed by our treatment of our pets, he introduced and was able to enact a law prohibiting the sale of dog meat.

Before you know it, the Taiwanese government is going to make medical insurance compulsory. We’ll all have ID’s with dreaded computer chips storing all our info. At the first sign of sickness, we’ll have to pay around NT$100 (or US$3) for a visit to a doctor and not have to pay anything for the prescription. The birth of a baby will cost a few thousand NT$, not US$. Even dental care will be covered.

Wait a minute, that’s right, we already have all that in Taiwan.

Who’s enlightened now?

A Non-national Day?

Double Ten Day, the national day of Taiwan’s alias, the Republic of China, has come and gone. There was a big parade in Taipei and President Wang gave a speech about all that he has done for the ROC in the past year and will do in the next. Yet, with his dismal approval rating, I wonder how many people actually listened to him. When I explain to new teachers or folks back home that this is the national day of the country, they imagine parades and fireworks that make kids throughout the States, from big cities to small farming towns, “oooh” and “aaah” on the Fourth of July. However, whereas the Fourth of July probably would rank below Christmas and almost tied with Thanksgiving as favorite holidays for Americans, Double Ten Day probably doesn’t even break into the top five for Taiwanese, lagging far behind the big three of the lunar calendar, Chinese New Year, Dragon Boat Festival and Mid-Autumn Festival. Tomb-sweeping Day, as morbid as it may sound to a Westerner, probably ranks higher in importance, while 2-2-8 reaches to the hearts of most Taiwanese more than a holiday commemorating a historical event in mainland China that occurred when Taiwan was a colony of Japan.

When I first arrived to Taiwan, the Double-Ten parade reminded me of the May Day parades in the old Soviet Union. Military hardware, much of it from America, was rumbled through the streets of Taipei. Tanks, SAM batteries, rocket launchers with new missiles developed by the Taiwanese, troop transports and communication trucks were spaced between brigades of marching soldiers, military police on motorcycles, Navy Seals straddling rubber rafts on the backs of trucks, even the women’s auxiliary strutting their stuff. As martial law was still around, it made sense to make this show of strength, especially since the mainlanders had the same kind of show for their national day festivities.

However, with growing democratization, the parade got mellower. High school bands were invited to perform and floats began to appear. Students dressed as ancient warriors performed dance routines in front of the reviewing stand, where fewer uniforms were present and a growing number of politicians got a better view of the procession. In recent years, instead of soldiers in their pressed uniforms and with their precision movements, ordinary citizens in color-coordinated outfits strolled down Ketagalan Boulevard creating the Double-Ten symbol. There were still some exihibits of martial ability, but the parade come off more as a fun-fest, especially when it was capped off with a well-choreographed fireworks and laser-light display.

Unfortunately, we here in Chiayi could only enjoy the proceedings from our sofas. I remember seeing a parade once going down Jung Shan Road, but it consisted of a few elementary school marching bands and some police officers on their personal scooters, all of them staying on the shoulder of the road. Though the government buildings would be decorated with Christmas lights from the beginning of October to Chinese New Year twenty-something years ago, the effort is rarely made anymore. One year, there was an excellent fireworks show, but it has not been repeated due to a lack of funding.

Apparently such fiscal concerns are going to affect the Taipei parade in the near-future, as the Ministry of Education has announced that there is no money in the budget to fund the performing middle school bands. I wonder if that will lead to the parade reverting to a showcase of Taiwan’s military might. It’s quite possible, since cram school classes and the need for catch up on sleep on the weekend would prevent Taiwanese high schoolers trying to raise money for the band with activities like a car wash or a bake sale.

Can "Chopsticks" be Played on the Spoons?

A girl got me to master chopsticks. And it wasn’t my wife.

Just before my senior year in high school, Sheryl was my girl at the Methodist summer camp I had gone to in South Jersey. Being half Native-American, the contrast of her tanned skin to my sunburned Mick-Kraut pale face was offset by our mutual love for and different skills at anything athletic. We were “the couple” at camp. Two months later, at the South Jersey United Methodist Youth Conference in Ocean City, we hooked up again. However, for some stupid reason, it was decided by our circle of friends to eat Chinese one evening. Unfortunately, at the restaurant, Sheryl ran into the guy with whom she had been “the couple” at a camp earlier that summer. In the end, my inability to master the chopsticks (Hell, the only ethnic food in my neighborhood was pizza or kielbasa.) and my use of a fork to finish the meal made me lose face and lose out to the other guy. You can imagine my mother’s surprise when the first thing I said upon my return from the conference was that I wanted to buy a pair of chopsticks. It may not have been a religious awakening, but it certainly was a widening of cultural boundaries. The funny thing was that Sheryl and I had a few dates the following year, one of which to a Chinese restaurant, where I saw guys making fools of themselves tossing food onto the floor before deciding to use a single chopstick to stab a dumpling.

Well, I’m here to tell you that for every white guy who flips a piece of kung-pao chicken across the room, there’s an Asian holding a fork like a Hollywood mass murderer looking for his next victim. I have seen it all over East Asia. My wife was a travel agent when we married, so we have usually stayed at very nice hotels whenever we have travelled abroad. It didn’t hurt that the Taiwan dollar was so much stronger than most of the other region’s currencies, enabling us to stay, for example, at the Hilton in the “Golden Ghetto” on Bali or the Jumeirah in Shanghai. And since we usually traveled on traditional Chinese holidays, at least half of the clientele at these luxury hotels was Taiwanese or Chinese.

The Western-style breakfasts served at these hotels is one of my favorite aspects of vacationing. While my wife enjoyed Chinese dishes like glass noodle soup or congee, I savored the western offerings, such as omelets and pancakes almost like what Mom used to make, bangers and beans similar to those served on cold Welsh mornings before hiking the Brecon Beacons, or rye bread with cold cuts and cheese, reminding me of my Uni days in Vienna, usually all eaten in one sitting. It was during these meals that I could observe Asians dealing with Western cutlery.

One of the problems Asians seem to have is judging the size of their mouths. Since Chinese meat dishes are usually prepared by cutting them up in small pieces, there is a certain elegance in watching one pick up a piece of pork with chopsticks and place it in her mouth. The same can be said when eating vegetable, since only a small amount of spinach or cabbage can be gathered and raised to the mouth. Such refinement, such delicacy is totally lost when a businessman uses a fork to push a mound of greens onto his spoon and tries to squeeze it into his mouth, sometimes leaving strands hanging off his lips in such a way to remind me of the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

When eating hot pot, inch-long chunks of corn on the cob are often thrown in as well, requiring the eater to assume a wider grip on the chopsticks in order to pull them out of the soup. Though I’m sure I looked rather clumsy at first, I can now easily accomplish the task. However, there is something disturbing when an Asian at an five-star hotel restaurant impales a piece of corn on the sliced side and then holds it up like a lollipop, which, instead of licking, he bites into beaver-like to scrape the kernels into his mouth, his head tilted back so that he doesn’t lose a morsel. Meanwhile, his eating partner holds his portion sideways, twirling it with a steak knife while his left forefinger guides it.

I have often been perplexed at why such eating behavior occurs when chopsticks are usually available, since the restaurant is serving Asian food. Perhaps it is the incongruence of trying to use chopsticks with a plate, instead of having a bowl of rice into which the food can be placed. However, you know something is wrong when a customer has a typical basket of steamed bāozi, and waves each bun on the end of a fork like a rubber mallet, biting around the edges of it before getting into the meat-filled center.

Slurping noodles, though abhorrent to the Western ear, is necessary and quite fun when using chopsticks. But to see an Asian scooping up a clump of pasta larger than his mouth, biting into half of it and sucking in the rest, much like a snake does with a mouse, is outright disgusting.

So, for all those newbies arriving in Asia who always ate Chinese take-out with silverware, remember that you have an Asian doppelganger in need of Western etiquette lessons.

My Bane and Gregor Mendel's Life's Work

One day, when I was about five years old, my mom counted out fifteen peas for my dinner. This was the minimum intake if any of the children at the McGlinchey table wanted dessert. My little brothers got more because they loved those disgusting, roly-poly green balls, but I made it up by eating more than my fair share of spinach. After finishing my pork chops and apple sauce, as well as my mashed potatoes, I would push five of the alien-puke-colored orbs on to my spoon, using my fork because I didn’t even want to touch those vile critters. With my left hand on my glass of milk and my right hand holding the spoon unsteadily, I would, in quick succession, toss those putrid pellets to the back of my throat and then force them down my gullet with a cleansing mouthful of milk. The process would be repeated two more times, at least once a week, for the next thirteen years.

Once I moved out of home, one of the most liberating feelings for me was to be able to leave the peas on the plate. Not that I ordered them, but they would occasionally show up as the veggie side dish that came with the order. Or I would segregate them from the rest of a beef stew, leaving a dozen of them crowded into a corner of the plate. If anyone asked, I was man enough to admit my aversion to the emerald globules and confident that if that if any derision followed, I could probably name off half a dozen vegetables, from asparagus to zucchini, that the insulting party despised.

Seven months in Wales gave a whole new dimension to my disgust for peas. Every Wednesday, lunch was mutton with mint sauce (a vile dish in and of itself) and mushy peas served with an ice cream scooper. It was explained to me how the proper consistency was reached by one of the cooks, but since I was trying to suppress the gag reflex the whole time, I didn’t remember what was said afterwards.

Arriving on Taiwan, I was introduce to more varieties of vegetables, legumes, fungi and lichen with only bitter melon entering that “No-entry” group. Thanks to the freshness of the veggies, I have grown to like previous foods that were on my “Don’t Eat!” list, like broccoli, string beans and eggplant. In fact, the only food from childhood that remains verboten are peas.

Enter the concept of presentation. When I was young, a slab of meat to the right, some greens to the left and some form of potato at the top of the plate was Mom’s idea of presentation. If you didn’t like the veggies and/or their juices skirting along the edges of the scalloped taters, well, then eat faster. Nowadays, the words “wonderful presentation” is like a name brand sticker on a pair of jeans or a T-shirt. You could probably get the same dish for a quarter of the price at a New Jersey diner. And with the savings, you could leave nice tip without getting a service charge.

Chinese cooking has always made presentation a cornerstone of its cuisine, especially with the use of colors. A gray-skinned fish, complete with the head and tail, is covered in orange-tinted sweet-and-sour sauce with green shredded scallions thrown on top. Chicken soup, complete with the head and claws floating inside, is served in a colorful ceramic pot. White lobster meat is laid out on a bed of lettuce on one side of a long serving dish next to the head, antennae and tail of the boiled crimson crustacean.

Peas, due to their beryl color, are often used to add colorful contrasts to a dish. They are sometimes thrown into fried rice, along with corn and chopped-up slices of ham. Sweet and sour or spicy sauce is occasionally laced with peas. I have seen the meat fillings of steamed dumplings containing peas.

So, it just seems natural for Costco, in order to cater to the Taiwanese palate and sense of presentation, to serve a combo pizza with not only peas and corn, but also pieces of carrot. Whatever happened to onions, mushrooms and green peppers? 

Fengshui, or How Earth, Wind, and Fire Dropped Water From the Group

Fengshui. Sounds like some rare tropical fungus found under the toenails. Apparently I have been battling fengshui most of my life. At least that’s what the Asians wearing those exquisite silk jackets on various shows on different “science” channels say. Heck, if “history” channels can run shows about gator hunters and pawn shops, I guess an ancient Chinese belief can be considered science. My first experience with it was seeing a huge mirror at the entrance of the largest Daoist temple in Chiayi, the Jiuhuashan Dizang Temple. I was told that it was placed there not for narcissistic parishioners, but to prevent bad spirits from strolling into the temple. One can still see blank, shiny CD’s taped or glued to the backs of cars to prevent any gremlins from throwing a spiritual wrench into the vehicle, while scooters sometimes highlight their “NO KISS” mud flaps with an old “Best of the 80’s” as well. Graves are placed near water, like rivers, wells or even rice paddies, to be conducive to the spiritual flow. I was told that prayer rooms in private residences with shrines to a god or ancestors cannot face west, evidently the unluckiest direction of them all. It’s understandable, considering how the “west” meant desert and warring steppes tribes that, at one point, went on to rule most of Asia, including the Chinese, in spite of the Great Wall.

The design of my house has an important fengshui element: there is no clear line of sight from the front door to the back. However, since the large window next to the entrance allows a perfect view down the hall to not only the back door beyond the kitchen, but also the bathroom window at the rear of the house, curtains hang at the doorways to both rooms to prevent (or, when considering the flimsiness of the partitions, simply hinder) any good energy flow from going out the back. Unfortunately, these barriers occasionally come crashing down on my head when they get hooked on class binders I may have or a button on my cuff. I assume that this occurs when there is a build-up of non-auspicious fengshui at the curtains, thus acting as a release valve for the negative energy, though it does bother me that it always seems to happen to me and not my wife.

A few years ago, all of the clocks in the house were pointed to the south, thus allowing the hands to proceed in a westerly direction, which was supposed to be good for the position of our home. Apparently that rule about the west being unlucky is conditional, as with most things with fengshui. When I pointed out how the hands would be going towards the east at the top of the hour, I was told that I didn’t understand the concept. I didn’t dare ask about the digital timepieces

I have always wanted to go to the house of the fengshui “expert” my wife occasionally visits to see if he has followed his own advice and captured the essence (and the riches) of fengshui. Somehow, I think I would be disappointed, but then I would probably be told that such “gifted” people dispense such knowledge not for personal gain, but for the benefit of others. I wonder how such an attitude would transform Wall Street.

So, when I noticed that my wife was putting the covers down on all the toilets in the school and the house for the last few weeks, I naturally assumed that it was another “recommendation” (“order”?) from her local “advisor”. The need to prevent water, that conduit of all things spiritual, from taking away our home’s fortune seemed obvious enough. I asked her about it and, to my surprise, her actions were based on science, albeit from the Internet. One of her friends had posted a video that showed how wet and wild whirlpool created by flushing toilets spews lots of unhealthy things into the atmosphere of one’s home. So, now, I not only have to pick up both the cover and the seat when I need to urinate (Sorry, but, while I still can, I refuse to sit to pee.), but now I have to put them back down when I’m done. From now on, I’m going to hold it until I go downstairs and can use the urinals in the school’s restrooms. And since I’ll be facing south, I can rest assured that I’m not pissing away any good fortune.

Pork Fluff: the Flavor of the Beach in Your Mouth

One of the first Taiwanese words I learned was for that Taiwanese pseudo-condiment, bah-hú, or pork fluff. Dried, salted, shredded meat sold in cans and jars used to flavor congee (rice porridge) and stuff cheap sashimi. The way it seems to melt into sand in my mouth makes me want to eat any winter morning breakfast congee (gruel, if you ask me) simply plain. I learned the word after the first time I visited a Taiwanese bakery. Greasy donuts rolled in granulated sugar, like what one sprinkles on cereal, were next to some rolls that had been baked with scallions in the dough. They would have probably gone great with a steak, but not as the sweet snack I was looking for. The Taiwanese Danish were filled with an unappetizing pale purple paste that I later discovered to be taro. On a lower shelf, I saw what looked like a jelly-filled doughnut, though it was lacking any powdered sugar coating. However, it had that non-descript shape, not quite an oval, not quite a rectangle, almost trapezoidal that I remembered from the pastries my hometown German bakery used to have. This Taiwanese delicacy even had similar indentations left by the cooling rack.

So, using the tongs and the tray provided to me by a cute, tittering shop assistant, I selected my pastry and took it to the counter, where it was placed in a paper pocket and then a small plastic bag. Once outside the shop, I removed it from its wrapping, took a huge bite and promptly spit it out. As I looked inside this vile creation, I saw what seemed to be bits of chopped up jute string. Had the shop sold me a donut in which the filling had already dried out, though the bread surrounding it seemed fresh? I considered taking another bite, but instead pinched some of the fibers that simply remained motionless in the donut, another unsettling image when one expects jelly to be oozing out. The gritty sensation between my fingers was far from pleasant and when I licked them, the almost briny flavor made me gag. Once I learned how to say bah-hú, I never had to experience such bitter disappointment in my pastry selection again.

The one thing I do not understand is why the Taiwanese eat this stuff. Taiwanese cuisine is not only delicious, but usually good for you. I can’t imagine any nutritional benefits remaining in this overly processed food. So, I have come to the opinion that pork fluff may not be actually made from pigs. Old woven plastic tarps, the red, white and blue ones used at roadside banquets, on building scaffolding and as funeral tents, are recycled to make this savory treat. First, the tarps are placed at entrances of cement plants and building sites so that construction vehicles and gravel trucks can run over them repeatedly to get the proper texture. Next, they are soaked in typhoon-swollen rivers for that appealing hue. Then, they are placed on the roofs of buildings so that the particle-filled air of various city-centers can add that extra degree of grittiness so detested by most foreigners. Thrown into huge shredders, these once useless vestiges of Taiwan’s plastic society are transformed into an edible parch pulp to be canned and sold. Bon appétit!

Costco and Driving Skill

Costco, that bastion of American consumerism, with it bulk shopping and large carts to accommodate it, has finally reached Chiayi. The mega-store’s newest branch opened just last week to huge crowds and manic shopping. For a country whose staple crop is rice, it was amazing seeing a nearly empty bagel table at mid-afternoon on Sunday. Muffins were flying off the shelves. Fifty people in line waiting for a roasted chicken. However, the sad part is that this palace of produce and products is now the big attraction of our fair city.

Unlike our bigger neighbors to the south and north, Chiayi lacks intellectual stimulus. The Kaohsiung Museum of Art has established itself as the southern purveyor of whatever the Taipei museums exhibit, while the Taiwan Museum of Fine Art in Taichung services central Taiwan. Both cities also boast small artist areas as well science museums worth a day-trip. Tainan has the National Literature Museum, along with Fort Zeelandia and other relics from when the Dutch tried to set up a colony.

Chiayi does have a museum, the first floor of which details earthquakes that have devastated the city and the country. The second floor has fossils of seashells and some stuffed animals, while the third floor often exhibits the local talent, including preschoolers. If you take the time to read the names and titles of the works of art, you could probably go through the whole museum in an hour, but since there were no translations, I did it in twenty-five minutes.

The now defunct prison has been designated as a historical building due to its unique Japanese-era architecture, as have some refurbished buildings connected with the Alishan Railway, which as of now doesn’t go to Alishan. At the Culture Center, there is a room full of Koji pottery, a style unique to Chiayi, as well as statues of Chiayi monkeys, made famous by an artist decades ago and copied by many. Then there is the 2-28 Memorial Hall, which commemorates those who died during the White Terror, though the pictures of a famous murdered artist and other Taiwanese leaders make for a depressing walk-through.

Costco, on the other hand, can offer one a first-hand look at a part of Taiwanese culture that frustrates and flabbergasts most foreigners, albeit at a slower and much safer speed. The way Taiwanese operate the carts throughout the store reflects their driving habits in many facets. At the entrance, it’s similar to the (c)rush of cars heading to popular sites during a holiday weekend. Carts attempt to merge into a stream of tailgating traffic that flows with a small hint of organization and hardly any respect for lane markers. One needs to be somewhat forceful in letting others know of one’s intention to enter the current. When a shopper turns off into a side aisle, there is a dash to fill the void created. Occasionally, a daring, usually younger driver will attempt to circumnavigate the crowd by quickly entering a space in the oncoming traffic lane, only to find his way block and the need to reenter the tide.

The way the store sets up the taste-testing stands imitates how farmers in blue trucks full of produce set up shop on a busy corner. What follows are shoppers stopping to enjoy a piece of ham or a paper shot glass of clam chowder oblivious of others trying to proceed down an aisle. The same occurs when friends see each other and instead of simply waving and continuing on, they linger in the middle of the way catching up on what the other has done since the last time they met, again unaware of the blockade that they have created until someone (usually me, because the Taiwanese are too timid in such situations) barks out “Duὶbuqĭ. Yào guò qu!”, literally, “Excuse me. Want to pass”. Though I would love to shout, “Could ya move ya party to the side”, it would be lost on the audience and I would get no pleasure from it.

When I first arrived in Taiwan, truck mud flaps, car trunks and scooter taillights would have “Don’t kiss!” written on them. I soon found out that it was not a government program on cutting down teenage pregnancy but a sincere desire of the drivers for some respect from fellow road warriors. This aptly applies to the notion that Taiwanese drivers don’t pay attention to what’s behind them, that they concentrate on what’s in front of the windshield and let those in the rear take care of (fend for?) themselves. If only the same applied at Costco. I have been to the Taichung branch at least a half dozen times and had someone run into the back of my ankles every time. One time, it happened at the entrance of the escalator going up when a schmuck behind me apparently didn’t want to let too much space open up between us. To a certain extent, this lack of focus is understandable, with all the goodies the store has to offer for the eye. Thank goodness Taiwanese highways don’t have so many billboards distracting drivers. Still, I couldn’t believe it when, at the end of my first visit to Costco’s newest emporium, as I was handing the receipt to the receipt checker (How do they do what they do?), a young couple pushed their cart right into my butt. I turned to see him raising a hand, bowing his head and saying “Saurry!” She put on a nervous smile, like most Taiwanese do in uncomfortable circumstances when they think finding the humor in it will alleviate any pain inflicted or embarrassment felt. When I said “Don’t kiss” and pointed to my buttocks, they giggled, as if they got the joke. I didn’t smile back.

Turkey Rice: Taiwan's Comfort Food

A recent month-long on-line poll conducted by the government’s Council of Agriculture named Chiayi chicken rice as the tastiest rice dish in all of Taiwan, garnering over 400,000 votes. For those who don’t know, the moniker “chicken rice” is a misnomer since it is actually made from turkey meat. This is due to the Chinese word for turkey, literally “fire chicken”. Anyway, winning first place does make a lot of sense. It is a simple meal that is eaten anytime of the day, consisting of slices or shredded chunks of boiled turkey breast served on top of a bowl of rice with grease and some other “sauce” spread over it to add flavor. Different shops offer various side dishes, such as sautéed cabbage, tofu stewed in soy sauce and my favorite, pidan doufu, or thousand-year-old-egg with tofu. There is also soup, including fish balls in clear broth or miso, or bean paste, soup, a dish borrowed from the Japanese.

Though I have never been to it, the Fountain Chicken Rice Shop in the center of the city is the most famous in town and is always packed from morning to night, with tourists and regulars alike. A shop previously located near my old house has that rustic quality that would make American health inspectors cringe, but there was always a line at lunch time. I personally prefer a small shop on Chueiyang Road owned by the parents of one of my son’s old classmates. The clientele are office workers or students, usually male, in for some Taiwanese fast food, only cheaper and better for you than a Mickey Dee’s meal. Whenever my Taipei in-laws come down for the holidays, they always have one meal of chicken rice.

My sister-in-law ran a chicken rice shop for a few years and did rather well with it. Shortly after she had opened shop, however, the city government had instituted a one-way street law and stationed police on corners to enforce the new ordinance. The problem was that my sister-in-law’s shop was merely ten meters from the corner, but in order to get to it, even a scooter driver would have to go around the block. Within six months, businesses, including my sister-in-law’s, had successfully petitioned the city government to make scooters exempt from the one-way traffic code, making Chiayi apparently the only major city in Taiwan to have such a privilege.

These accolades are a reward for the government’s efforts last year in declaring one month “Chicken Rice Month”. (I think it was August.) There were taste-testing contests and educational events giving the public a greater appreciation of this ultimate Taiwanese comfort food. However, I wonder how popular it will remain. With seven McDonald’s, a half dozen KFC’s, three Starbucks, as well as Domino’s and Pizza Hut, how many of today’s youth in Chiayi will one day think back on their Saturday lunches and remember turkey and rice or burgers and toys. Even when I heard about the survey from a TV news report, I was in a small Italian restaurant woofing down some spaghetti carbonara.

Almost Au Naturel in Yilan

The Japanese, thanks to their appetite for building materials, created Taiwan’s logging industry almost overnight by constructing six railways around the island. However, by the mid-eighties, lack of upkeep and restrictions on logging had reduced the system to one line still in extensive use, the Alishan Railway, which transported tourists to the national park. I remember seeing tractor trailers hauling two or three huge trees cut down somewhere in the Central Mountain Range to lumberyards in Chiayi when I first arrived. However, most of these lumberyards to the north of the city are shutdown now as a result of the above mentioned prohibitions on timber. On the flip-side, there has been a marked increase in forested areas across the island over the last two decades, from government-protected parks and reserves to privately-owned recreational areas, complete with hotels, restaurants and special exhibitions areas.

One of the attractions of Cilan Forest Recreation Area in Yilan County is a bungalow at which former ROC President Chiang Kai-shek stayed twice, sort of making it his Camp David. There are pictures of “this extraordinary person” looking admiringly at his wife’s ink and paper art. Other enlargements have him holding the hand of his “beloved” as they leave a village home on Kinmen Island. Why there was a picture of the First Couple hundreds of kilometers away is beyond me, but the pieces of original furniture in the CKS Villa give the visitor that homey feeling of a loving couple enjoying a weekend away from the affairs of state, right down to their separate bedrooms.

Though this trip down history lane is interesting, Cilan’s main attraction is a two hour trail above the bungalow that provides spectacular views of a valley at the confluence of three rivers. The flora includes large red cypress and Japanese cypress trees providing a canopy under which soft ferns and vines with inch-long needles thrive. Butterflies flutter, caterpillars crawl and birds fly from branch to branch, but the best was a small tribe of macaques we came upon seconds after my son said, “I wish we could see some monkeys.” It sounded like two dozen simians scurried down the mountainside, but in retrospect, there were probably no more than six that ran away. Meanwhile, a mother and her baby had hid under a branch just beyond the trail edge and waited until my wife passed before I saw it putting some fruit in its mouth. Tina was able to return and get some photos of the pair.

And then big daddy arrived. At one point, he got up on some branches and shook them violently, but otherwise, he was as calm as I was nervous and excited. He lowered himself onto the trail and followed us by only a few meters, close enough for us to wonder how he survived the summertime heat in such thick fur. While I was staring at him, he would ignore me and look off into the forest, probably keeping an eye on his little harem of two females and their infants that had not followed the retreating stampede. However, I always had the feeling that he was watching us out of the corner of his eye, just making sure we kept going.

In contrast, the Sin Liao Waterfall Nature Trail is a newer “eco-trail”, one of many paths created by local governments around the island offering recreational and learning experiences, ranging from an extensive system of trails in mountainous Chiayi County to this kilometer-long walk through a lush green valley in Yilan County. With no betel nut trees in sight, the hills had the feeling of an area untouched by civilization. These kind of easy trails have proved popular by granting access to natural beauty unknown in urban Taiwan.

The path ends at a scenic waterfall that empties into a jade green pool. The cool water flowed down a boulder-strewn stream, in which several middle-aged couples were wading up to their knees. I myself splashed some refreshing water on my head, face and neck to get a break from the noonday sun. When I looked at the waders again, I noticed that one of them was actually sitting, fully-clothed, in a pool created behind a pair of large rocks, between which a small meter-high cascade had formed. I was surprised to see this since we were a kilometer from the parking lot and the nearby public restroom where she could change. And then she started lathering up her hair. I hadn't seen any bottle of shampoo, but she was foaming at the top of her head. After a few minutes, she leaned back into the mini-niagara between the rocks and rinsed. She then rose out of the pool, walked past the waders, grabbed a plastic shopping bag and proceeded out of the stream to some trees on a different path with, I guess, her husband. Five minutes later, she emerged in a warm-up suit and was combing her wet hair while her man lugged the bag now filled with her wet clothes.

Two things struck me. First, the planning involved to bring the hair care products needed for her all-natural treatment, as well as towels and a change of clothes, was in stark contrast to the dozens of “eco-tourists” rambling along the Sin Liao Waterfall Nature Trail in flip-flops or high-heel shoes and mini-skirts. Second, since the great outdoors of Taiwan are never so isolated that you can’t run into someone, the sheer audacity of stripping in the great outdoors was so un-Taiwanese. Again, kudos to her planning because she must have realized that by meeting her beauty needs at around noon, the path on which she changed clothes was all but empty.

In the past two and a half decades, the Taiwanese have become more ecologically responsible. Though they still have a long way to go, it is amazing the lengths some of them will go to embrace the natural beauty of their country.  

Bubble Tea Help

Under the word “ubiquitous” in the Taiwan Picture Dictionary, one would find a snapshot of a tea shop. These purveyors of sweetened potions are surely leading this country to the fat farm, and, with straw and cup in hand, I am at the head of the pack. I am a bubble milk tea addict. This concoction of non-diary creamer, high-fructose corn syrup, black tea and tapioca balls is certainly bad for me, but it’s just too sweet and fun to drink. I always order the smaller pearls, about the size of a pea, because I prefer to let them glide down my gullet as opposed to chewing and choking on the bigger ones. That’s probably why I gulp down a large cup within ten to fifteen minutes, while my wife needs more than an hour.

I have two favorite shops. One of them was the first to introduce the smaller globs years ago, as well as offer fresh milk as opposed to the creamer as a health-conscious choice. The other is just around the corner and uses a mechanism similar to a paint mixer, into which the mixing cup full of ingredients is attached and shakes them to a frothier consistency. Though it is the taste that keeps me coming back for more, the work force at these two establishments also acts as an enticement.

The shaker shop is owned by a young guy in his late twenties. He is probably one of those typical Taiwanese entrepreneurs that worked for a year at one place to learn the ropes and then decided to leave his below-minimum-wage position to be his own boss. Instead of letting his folks buy him a house like typical Taiwanese parents do, it seems likely that he took the money and opened up the shop on a busy intersection, where he staffs it with attractive young women wearing the company shirt and short skirts or shorts underneath. Currently, one of them has long, tri-color hair, with the black roots already grown out to at least six inches, the reddish hue popular among young girls and bleached inch-long tips. Add bangs, pouty lips, and cheetah-pattern Converse hi-tops and you get “Taiwan cute”. In contrast, the other looks like a volleyball player with long tanned arms and legs, which plays well off the co-worker’s look. Whenever I go, there are always young men, ranging from white-collar guys in ties to construction workers in dirty pants waiting for drinks and more pulling up as I leave. The only women I ever see are usually moms picking up an order they have called in. While I try to make myself appear less lecherous by occasionally looking up at the TV silently playing a news station, I have seen a gaggle of gawking adolescents from the junior high down the street crowding the shop after school and drooling on the counter.

As for the other shop, the staff used to represent a counter-culture of Chiayi. The bastion of the Taiwan’s rice basket, Chiayi is very much like the American Midwest in its middle-class mores and values of Taiwanese life. However, whereas the above tea shop employees has a certain “ka-wai-i” (“cute”, but to a sickeningly Hello Kitty level) quality, the workers at this shop would prefer Heavy Metal. The girl taking orders had a hoop going through an eyebrow and a stud in her tongue, which threw me off more visually then orally when she repeated me order back to me. The guy who prepared drinks had dyed his hair brick red, but had shaved the sides of his head about an inch above his ears, giving him the widest mohawk I had ever seen. It also offered a good view of the dozen piercings in his ears. Another guy had a pair of black with white trim half-inch hoops stretching his earlobes, like those Mursi women in Africa or those hill tribeswomen in Thailand, only his hoops matched the rims of his glasses. The manager was a woman with a Sinead O'Connor haircut and tattoos running down both arms. One ear alone would set off a metal detector from ten meters away and made me wonder what else was pierced.

Unfortunately, they are all gone now. I went to the shop the other day was greeted by an over-anxious college boy with a normal haircut, jeans and T-shirt. The guy who made my drink wore Clark Kent glasses and an apron. A thin, slightly homely girl with a ponytail was washing cups. The tea brewer in the back even smiled at me. Maybe upper-management had decided to pursue a customer base that was less into post-punk. I will probably continue to go, as long as they don’t alter the formula. It doesn’t need to be any sweeter.

Weddings Before and Now

The first “wedding” that I attended in Taiwan wasn’t actually the ceremony, but it was the Saturday afternoon reception given by the family of the groom. I found out later that a similar feast was to be given by the bride’s side in her hometown in the south of the island the next day. At the time, I was not aware that the actual ceremony, if it could be called that, was strictly a family affair and that the reception functioned as an announcement and a witnessing of the nuptials. Since the mother of my host family was friends of the groom’s mother and not of the bride’s, we only feted with the former. As I watched other people entering the room, one man caught my eye. He was wearing a shirt with islands of thin crisscrossing black lines in a sea of cream. At least, that’s what I saw from the back. From the front, the shirt was wide open and flapping, his prominent beer belly sticking out, covered by a white a-shirt with a betel nut juice stain directly below the left corner of his mouth. His tailored trousers were gray, while his shoes were dusty and old. What struck me most about his attire was the new, cheap, navy blue baseball cap on his head, pushed back from his brow and pointing upwards at a sharp angle and to his right. As he walked past me, he raised a thick, rough farmer’s hand to wave to some friends sitting beyond our table and started yelling Taiwanese at them.

My second memory was my host mother, telling me to slow down as the second course was being served. I had already woofed down almost two full bowls of hors d’oeuvres and was filling up a second bowl of shark fin soup when she told me that there were ten more dishes to come. In the end, my gut was a miniature of the farmer in the baseball cap.

Things have changed since then, but some have stayed the same. First, I have seen less shark fin. This has led to other “delicacies” to be served, such as goose feet. It is actually not too bad when it is served with the right sauce and cooked to the proper tenderness that allows the webs to fall off the half-inch long toe bones that one spits out. Another is rooster testicle soup, in which the bloated gonads float on top and appear to be the same size a human male’s. When the waitress told me what the dish was, I incredulously pointed out that the castrated cock had to be as tall as me, to which she walked off mumbling something about stupid foreigners. They have little flavor, but it is apparently the texture of the swimming stones that leads to their appeal.

There are no wedding gifts. Invited guests put crisp new bills in lucky red envelopes, usually in an amount with a six in the hundred’s digit. Odd numbers are inauspicious because they are odd and indivisible, while “four” in Chinese sounds like death and is totally unacceptable. Two is too tiny and eight is a bit extravagant, even if it is the Chinese equivalent to “lucky seven”. So, that leaves six, like $600 or $1,600. Amounts divisible by six hundred are sometimes used, but not often. The amount one gives is also dictated by how much the upcoming wedding party may have given at a previous wedding within one’s family. Such information is accessed by examining the wedding donation register, a tally completed at the check-in table manned by siblings, close cousins or trusted friends at the entrance to the dining hall. As guests enter, they are greeted and directed to the table, where they sign a silk banner and turn in their red envelope. It is accepted with gracious smiles and gratitude, checked to see that a name has been written on it and then passed down the line to the counter, who scribbles the name in the log, counts the contents and enters the amount below the name.

Before, an album would be placed on the check-in table for guests to “ooooh” and “aaaahh” at studio photos taken usually a few weeks before the reception. Most of the pictures had the groom standing tall or sitting proudly while the bride would be at his side or just behind in a pose of adoration. He would wear the same suit in all of the pics while she could have as many as four different costumes, ranging from a traditional western white gown to one of Chinese imperial yellow, from a fortuitous red dress to a Japanese kimono of dark jade green. With the advent of digital cameras, a wider variety of shots are now presented on screens from overhead projectors within the dining hall itself, with a sound track of the couples’ three favorite songs, often including Grant and Barrymore, playing throughout the meal in a loop ad nauseam. Though most of the presentation still presents “traditional” poses as before, they also have others that are more romantic, almost to the point of seductive, such as her in a blue sleeveless gown leaning back on a settee with a beguiling look and placing a naked foot on his lap, or simply playful, like him doing a jumping jack over her. Then there is the PowerPoint production of the happy couple’s childhood snapshots and those of when they dated, along with a short biography of their relationship.

One significant change of late is the throwing the bouquet, à la Taiwan. Instead of witnessing a free-for-all of young women vying for the prize, six misses are led up to the stage where each grabs a long lacy pull attached to a posy held by the bride. The young ladies fan out in a half-circle with the bride at the center and, on the count of three, yank the strings, one of which is tied securely to the flowers. The winner gets the arrangement, as well as a prize, such as perfume. In an effort to provide equal opportunity embarrassment, the whole process is repeated by the groom and six of his single friends.

The one thing that seems of have stayed constant over the years is that the women, no matter how old, dress up for weddings, while the men are much more relaxed. The women participating in the bouquet “toss” at a recent feast were in short dresses and high heels while their hair was coiffed to perfection. Of the six guys in the male go-around, three were in jeans, four had their shirt tails hanging out and none wore a tie. At the table next to mine, a middle-aged man wore a white T-shirt that read down the middle of the back in bright red, “Exercise! Eat! Sleep! Exercise! Eat! Sleep! Exercise!” At least there weren’t any betel nut stains on it.

When A Picture Doesn't Say a Thousand Words

When I first arrived in Chiayi, I was told how it used to be a center for youth gang activity in the 70’s. Just like most criminal stratum around the world, tattoos were symbols of membership and a mark to be feared. I’m not sure why, but it seemed that a calf would get tattooed first before the upper body, usually with a green-bluish ink and at times of the barest outlines. I noticed this when the swimming pool that I trained in came under new management and the clientele changed. I was later told that it was an elaborate process that sometimes lasted weeks, even months, before the finished product would be completed.

Now, just like most of the western world, tats have gone mainstream, sort of. Chiayi boasts a number of tattoo parlors that proudly display skulls and wings on their signs and windows. More and more university students are sporting small markings, sometimes rather indistinct, on their ankles, inside wrists and shoulders. A few days ago, while waiting to check out at the supermarket, a tall young woman stood in the next lane. She had that aura of being a working girl, meaning the 9-to-5 respectable type. Since her short, ginger-dyed hair was tied back, I could see three stars just behind her right ear on her neck, one red, one green, one blue, each about 1-2 centimeters in width. My first thought was that I realize tattoos have become a form of expression, but these stars seemed so insignificant, what was she trying to say? This was followed by the devil’s advocate argument that they didn’t really need to express anything, but then again, since they seemed so insignificant, why get them anyway? Finally, showing that I have been in Taiwan far too long, I noticed how white her skin was, that typical pale coloring that comes from women being very careful to maintain that ultimate in Taiwanese beauty, and I wondered what Mom and Grandmom must have said to her when they saw them.

Then there is the other extreme, which I witnessed a few days ago. While buying some tea, a woman in a black tank-top showed up with ink seemingly bubbling up from between her shoulder blades, rising onto the top of her right shoulder and ending with a panther going halfway down her upper arm. Though the jumble on her back was hard to determine, the big cat was impressive, as was the eagle perched on her right ankle bone, its wings going up her shin and Achilles tendon almost five centimeters. There was a green circle on the left inside wrist that might have been a yin-yang symbol or some other Buddhist symbol, as well as another circular tat on the front of her left ankle.

The only thing I could think was which one hurt the most. A friend said that getting one on the sole of your foot is the worst, but why would anyone want to get one there anyway. My son has told me that the one he got on his lower rib cage hurt more than the one on his belly.

Personally, I have no desire to get one. I won’t deny that there is a bit a fear involved, but it has more to do with indecision than anything else. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so what would I pick to express my … likes, dislikes, loves, national pride (Canadians are big on this one.), strengths, desires, weaknesses, basically, my personality.

And, though I have seen part of a poem on a foreign woman’s rib cage, I have yet to see a Taiwanese with “WATER”, “FIRE” or “ENLIGHTENMENT” wrapping around their waist.

An Anniversary Not to Remember

           Originally, my wedding anniversary was March 15. On my wedding day, I was not warned by any soothsayer like Julius Caesar was, but then again, things didn’t turn out as tragic or as fatal as it did for him. However, the Ides of March were, and apparently, are not that auspicious either, according to a numerologist my wife saw over a year ago.

In Taiwan, numerology goes beyond simply birthdates. The number 8, for example, is extremely lucky because of its similar sound to the Chinese word for “wealth”. Thus, the more 8’s on your license plate, the better everyone else knows that you paid extra for registering your Mercedes. At the other end of the spectrum, 4, due to its homophonic qualities to the word for “death”, is shunned. Elevator buttons on buildings, particularly hospitals, do not have a fourth floor.

Parents-to-be carefully search for names with fortunate stroke-counts or are made up of words which have roots from favorable numbers. If, in the future, they feel that they were mistaken the first time, undoubtedly evident by a child’s lagging school grades, parents change their child’s name in order to find that right combination, usually with the paid advice of a fortuneteller.

I think that all of this started centuries ago with the ultimate numerological prize, the numbers racket. Seen as a way to raise funds, the predecessors to the triads created a whole mythology to the game in order to entice more players. The evolution of it is mind-numbing. Info-mercials offer silver or platinum bracelets engraved with your own personalized lucky number ensure protection, prosperity and happiness. Calendars and call-in shows dispense advice on dates for various actions, from installing an oven to opening a business. Women plan Cesareans down the half-hour to give their child a promising beginning.

When I first moved to Taiwan, I witnessed a huge man (by Taiwan standards), 6’3”, easily 125 kg, wearing a small, triangular, red, satin halter over his chest and huge gut, holding a child’s school chair, one leg of which was longer and used as a writing tool. Those seeking enlightenment would ask a question, for example, the winning number for the Hong Kong lotto, which at the time was the basis for the local underground numbers games. Then, the behemoth, already in an eyes-rolled-back trance signifying that the resident god of the temple had entered his corporal self, would take up the chair with an assistant and proceed to “write” on a square wooden desk. The hopeful would watch how the longer leg glided across the desk’s surface and try to interpret the word the shaman was sketching. If they guessed incorrectly, he would return to the top of the square and repeat writing the word. If correct, he would bang the chair on the desktop loudly a few times, seemingly saying “Hallelujah! Now go win some money and don’t forget to make your offering.”

However, then came the tricky part. The devotees needed to translate the character or characters into numbers. Let’s say the medium wrote the Chinese words for “airplane”. Would it be the stroke count of the words? Maybe “747”! How about “DC-10”, with the “D” substituted with “4” and the “C” being “3”, so the answer would be 33 (43-10=33). Or maybe it was the flight numbers for a crash that occurred a week before, emphasizing how a silver lining can be found anywhere.

As for my anniversary, the problem wasn’t March 15, a great date that prevented me from committing the faux pas of forgetting it. The root of our supernatural numerical miscalculation stemmed from a deeper, more arcane, more (dare I use the word) Oriental belief. It seems that my lunar birthdate combined with my wife’s cannot allow us to reach our optimum potential if we are married in the second month of the lunar calendar. It was actual much easier to explain it in Chinese, which sort of added to the mystery of it all.

After my wife explained it to me, I asked, in my deepest Tonto-voice, “So, Kemosabe, in how many moons do we renew our vows?” When she replied, “Who’s Gimme-Wasabi?” I asked for details on how to remedy our numerical plight, thinking that there would be some sort of Buddhist/Taoist ceremony or at least a bunch of paperwork that needed to be stamped.

A photo shoot was required. That’s all, just a couple of pictures done on an auspicious day chosen by my wife’s number guy. No holy water or rice wine spread around the couple or a feast afterwards. No kitchenware to be busted or ghost money to be burnt. The only witnesses were the photographer and his assistant. We showed up at the wedding boutique of a friend, where my wife got into a gown and some hair extensions and looked great, while I had to squeeze into some formal wear. The actual session lasted for about an hour and a half, an hour shorter than the one we did more than two and a half decades before, to the relief of both of us.

The later photo-shopping made my wife look even younger while I looked like an Irish thug in a tux. She put them on Facebook, so old high school “friends” I haven’t spoken to in decades were congratulating and wishing us good luck, like she was my new Asian mail-order bride.

            The jury is still out as to whether the change has made any real difference. My wife, looking at the glass half-full, says that since business hasn’t gone down, it has helped. Me, on the other hand, can’t help but wonder why these “experts” don’t take their own advice and live the good life. I’ve been told it’s because they wish to impart their wisdom to the masses, sort of like Buddhist bodhisattvas who could have gone to Nirvana, but decided to stick around to help direct our poor souls. However, for a small fee, of course.     

Typhoon Soulik

“Typhoon grass” is a knee- to thigh-high, wide-bladed wild grass that grows in forests at lower and middle elevations in Taiwan. It is a very sturdy grass, with prominent ribs running parallel to its axis. The feature that gives it is name are faint markings traversing across the blade, like folds in the grass. The first time I was introduced to it, I was told to count the lines and that’s would be the number of tropical storms that would pass over Chiayi. When I came up with a dozen and a half after counting the ribs, I was then taught to count the traversing lines, which was the proper method of meteorological storm predictions.

Before coming to Taiwan, the only encounter I had every had with a tropical storm was in 1972, when Hurricane Agnes passed through Florida while my family and I played Monopoly in a trailer just outside Orlando during our trip to Disney World. Though I didn’t know it at the time, Mom and Dad had thought that it would have been a better idea to bunker down for the day than to try to outrun the storm. I remembered their worried looks every time a gust rocked the caravan, as well as the tractor trailers flipped over on the sides of I-95 the next day on our drive back to Jersey. A few years later, on a trip to Hersheypark, I saw a seven-foot high line on a wall at the entrance of a roller coaster noting the height of the flood waters from the same Hurricane Agnes. I imagined myself treading water amongst all these attractions and realizing that I couldn’t ride them.

Since most typhoons come from the east and are dampened by the Central Taiwan Mountain Range, Chiayi City, does not suffer as much as other areas of the island, like the mountainous regions of Chiayi County east of us. After twenty-eight years in Taiwan, typhoons, if anything, are an inconvenience. If it arrives on a weekday, my wife complains about how we have to close the school and lose money, while I prefer to look at the glass half full and point out that we didn’t actually lose anything, just didn’t make any money. That’s when she usually turns around and walks away shaking her head. Though I am the beneficiary of an unexpected day-off, I am not really delighted. At least with snow days when I was a kid, I could go out and enjoy the weather. Instead, I get to watch old movies on TV or read on Facebook how teachers new to the island are getting excited or were disappointed by the typhoon.

Four days before Typhoon Soulik hit us this past weekend, new reports from western agencies were predicting the catastrophic destruction it would bring. “Typhoon Soulik Could Devastate Taiwan” ran one headline. Local broadcasters replayed clips from American news programs predicting the impending crushing onslaught of nature, as if to say, “Hey, Mom, look, I made the Sunday papers.” On Saturday morning, local reporters fanned out across the island for stories of the wreckage Soulik had left. One female correspondent found a traffic light dangling precariously at an isolated intersection in a flat rural area and, in that atypical hysterical voice that young Taiwanese women often use, exclaimed how “frightening” the situation was. However, the cab driver she interviewed said that it would not be a problem until it became a problem, namely, when it actually fell onto the middle of the road, which it did not as he proceeded through the intersection.

Here in Chiayi, we escaped any real damage. On Saturday morning, the rain had subsided, but there were still gusts swaying trees. A few broken tree limbs could be seen in New Chiayi Park and a sign or two had been damaged. The worst destruction of the night was caused by a car accident just opposite the park. A white sedan had apparently lost control on the curve leading to the intersection of Nanjing Road and Shinyeh Road and plowed in a cell phone shop on the corner. Though the winds were gusting rather high, it was evident from the force of the impact that high speed and slick roads were the cause. A pile of debris piled in front of the destroyed gate prevented anyone from entering the shop and helping themselves to some Samsungs or Motorolas. Two dented and scratched doors from the sedan under shattered display cases were the only remains of the car. The mangled shop gate shuttered and clanged occasionally in the wind.

My intention is not to belittle the carnage and tragedy that’s this terrible force of nature unleashes. Soulik caused terrible damage to the north of the island and “wreaked havoc” (a favorite broadcasting description) for businessmen and vacationers hoping to take international flights. In contrast to their A.M. broadcasts, Saturday evening’s news showed cars crushed under trees, roofs turned into twisted slats of metal and landslides coming to rest just meters from residents’ backyards. Thousands were evacuated, hundreds rescued, just over a hundred injured and 3 dead.

The fact is that Taiwan is used to this kind of stuff. The Taiwanese know to stay indoors and lock the dog in the bathroom instead of taking it out for a walk in the middle of a storm. They get home before the weather turns bad and listen to the authorities when told they are in a danger zone and need to be evacuated. And this is why I can’t understand why so many American Northeasterners died from falling trees or carbon monoxide poisoning when Sandy hit last year. They are told how to prepare for blizzards the same way Taiwanese, and for that matter, Floridians are told to prepare for tropical storms. Hurricanes and blizzards are basically the same thing; it’s just a difference of degrees. I wonder what New Yorkers are going to do when the big earthquake hits.