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.