WINTER'S JOURNEY 2

PART II: THE REPUBLIC OF CHINA – BRIDGING THE GAP

First stop, Taipei, capital of the country known as the Republic of China, or its more common name, Taiwan. This island nation has a bit of a crooked history. For a long time it was a sphere of influence of mainland China, until it became a Japanese colony after Japan’s victory in the first Sino-Japanese War at the end of the 19th century. So it remained until the end of World War II, when it was returned to the Republic of China, which itself was in the throes of civil war against Mao Zedong’s Communists on the mainland. In 1949, after the communist victory, the ousted R.O.C. government, led by Chiang Kai-shek’s Kuomintang, moved its seat of power to Taiwan, where it has remained to this day. Therefore, Taiwan has been greatly influenced by both of its neighbors and remains a popular tourist destination for both. Knowing this but not necessarily thinking about it, I began to discern this influence relatively quickly. I have lived in Japan for a while and I visited China (P.R.C.) last year, so in Taiwan, I saw a bridge between the two, slightly colored by its own indigenous history.

On the way from the airport via a nice, comfortable-seating (Japan) but quite old (China) bus, the first thing that struck me was the overwhelming presence of the moped. At least one for every car, they reminded me of scenes from Jurassic Park, where a large dinosaur (e.g. a brachiasaurus (sp.)) majestically strolls across a landscape and in between its legs are hundreds of smaller and more maneuverable dinosaurs, weaving in and out, always on the verge of knocking each other down or getting trampled by those monstrosities of legs, but always managing to somehow end up alright. At many points throughout this trip my life would be severely threatened by the moped, sometimes from without, other times from within. But I never ceased to be impressed by the finesse of operation and by the ever-present notion of danger, that if things went just a centimeter or two off, catastrophe would ensue. In the U.S., there is a two second following distance for cars. In Southeast Asia, it is more like half a second. And for mopeds, the whole notion ceases to exist. How they managed to pile up, nose to tail at every single red light, weaving in between cars, muscling for position, and taking off in a beautiful symmetry was baffling, and whereas in places like Interlaken, Switzerland and even Florence, Italy, I was excited and thrilled to rent and ride one, I would not dare to come close to driving a moped anywhere in this part of the world.

What occupied my mind most in Taiwan indeed turned out to be the unraveling of the cultural intermingling of this land and Japan and China. Both were present in various forms and perhaps it is precisely the lack of dominance by one or the other that gives the country its unique flavor. The first night, after finding my hostel and having a nice chat with a Polish-Canadian going by the rare first name of Roman, I rode the subway out to one of the city’s famed night markets. Although far from rush hour, the train was packed, giving me a chance to just observe the people in a more or less natural environment. First thing I realized was that I cannot tell the difference between Eastern Asians. Ask any Japanese person if they can, and they will overwhelmingly claim that it is the easiest thing in the world to do. Via common sense, I thought that after living on this end of the earth for a while, I would also become more discerning in terms of differences. Many in the West hold stereotypes (here I am reminded of a scene in Ricky Gervais’ Extras, where he and his woman friend are chatting to a movie producer and his girlfriend, who happens to be Asian, and the woman friend, who represents a not-so-bright-but-very-lively Brit, goes into the whole “Chinese, Japanese” eye-slant routine) based on media images or whatnot that do not really hold up in real life, and I thought being here would naturally and gradually dissolve them. I was wrong. Facially and physically speaking, I was not able to tell what country I was riding the train in. But, looking further, it became clearer. Last year, in China, I noticed that clothing tended to be simpler in design, with less flashy colors, and carried a generally older, somewhat faded appearance. Whereas in Japan, people tend to care more about the appearance of what they’re wearing, with the exterior façade of a person saying a lot about their inner being. So, on this train in Taipei, I, once again, saw a bit of both. Some elements of dress were impeccable. Brand new, ironed pants. A flashy designer coat. A fitting combination of accessories. But at the same time, the package was not complete. A man dressed in a nice suit would have old, dirty shoes. A woman decked out in a nice dress and shoes would be wearing a jacket that in no way could possibly complement them. It was an interesting blend to observe. Of course, I may be stretching the details here to fit the theme, but these things jumped out at me and later helped formulate the hypothesis, as opposed to vice versa.

So, first stop was the food market. Hundreds of stalls, arranged ramshackle, separated by narrow walkways with a never ceasing flow of human traffic, shoving elbows, stumbling over small metal stools, plastic covered tables, and a floor containing the dirty remnants of what literally minutes before had been raw. Not really restaurants, but rather counters containing fresh (???) ingredients and a few simple tools for preparing them into edible form. Staffed by rather unfriendly looking (meaning they were not necessarily happy to be there) but exceptionally efficient people, these veritable assembly lines produced a sloppy yet hot meal within seconds, which was consumed in just as long by hungry hordes. I noticed many tourists here, but also many locals, which clued me in to the fact that in Southeast Asia, eating at such roadside installations was fairly common and natural. The rest of the trip would reconfirm this again and again. With my size, I twisted and turned my way to a stool, pointed out what I wanted from a greasy menu to several different waitresses, and was brought two heaping plates of something yellow. As the general aroma of oil and the soundtrack of sizzle settled in, in true Taiwan fashion, I swallowed it all down, followed by a very respectable strawberry shake. I walked around some more, enjoying the factory like conditions of the place, a sort of controlled chaos, if you will. The color and smell was definitely unique and the sheer number of animal parts, vegetables, and just ingredients in general, heaped in piles just inches away from their destiny made for a memorable time.

As I made my way from there to the night market proper, I walked passed a Japanese tour group, the first of many and about 20 or 30 strong, and briefly listened in to the tour guide explaining the procedures for the next 43 minutes of the outing, including a double or triple reference to the dangers involved, a heartfelt urging to get out of one’s element and explore individually, and one or two apologies for the inadequacy of the tour as a whole. It did indeed bring a smile to my face. A smile, which quickly vanished as I got swallowed up with the rest of the crowd by the mountain upon mountain of STUFF. Anything imaginable, hung on storefronts, sprawled on the ground, filling every nook and cranny, and just dying to be exchanged for the hard-earned dinares that travelers tend to spend carefree. The space was so tight, it was like trying to get into a rock concert through one doorway, with the only way out being to get sucked into buying something. Needless to say, it was one of the first “I feel kind of sickened by all this” moments of the trip. More on that later, in due time.

I struggled my way out of there, found a supermarket and bought some water and, to my immense and pleasant surprise, a piece of my childhood. A kinder egg. Oh how I marveled at those amazing concoctions on the shores of the Mediterranean in Italy, always waiting to assemble the toy before eating the chocolate. I may even have an old collection of them lying around somewhere. In any case, it took my mind off things for a while. I went back to the hostel, practiced my Japanese for a while with two girls from Nagoya, and turned in on this, the first night.

When on vacation, people do many things. Some like to be cultural, taking in the sights and sounds of a place, thereby convincing themselves that their travel is worthwhile. Others like to be adventurous, looking for things to do that they cannot do at home. Some are bargain hunters, enjoying their time shopping so that they can return home with suitcases packed with new stuff. Yet others use the time to relax, to simply not do anything, which may be a world of difference from their other life. I found myself dabbling in a bit of each.

The next day, whose theme was rain, I started off by taking a bus past the Chiang Kai-shek compound to the National Palace Museum. Most of the exhibit halls were closed or being renovated, with a large number of the rest being devoted to stuff like earthenware or calligraphy. Being there made me remember what kind of museums I like. Turns out I don’t really want to see what rich people eight hundred years ago used to drink their wine or a piece of corroded metal that some claim was potentially a piece of an ancient oxcart. Rather, I am more of a fan of things that were made especially for the purpose of being admired by an audience, where an artist was responsible for a sense of communion through his creation. Old plates, while pretty, did not quite cut it for me and I left quickly and made for the other landmark that typically places high on the agenda of the aforementioned cultural types, a religious site, or the temple, which is its most common manifestation in this part of the world.

At the Confucius Temple, an ironic title since Confucianism is not really a religion but a temple is definitely a religious structure, there were almost no visitors at all. A slight drizzle gently reflecting off the gilded roof tops accompanied my stroll through the compound. It was a quiet, rather happy moment, largely due to the lack of other tourists who on innumerable future occasions would suck away any kind of true appreciation of the gifts that a culturally important landmark can offer. The temple and its parks and courtyards, while beautifully maintained, did not captivate in any significant way. It was, shall we say, a rather brisk stroll. However, the temple was nestled in a residential part of town, and on my way back to the subway station, I weaved in and out of roadside food stalls and observed a bit of the Taipei life. Under an archway, I spotted an inconspicuous stairwell leading to a basement, the entrance of which was covered with tattering posters of table tennis players. This aroused my attention, and thinking it was some sort of store, I walked down the poorly lit passage way. It turned out to be a local table tennis club, with maybe six or eight tables and a group of what seemed to be regulars just beginning their warm up. I had wandered in, they had noticed, and now, I stood there, deciding what to do. I said hello, but English proved quite useless here, so I tried Japanese, which had proven itself useful on earlier occasions. Turns out enough people there spoke enough of it (i.e. just about at my own level) for us to get by. So, I got to practice a bit with the Chinese (I wonder if the Taiwanese would get offended by this label, but they are the Republic of China after all) and perhaps not surprisingly was beaten by every single one of them. It was a nice and refreshing break in the middle of the day.

Nearer the evening, I ended up at the Longshan Temple, where the activity was much more hectic. Here, the outer perimeter of the main temple courtyard was made up of small altars or shrines, each containing a sculpture or two of some important figure along with various other religious paraphernalia. The locals were out in full force. Some were singing hymns in groups, but mostly they were queued up at these individual shrines, waiting for their turn to come up, kneel, light incense, and pray. As fascinating as it was to observe, it was confusing as well because I did not know what tradition this was or the meaning behind some of the more ritual actions that people went through. But being there in the middle of it filled me with something special, as I always enjoy seeing acts of true faith, that is those that concern the most sacred and inner of people’s beliefs.

After a coffee at a maid café (a big rage in Asia, probably carried over from Japan, where cafes with waitresses donning French Maid outfits are in vogue), I headed over to modern Taipei. Here, the Japanese side of things kicked in. Large, elaborate department stores. Flashy signs, Dior this, Prada that, a little Gucci here, a lot more Cartier over there. Boutique on top of boutique, surrounded by escalators and glass and expensive eateries and absolutely lacking in any kind of soul. Elegantly dressed people strolling around with their flashy paper bags, searching for something that they probably hope will bring them some sort of satisfaction. Walking through it all, my train of thought pulled into the station called injustice and stayed there for a while. Its lights and sounds would become an all too familiar place before long. In Taipei, I did not notice a downtown skyline that is a central part of many other modern metropolises. The buildings here, mostly stores and hotels, were large, but they were not skyrises. They formed a uniform line with the horizon, which gave the viewer a somewhat comforting feeling. And then, out of the literal blue, the whole thing was penetrated by a monster, rising up into the sky. Taipei 101. The world’s tallest building. Designed to look like a bamboo stalk, the eight distinctive sections were actually representative of gold ingots, which were used by Chinese royalty as currency. The whole building stands as a testament to Taiwan’s growth as an economic power. I did not get a chance to mount this impressive structure for the observation deck had already closed, but nevertheless, it was a fitting sight to see, for it stands as a great symbol of Taiwan’s future, one that is more independent of either China or Japan, neither of which have a building like this. The day ended with some Heineken and sweet and sour soup, an interesting metaphor for this trip.