NUTS
I wrote this a couple years ago. I regret to report that I haven't seen him for some time now.
Taipei's southern edge is Hsindien (New Store); beyond that, mountains, east to Pinglin, south to Wulai. To enter the mountains, the two main roads out of Taipei converge in NewStore at Bitan, Green Lake, a scenic spot that was, thirty years ago, the edge of civilization, home to a few temples and a scattering of residents. Now the area is built up, and graced by the presence of a nut. A wonderful nut, but nonetheless, a nut, a great favorite of the busdrivers.
He loves to direct traffic. He appears at the intersection from time to time, especially on busy days when there is a lot of traffic to direct, with a string of whistles. He is apt to stuff three or four into his mouth at the same time as he stands at the intersection and directs traffic. And how he directs traffic! Influenced perhaps by martial arts and Chinese opera, many traffic directors in Taiwan are given to graceful gestures which can be delightful to watch, but none can come near the expressiveness and creativity of The Nut. As is the problem with so much modern art, the viewer can only watch in uncomprehending wonder, as he waves his arms, flaps his fingers, twists his elbows, and works his shoulders in a manner that an orchestra conductor would do well to emulate. Evan (Bus #390) and I were struck speechless by his beautiful bobbing wave of the hand. We speculate that this can mean nothing but "Beach ahead; surf's up!" That must be what it means, because he followed it with hula motions: beach, see? Never mind that the nearest shore is seventy kilometers ahead across a treacherous mountain road.
Old-timers pause to admire his gesticulations and then drive on. New-comers generally try to follow his directions, something a trapeze artist would find strenuous, much less someone confined within a humble Toyota. When he has traffic snarled, the real police come and chase him away. He runs around to the back of the subway terminal until they go away. Then, resurrected and triumphant, he appears once again at his post, for the further befuddlement of traffic.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Monday, September 27, 2004
I came to Taiwan from Saigon when I was 18. On my first day, in the International House, I met Roger, who knew everything about twentieth century Chinese warlords. That was the beginning of a friendship that continues to this day.
After a year in the I House, Roger and I found an apartment nearby. To fill the other room and help with the rent, we rounded up Del Weeks, a slim, dark haired American with a slight stoop. Del had been in Viet Nam, and spoke excellent Viet Namese. I would occasionally practice with him, but my Viet Namese was nowhere near as good as his.
After a couple months living together, once when Del and I were shooting the breeze, the subject of Tet 1968 came up. That was when the Viet Namese communists made their great push to overthrow the Republic of Viet Nam. They laid waste to Hue, Viet Nam's ancient capital and cultural center. Communists do not like people who think for themselves, so they targeted the many universities of Hue. They had lists prepared of professors and student leaders, and buried them alive. Koreans were captured; the communists wired their hands behind their backs and threw them into the river. Only one foreigner, a legendary figure, survived the slaughter.
The Viet Cong also entered Saigon and caused great damage. My neighbors used to point out to me the spot where the Viet Cong killed a Swiss doctor because he had been doing humanitarian work among the poor. They tied his hands behind his back, dragged him to an empty lot, threw him to the ground, and slit his throat. That lot is built up now, but I can still point out the exact spot.
In the quiet of our apartment on Hsinsheng Street in Taipei, over two steaming mugs of tea, I asked Del, "You were in Viet Nam in Tet of 1968, weren't you?”
"Yeah,” he replied, quietly, his eyes far away.
"Where were you?”
"Hue.”
"Hue?" I sat up in my chair, realization dawning on me. I had never thought about it, but Del fit the descriptions to a T. "Was that you!?"
"Me? I was in Hue through the 1968 Tet Offensive.”
I had heard the story a dozen times in Viet Nam, but I asked him to tell me again, to hear it from his own lips.
Del had moved to Hue in 1967. He is a likable guy, speaks fluent Viet Namese, and with his dark hair, dark eyes, and medium height slim figure, doesn't oppress timorous people with his westerness. He roomed in a Viet Namese neighborhood, and made many friends.
When the Tet Offensive began, his neighbors, fearing for his safety, hid him in their own house, in a tiny loft under the roof. He brought along a Filipino friend. The neighbors slipped them food. Del spent most of his time lying on his stomach. He could peek out through the air vent to see the street below.
Soon the Viet Cong came looking for Del. Even though the whole neighborhood was in on the secret, everybody played dumb. "Nguoi my? (the American?) He ran away before the fighting came. We haven't seen him since then."
The cadres came back the next day, again asking for Del, but again the neighbors played dumb. The third time, the cadres came with loudspeakers, threatening dire reprisals for the whole neighborhood if Del was being sheltered by any one of them. They came again and again, searching houses, but never found Del's hideout. They trooped through the neighborhood wielding severed heads, and promised worse for anyone who knew where Del was but didn't report him to the Viet Cong. Over the loudspeakers, they bragged about what they would do with Del when they found him: they would cut off his head and put it in his stomach. Hidden Del secretly listened carefully.
By the fourth day, the Filipino's nerves had cracked. Del tussled with him, but he insisted that he could escape through the darkness of night. He urged Del to run, saying that it was only a matter of time before they were found. Del trusted to his neighbors. He stayed on his stomach near the vent, hidden in the tiny loft.
The next morning, the cadres showed a new trophy: the mutilated head of the Filipino. He had not disclosed where he had hidden. The communists were furious. The neighbors held firm.
Then the cadres stopped coming to threaten the people. American and ARVN troops reentered the ancient city, fighting step for step. A company of American Marines was picking its way through the rubble when a tattered figure emerged from a doorway and staggered towards them. The man on point swung his M16 towards him, preparing to shoot; he looked, looked again, his mouth dropped open, and in sheer astonishment he stuttered, “You're.... you're American!” The man collapsed in their arms and was taken to safety. Del's ordeal was over, and quickly passed into the legends of the war. He is the only foreigner known to have survived the Tet Offensive of 1968 in Hue.
Del was surprised to learn that I had heard the story many times. He was unaware that anybody remembered his nightmare. Of course his version contained many details I had never heard before. We nursed our tea until it cooled, and then retired to our rooms.
After a year in the I House, Roger and I found an apartment nearby. To fill the other room and help with the rent, we rounded up Del Weeks, a slim, dark haired American with a slight stoop. Del had been in Viet Nam, and spoke excellent Viet Namese. I would occasionally practice with him, but my Viet Namese was nowhere near as good as his.
After a couple months living together, once when Del and I were shooting the breeze, the subject of Tet 1968 came up. That was when the Viet Namese communists made their great push to overthrow the Republic of Viet Nam. They laid waste to Hue, Viet Nam's ancient capital and cultural center. Communists do not like people who think for themselves, so they targeted the many universities of Hue. They had lists prepared of professors and student leaders, and buried them alive. Koreans were captured; the communists wired their hands behind their backs and threw them into the river. Only one foreigner, a legendary figure, survived the slaughter.
The Viet Cong also entered Saigon and caused great damage. My neighbors used to point out to me the spot where the Viet Cong killed a Swiss doctor because he had been doing humanitarian work among the poor. They tied his hands behind his back, dragged him to an empty lot, threw him to the ground, and slit his throat. That lot is built up now, but I can still point out the exact spot.
In the quiet of our apartment on Hsinsheng Street in Taipei, over two steaming mugs of tea, I asked Del, "You were in Viet Nam in Tet of 1968, weren't you?”
"Yeah,” he replied, quietly, his eyes far away.
"Where were you?”
"Hue.”
"Hue?" I sat up in my chair, realization dawning on me. I had never thought about it, but Del fit the descriptions to a T. "Was that you!?"
"Me? I was in Hue through the 1968 Tet Offensive.”
I had heard the story a dozen times in Viet Nam, but I asked him to tell me again, to hear it from his own lips.
Del had moved to Hue in 1967. He is a likable guy, speaks fluent Viet Namese, and with his dark hair, dark eyes, and medium height slim figure, doesn't oppress timorous people with his westerness. He roomed in a Viet Namese neighborhood, and made many friends.
When the Tet Offensive began, his neighbors, fearing for his safety, hid him in their own house, in a tiny loft under the roof. He brought along a Filipino friend. The neighbors slipped them food. Del spent most of his time lying on his stomach. He could peek out through the air vent to see the street below.
Soon the Viet Cong came looking for Del. Even though the whole neighborhood was in on the secret, everybody played dumb. "Nguoi my? (the American?) He ran away before the fighting came. We haven't seen him since then."
The cadres came back the next day, again asking for Del, but again the neighbors played dumb. The third time, the cadres came with loudspeakers, threatening dire reprisals for the whole neighborhood if Del was being sheltered by any one of them. They came again and again, searching houses, but never found Del's hideout. They trooped through the neighborhood wielding severed heads, and promised worse for anyone who knew where Del was but didn't report him to the Viet Cong. Over the loudspeakers, they bragged about what they would do with Del when they found him: they would cut off his head and put it in his stomach. Hidden Del secretly listened carefully.
By the fourth day, the Filipino's nerves had cracked. Del tussled with him, but he insisted that he could escape through the darkness of night. He urged Del to run, saying that it was only a matter of time before they were found. Del trusted to his neighbors. He stayed on his stomach near the vent, hidden in the tiny loft.
The next morning, the cadres showed a new trophy: the mutilated head of the Filipino. He had not disclosed where he had hidden. The communists were furious. The neighbors held firm.
Then the cadres stopped coming to threaten the people. American and ARVN troops reentered the ancient city, fighting step for step. A company of American Marines was picking its way through the rubble when a tattered figure emerged from a doorway and staggered towards them. The man on point swung his M16 towards him, preparing to shoot; he looked, looked again, his mouth dropped open, and in sheer astonishment he stuttered, “You're.... you're American!” The man collapsed in their arms and was taken to safety. Del's ordeal was over, and quickly passed into the legends of the war. He is the only foreigner known to have survived the Tet Offensive of 1968 in Hue.
Del was surprised to learn that I had heard the story many times. He was unaware that anybody remembered his nightmare. Of course his version contained many details I had never heard before. We nursed our tea until it cooled, and then retired to our rooms.
Sunday, September 26, 2004
There was a terrible crash outside. When I went out to investigate, Yumin came prancing over, ears flapping, tail wagging, SOOOO happy to see me! He bounded around in delight. A pile of curing wood had fallen over, no harm done. I could barely put it back in place because of beagle exuberance. He kept bouncing back and forth between my legs, brushing against my arms and licking my face as I bent over to pick things up, and in general showing me how absolutely elated he was to see me, and OF COURSE the fallen wood pile had nothing to do with a beagle, oh no never, of course not. Tlahuy and Bengax watched from a distance. As things got straightened out, suddenly Yumin detected some threat on the outer perimeter, and rushed off boldly, barking fiercely, to protect us from all mischief.
Friday, September 24, 2004
附近溫泉館移植兩棵杉、一棵肖楠，結果都種死掉了。樹歪在那兒，等著倒踏腐朽。可惜，尤其那棵肖楠；圍一拱，高兩丈有餘，于是乎，我決定跟他們要。不認識老闆，但kneiring Masa 在那裡上班。 幾次路過，沒機會進去，不然就是外頭工人說老闆不在。幾個月了。
不能等太久。上禮拜提早出門，打算找老闆或留言。快到時，Ciwan 開車下山，叫我坐他便車。好吧，因緣如此，隨緣。上了車。
前天下山時又想去問。奇怪，沒人。好吧。再往下走，看到他們全體職員在Qalux家對面坐著。
"Yugan, musa su inu?”
"Tsbaq biru. Nanu sa? Mswa tama simu qani?" 你們怎麼在這裡?
"裡面消毒，不能進去。Hangaw ta la.”
"其實，我有事想找你們老闆。”
"甚麼事? Yugan.”
"路邊種死掉的那幾棵樹，你們不要的話，想幫你們鋸掉，木材給我。”
"他就是老闆，" 她指旁邊坐的一個打領帶的男的，"你問他。”
老闆說可以。我決定，如果平怡她們不來的話，早上鋸。平怡果然有事，但是半夜下大雨，我想,不妙。睡醒，還在下，又過半小時就停了。我拎著鋸子、開山刀，走後門沿小徑，從 Tetuq 家旁下去，鋸好，滿頭大汗，暫放兩棵杉在路側，走原路扛肖楠回來。Tetuq 家旁一塊地，政府一直想開一條路，說實話，沒有這個必要，加上地主不肯蓋章。 地主不肯蓋章，十年前政府不管他，索性就在那兒挖了一條路。地主不悅，就在路中概了一棟鐵皮屋；畢竟是他的地。一、兩個禮拜前，政府又偷偷地鋪了柏油，到鐵皮屋為止。
我把肖楠扛回來後二十分鐘，下起大雨了。我在玄關削肖楠皮、餵蚊子。
今天下午下山，發現那塊地地主火大了，昨天下午用籬笆把地圍起來了，截了Tetuq 家旁的'新路'、與我扛肖楠的小徑。
我們常說 "隨緣，該是你的，跑不掉，不該是你的，留不住。" 我們相信這個道理呢，或用這句安慰自己？
我把瑣碎細節敘述的那麼清楚，因為我想：那時雨沒停，我會錯過肖楠木。地主早幾個小時圍地，我沒辦法扛一棵很重的肖楠遶遠路，我就會錯過肖楠木。因緣起，因緣滅，在捷運上想著這個道理，就坐過頭，忘了下車。再下一站下車準備坐回來，等車時遇到一位失去聯絡多年的老友。
隨緣吧
不能等太久。上禮拜提早出門，打算找老闆或留言。快到時，Ciwan 開車下山，叫我坐他便車。好吧，因緣如此，隨緣。上了車。
前天下山時又想去問。奇怪，沒人。好吧。再往下走，看到他們全體職員在Qalux家對面坐著。
"Yugan, musa su inu?”
"Tsbaq biru. Nanu sa? Mswa tama simu qani?" 你們怎麼在這裡?
"裡面消毒，不能進去。Hangaw ta la.”
"其實，我有事想找你們老闆。”
"甚麼事? Yugan.”
"路邊種死掉的那幾棵樹，你們不要的話，想幫你們鋸掉，木材給我。”
"他就是老闆，" 她指旁邊坐的一個打領帶的男的，"你問他。”
老闆說可以。我決定，如果平怡她們不來的話，早上鋸。平怡果然有事，但是半夜下大雨，我想,不妙。睡醒，還在下，又過半小時就停了。我拎著鋸子、開山刀，走後門沿小徑，從 Tetuq 家旁下去，鋸好，滿頭大汗，暫放兩棵杉在路側，走原路扛肖楠回來。Tetuq 家旁一塊地，政府一直想開一條路，說實話，沒有這個必要，加上地主不肯蓋章。 地主不肯蓋章，十年前政府不管他，索性就在那兒挖了一條路。地主不悅，就在路中概了一棟鐵皮屋；畢竟是他的地。一、兩個禮拜前，政府又偷偷地鋪了柏油，到鐵皮屋為止。
我把肖楠扛回來後二十分鐘，下起大雨了。我在玄關削肖楠皮、餵蚊子。
今天下午下山，發現那塊地地主火大了，昨天下午用籬笆把地圍起來了，截了Tetuq 家旁的'新路'、與我扛肖楠的小徑。
我們常說 "隨緣，該是你的，跑不掉，不該是你的，留不住。" 我們相信這個道理呢，或用這句安慰自己？
我把瑣碎細節敘述的那麼清楚，因為我想：那時雨沒停，我會錯過肖楠木。地主早幾個小時圍地，我沒辦法扛一棵很重的肖楠遶遠路，我就會錯過肖楠木。因緣起，因緣滅，在捷運上想著這個道理，就坐過頭，忘了下車。再下一站下車準備坐回來，等車時遇到一位失去聯絡多年的老友。
隨緣吧
Monday, September 20, 2004
I am going to tell you something that will cause you to turn green with envy and to admire me immensely. Last Wednesday I posted a note bragging about my teaching skills: a student slept through more than two and a half hours of my three hour class. I know wish to inform you of a further advance in my expertise. Just now, I was chatting with Chiaoyi on MSN, and ~~ prepare yourself ~~ she fell asleep in the middle of our chat.
If I get any better, I'll have people falling asleep in the middle of my emails and …. hey, come on, wake up!
If I get any better, I'll have people falling asleep in the middle of my emails and …. hey, come on, wake up!
Saturday, September 18, 2004
Not the least of the joys of living in Wulai is watching the eagles. We have a good number of them, large, majestic birds with wings that stretch six feet. I never tire of watching them soar over the mountains, towering and swooping with the wind.
Today is a beautiful fall day, with a high blue ceiling, wispy white cirrus, and billowing puffy cumulus. As I sat eating lunch in the hammock, an eagle lifted from a tree in the slope to the north, circled the house a few times, and, with a sharp cry, flew straight across the valley, covering a kilometer in about a minute.
I whistled my imitation of its cry. It ignored me. Eagles always do. Even before I moved to Wulai, I always whistled back at eagles, and they have always ignored me. Now, I am not a very good whistler, but I have been working on this for a dozen years, so I should think I can do a reasonable imitation of an eagle's cry. They call back and forth between themselves, and always ignore land-bound me, whistling futilely below them.
In a burst of enlightenment, today I realized why:..... they can't hear me.... I am not a very good whistler, and even on a good day, I doubt my whistle could be heard more than twenty or thirty meters away, and here I am, whistling away at these glorious eagles soaring a hundred meters overhead.
That is, anyway, the comfort I have found for myself. Maybe the call I have spent so many years perfecting means, in eagle speak, "There's that guy again, ignore him.”
Today is a beautiful fall day, with a high blue ceiling, wispy white cirrus, and billowing puffy cumulus. As I sat eating lunch in the hammock, an eagle lifted from a tree in the slope to the north, circled the house a few times, and, with a sharp cry, flew straight across the valley, covering a kilometer in about a minute.
I whistled my imitation of its cry. It ignored me. Eagles always do. Even before I moved to Wulai, I always whistled back at eagles, and they have always ignored me. Now, I am not a very good whistler, but I have been working on this for a dozen years, so I should think I can do a reasonable imitation of an eagle's cry. They call back and forth between themselves, and always ignore land-bound me, whistling futilely below them.
In a burst of enlightenment, today I realized why:..... they can't hear me.... I am not a very good whistler, and even on a good day, I doubt my whistle could be heard more than twenty or thirty meters away, and here I am, whistling away at these glorious eagles soaring a hundred meters overhead.
That is, anyway, the comfort I have found for myself. Maybe the call I have spent so many years perfecting means, in eagle speak, "There's that guy again, ignore him.”
Friday, September 17, 2004
The Dogs of War
This morning when I took out the trash, I spotted a large dog about twenty paces in back of us. Fearless Yumin immediately charged. He ran so fast his whole body, from front feet to back, was like one straight line, he ran so fast even fleetfooted Bengax was left behind. Tlahuy stayed by me, bristling. The problem is, there was other dogs from that pack down around the bend, and Yumin and Bengax charged straight into them. There was a terrific clamor. Tlahuy left my side and raced down into the fray, which ended the war immediately; I have yet to see any dog or combination of dogs that can stand up to Tlahuy when he is protecting me or Bengax.
I rushed down. Tlahuy hurried to my side. Bengax looked sort of shocked, and ran up the stairs back home.
The dog pack had disappeared entirely. There were not even any stragglers in sight. But Yumin was nowhere in sight, either. I went down to the road and called him, but he was gone. I searched around the bushes, and inspected the road for blood, but there was nothing to be seen. Tlahuy stayed close by my side, never more than two steps from me, my own private SWAT team.
After a few minutes, I gave up and headed home, up the stairs. There were drops of blood on the steps. I ran up. More and more blood. When I got to my property, I heard Yumin roaring. I have never heard him barking like that. He was furious, racing back and forth and barking in rage. As soon as he saw me, he raced over to me. Bengax was standing on the back porch, waiting for me with imploring eyes. It was then that I realized she had a bad cut on her back left leg. I held her and inspected the gash, which was clean, about 6 centimeters long. Evidently, Yumin had chased the other dogs away, then circled around to escort Bengax home. Then he was holding down the fort, racing back and forth, protecting Bengax, issuing bloody challenges to all comers. There were none.
I phoned Lilly, the vet, and described the wound. She said, "Don't worry about it, put some iodine on it, it'll be okay… do you have iodine?”
"No, but I'll pick some up tonight.”
"It's nothing to worry about. Bengax craves attention. If it had been Yumin, you wouldn't even know about it.”
And indeed, an hour later, I discovered that Yumin also had a small wound on his back leg.
This morning when I took out the trash, I spotted a large dog about twenty paces in back of us. Fearless Yumin immediately charged. He ran so fast his whole body, from front feet to back, was like one straight line, he ran so fast even fleetfooted Bengax was left behind. Tlahuy stayed by me, bristling. The problem is, there was other dogs from that pack down around the bend, and Yumin and Bengax charged straight into them. There was a terrific clamor. Tlahuy left my side and raced down into the fray, which ended the war immediately; I have yet to see any dog or combination of dogs that can stand up to Tlahuy when he is protecting me or Bengax.
I rushed down. Tlahuy hurried to my side. Bengax looked sort of shocked, and ran up the stairs back home.
The dog pack had disappeared entirely. There were not even any stragglers in sight. But Yumin was nowhere in sight, either. I went down to the road and called him, but he was gone. I searched around the bushes, and inspected the road for blood, but there was nothing to be seen. Tlahuy stayed close by my side, never more than two steps from me, my own private SWAT team.
After a few minutes, I gave up and headed home, up the stairs. There were drops of blood on the steps. I ran up. More and more blood. When I got to my property, I heard Yumin roaring. I have never heard him barking like that. He was furious, racing back and forth and barking in rage. As soon as he saw me, he raced over to me. Bengax was standing on the back porch, waiting for me with imploring eyes. It was then that I realized she had a bad cut on her back left leg. I held her and inspected the gash, which was clean, about 6 centimeters long. Evidently, Yumin had chased the other dogs away, then circled around to escort Bengax home. Then he was holding down the fort, racing back and forth, protecting Bengax, issuing bloody challenges to all comers. There were none.
I phoned Lilly, the vet, and described the wound. She said, "Don't worry about it, put some iodine on it, it'll be okay… do you have iodine?”
"No, but I'll pick some up tonight.”
"It's nothing to worry about. Bengax craves attention. If it had been Yumin, you wouldn't even know about it.”
And indeed, an hour later, I discovered that Yumin also had a small wound on his back leg.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
My teaching skills are getting better and better. This morning I taught 3 hours. I began at 9:10. By 9:20, a guy in the back row was already fast asleep. He woke up around 10:20. I called a ten minute break at 10:30. He was asleep again by 10:45, and slept until 11:20. He dozed off again at 11:30, and was still sleeping soundly when I left the classroom at 12.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
For various reasons, I had class on Wednesday morning two weeks in a row, the first time I've taught on weekday mornings for a couple years. But this entailed leaving the house at 7:15, ugh.
Walking past the Tribe, I came across Ulin, who is already in junior high now, and two little grade school girls, slowly making their way to Wulai Primary and Junior High School. Some aborigine women are extremely beautiful, and these two little girls are sure to be heartbreakers in another ten or fifteen years. Now they are giggling, sparkling, semi-wild mountain girls, dawdling on their way to class in their school uniforms, blue skirts and white shirts. Smiles and laughter, white teeth, huge dark eyes, long black braids, skinny arms and legs, squirming and wriggling like beagles.
Obviously when you are on your way to school, there is no need to be quick about it. They were wandering back and forth across road, looking at the mountains as if they had never seen mountains before, inspecting the clouds and the birds, jumping, skipping, laughing, circling hither and yon. They saw me coming. "YUGAN! Where are you going?"
"I am going to teach. Are you going to school?"
"Yes, we are third graders now," one of them piped up proudly.
"What time does school begin?"
"Eight."
"You have only 45 minutes, can you get there in time?" For me, it's a fifteen minute walk from the Tribe to the School. At the rate they were going, I doubted they would get there before New Year's. I told them I had to go catch a bus, so I was going to go on ahead, and encouraged them to get a move on.
The road there makes a big S turn. When I reached the turning, I looked back and didn't see any of them. I sighed, figuring they must have found something to fool around with, and kept hurrying down.
When I neared the part of the road that bends back right below the Tribe, I heard giggling in the trees above the supporting wall, and plop! Ulin dropped over the wall, which is a good two meters tall. Then she turned and held her arms out for the two little ones, who gleefully ignored her and launched themselves off the top of the wall. They had taken a shortcut, down the steep edge of the mountain there. They could barely contain themselves. "Yugan! We beat you! We won!"
"Just be careful you don't kill yourselves, jumping like that." Together we headed down the stairs there. Ulin walked with me, two steps at a time, and the little ones blasted off as fast as they could. "Hey, hey, laxi takuy!" I called, don't fall!
When we reached the road again, I told them to go straight to school, listen to the teacher, and study hard, and, waving furiously, we parted ways.
Soon a motorcycle ridden by three fourth grade boys came uphill. As soon as they saw me, the three boys yelled YUGAN! and three right hands stretched out. I held out my right hand and we slapped each others' palms as they went by while I shouted, "Wrong way! Turn around and go to school!"
I sighed and kept walking. Pretty soon I heard my name shouted again with great hilarity, and watched the same motorcycle come weaving down the road at me. It seems the second little boy had taken advantage of the driver's raised arms to start tickling him, so the little boy on back started tickling the one in the middle. They were giggling and laughing like goblins, having a grand time, as the motorcycle dipped from one side to the other. “GO TO SCHOOL!” Old spoilsport Yugan. At least this time they were headed in the right direction, if they survived the trip.
I caught the 7:45 bus. The driver pretended astonishment: "Yugan! Is something wrong? What are you doing on the bus at this hour?" I sat in front and we chatted idly.
As we approached the next village, the road makes a sharp turn around a ridge and enters the next valley. I told the driver, "Hey, look at that, that wasn't like that yesterday." The face of the opposing mountain was gone. We had heavy rains during the last typhoon, which saturated the land. That slope is too steep to be habitable. There was a good sized landslide during Typhoon Nari a few years ago, in which we got about six feet of rain, and now a larger wedge had slid ~~~ then we realized that the valley was full of dust, and that all traffic had stopped. The landslide had occurred moments before we got there. They had all gotten out of their cars to watch or left their motorcyles by the road. The people watching were frozen in place with their mouths open, awe-struck by the stupefying power of the landslide.
Have you ever seen or heard a landslide? One moment the mountain is there, and the next moment a section sloughs off with a tremendous rumble, the cracking of trees and smashing of rocks. We had not heard it because we were on the other side of the ridge. The face that fell was a good fifty meters across, and a hundred meters from top to bottom. This is probably the largest landslide in Wulai in living memory.
Walking past the Tribe, I came across Ulin, who is already in junior high now, and two little grade school girls, slowly making their way to Wulai Primary and Junior High School. Some aborigine women are extremely beautiful, and these two little girls are sure to be heartbreakers in another ten or fifteen years. Now they are giggling, sparkling, semi-wild mountain girls, dawdling on their way to class in their school uniforms, blue skirts and white shirts. Smiles and laughter, white teeth, huge dark eyes, long black braids, skinny arms and legs, squirming and wriggling like beagles.
Obviously when you are on your way to school, there is no need to be quick about it. They were wandering back and forth across road, looking at the mountains as if they had never seen mountains before, inspecting the clouds and the birds, jumping, skipping, laughing, circling hither and yon. They saw me coming. "YUGAN! Where are you going?"
"I am going to teach. Are you going to school?"
"Yes, we are third graders now," one of them piped up proudly.
"What time does school begin?"
"Eight."
"You have only 45 minutes, can you get there in time?" For me, it's a fifteen minute walk from the Tribe to the School. At the rate they were going, I doubted they would get there before New Year's. I told them I had to go catch a bus, so I was going to go on ahead, and encouraged them to get a move on.
The road there makes a big S turn. When I reached the turning, I looked back and didn't see any of them. I sighed, figuring they must have found something to fool around with, and kept hurrying down.
When I neared the part of the road that bends back right below the Tribe, I heard giggling in the trees above the supporting wall, and plop! Ulin dropped over the wall, which is a good two meters tall. Then she turned and held her arms out for the two little ones, who gleefully ignored her and launched themselves off the top of the wall. They had taken a shortcut, down the steep edge of the mountain there. They could barely contain themselves. "Yugan! We beat you! We won!"
"Just be careful you don't kill yourselves, jumping like that." Together we headed down the stairs there. Ulin walked with me, two steps at a time, and the little ones blasted off as fast as they could. "Hey, hey, laxi takuy!" I called, don't fall!
When we reached the road again, I told them to go straight to school, listen to the teacher, and study hard, and, waving furiously, we parted ways.
Soon a motorcycle ridden by three fourth grade boys came uphill. As soon as they saw me, the three boys yelled YUGAN! and three right hands stretched out. I held out my right hand and we slapped each others' palms as they went by while I shouted, "Wrong way! Turn around and go to school!"
I sighed and kept walking. Pretty soon I heard my name shouted again with great hilarity, and watched the same motorcycle come weaving down the road at me. It seems the second little boy had taken advantage of the driver's raised arms to start tickling him, so the little boy on back started tickling the one in the middle. They were giggling and laughing like goblins, having a grand time, as the motorcycle dipped from one side to the other. “GO TO SCHOOL!” Old spoilsport Yugan. At least this time they were headed in the right direction, if they survived the trip.
I caught the 7:45 bus. The driver pretended astonishment: "Yugan! Is something wrong? What are you doing on the bus at this hour?" I sat in front and we chatted idly.
As we approached the next village, the road makes a sharp turn around a ridge and enters the next valley. I told the driver, "Hey, look at that, that wasn't like that yesterday." The face of the opposing mountain was gone. We had heavy rains during the last typhoon, which saturated the land. That slope is too steep to be habitable. There was a good sized landslide during Typhoon Nari a few years ago, in which we got about six feet of rain, and now a larger wedge had slid ~~~ then we realized that the valley was full of dust, and that all traffic had stopped. The landslide had occurred moments before we got there. They had all gotten out of their cars to watch or left their motorcyles by the road. The people watching were frozen in place with their mouths open, awe-struck by the stupefying power of the landslide.
Have you ever seen or heard a landslide? One moment the mountain is there, and the next moment a section sloughs off with a tremendous rumble, the cracking of trees and smashing of rocks. We had not heard it because we were on the other side of the ridge. The face that fell was a good fifty meters across, and a hundred meters from top to bottom. This is probably the largest landslide in Wulai in living memory.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
Monday, August 30, 2004
I grew up reading science fiction. I wished I could travel beyond the reaches of the galaxy to see the wonders of the heavens.
Then I realized, what could be more beautiful than the mountains of earth? Than a tree? Search the ends of the universe to find any thing as beautiful as a white cloud billowing against a summer sky.
Friday I stood on the bridge waiting for the bus, watching the typhoon fed water of the stream swirl and twirl beneath me, endlessly whirling and spinning in thick grey brown patterns. A pure white egret flew downstream a few feet above the water, made a wide circle across the face of the stream, and continued its flight.
Then I realized, what could be more beautiful than the mountains of earth? Than a tree? Search the ends of the universe to find any thing as beautiful as a white cloud billowing against a summer sky.
Friday I stood on the bridge waiting for the bus, watching the typhoon fed water of the stream swirl and twirl beneath me, endlessly whirling and spinning in thick grey brown patterns. A pure white egret flew downstream a few feet above the water, made a wide circle across the face of the stream, and continued its flight.
Saturday, August 28, 2004
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
It's one of those typhoon-a-week summers. I'm sitting here watching the trees slash back and forth like windshield wipers, admiring the sheets of rain, and happy that classes were canceled today, because I had a full schedule. I am dry and comfortable, and have a nice pot of hot tea.
This is not Florida, thank you. We have what would be to Floridians a very strange habit: we prepare for typhoons before they strike, to minimize damage. Yesterday I took my mountain knife and chopped some bamboo that might whip the gutter off my roof. In the middle of the night, I realized I had forgotten to clear the power line, but did not worry about it too much. Last year a typhoon knocked the giant bamboo right onto the power line and it was okay, and this year there is nothing nearly as heavy. However, after I got up this morning, I took my mountain knife, a saw, and a length of nylon webbing to go clear the power line. In this weather, it's simplest just to go barefoot, because if you don't want your rainboots to fill – slosh, slosh, slosh – you have to wear rainpants, which are hot and cumbersome, so for me, it's barefoot, shorts, tanktop, raincoat, and I'm ready to go.
There was a branch brushing the line, but I couldn't reach it, so I prepared to throw the webbing over it to pull it in. Problem was, what to use for a weight? Aha! I tied it through the eye on the handle of the saw, tossed that, and after four or five tries, snagged the branch and pulled it in. It was then that I realized that a sharp saw might not have been the best choice of weights. However, I succeeded, with all my fingers intact, and spent the next hour or so hacking branches and vines. The dogs did their best to get in the way.
Now we are all relaxed and dry. I put some cardboard on the back porch for them to lie on. They are lined up, three curls, tail to nose, waiting out the typhoon. So far so good.
This is not Florida, thank you. We have what would be to Floridians a very strange habit: we prepare for typhoons before they strike, to minimize damage. Yesterday I took my mountain knife and chopped some bamboo that might whip the gutter off my roof. In the middle of the night, I realized I had forgotten to clear the power line, but did not worry about it too much. Last year a typhoon knocked the giant bamboo right onto the power line and it was okay, and this year there is nothing nearly as heavy. However, after I got up this morning, I took my mountain knife, a saw, and a length of nylon webbing to go clear the power line. In this weather, it's simplest just to go barefoot, because if you don't want your rainboots to fill – slosh, slosh, slosh – you have to wear rainpants, which are hot and cumbersome, so for me, it's barefoot, shorts, tanktop, raincoat, and I'm ready to go.
There was a branch brushing the line, but I couldn't reach it, so I prepared to throw the webbing over it to pull it in. Problem was, what to use for a weight? Aha! I tied it through the eye on the handle of the saw, tossed that, and after four or five tries, snagged the branch and pulled it in. It was then that I realized that a sharp saw might not have been the best choice of weights. However, I succeeded, with all my fingers intact, and spent the next hour or so hacking branches and vines. The dogs did their best to get in the way.
Now we are all relaxed and dry. I put some cardboard on the back porch for them to lie on. They are lined up, three curls, tail to nose, waiting out the typhoon. So far so good.
Friday, August 20, 2004
A Tayal married a lady from the Vunun, a neighboring tribe, mostly in Taiwan's central mountains. She knew enough Tayal to get along when she moved in with her husband, so her yaki (mother-in-law) could communicate with her new ina' (daughter-in-law).
The mother-in-law called out to her, "Ina'! Time to eat!" The family was astonished to see the bride burst into tears and rush out of the house. By the time her husband caught up with her, she was halfway down the road.
Explanation: In Vunun, Ina' means "Get out of here!"
The mother-in-law called out to her, "Ina'! Time to eat!" The family was astonished to see the bride burst into tears and rush out of the house. By the time her husband caught up with her, she was halfway down the road.
Explanation: In Vunun, Ina' means "Get out of here!"
Saturday, August 14, 2004
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
The day is so beautiful that I ate lunch sitting in the hammock-chair on the second floor porch.
My eye was attracted by an eagle rising above a distant ridge, a black mite against the white summer clouds, only about half the size of a period on this screen. It towered until it caught the higher winds, and sailed off in back of Wulai Peak.
My eye was attracted by an eagle rising above a distant ridge, a black mite against the white summer clouds, only about half the size of a period on this screen. It towered until it caught the higher winds, and sailed off in back of Wulai Peak.
Sunday, August 08, 2004
Wulai's hot springs bubble up on the bank at Punko and at Tbaqsiso. Spa entrepreneurs – almost exclusively outside investors – suck so much water from Tbabsiso that the bank threatened to collapse, so the local government had to spend a considerable amount of tax money to shore up the road that goes by there. This has cut off the old path from the road down to the stream, a pretty steep drop of over twenty meters.
Democracy in action: a new path has been put in, by person or persons unknown. Somehow large hunks of cement curb were hauled in and stacked on both sides of the safety wall by the road, providing a stile of sorts. Then the path zigzags down. The slope is too steep for anything but the narrowest steps, so a safety rope has been rigged up on the in-side. Your outer side is exposed. Clutch the manila rope as you descend, but watch your step. The steps were made by banging in segments of rebar, against which were set old tiles; then the backside was filled with earth. The tiles stick up an inch or two over the 'step,' so lift your feet high. Don't trip. It’s almost straight down, especially in the part where the outer side has caved in and been shored up with sandbags. Of course, if you trip over the tile there and go down the sandbags, you'll probably bounce off the metal stairs just by the stream and land in the water. Maybe. Parts of you might.
Every time I go down those stairs, I imagine American lawyers looking and salivating.
Democracy in action: a new path has been put in, by person or persons unknown. Somehow large hunks of cement curb were hauled in and stacked on both sides of the safety wall by the road, providing a stile of sorts. Then the path zigzags down. The slope is too steep for anything but the narrowest steps, so a safety rope has been rigged up on the in-side. Your outer side is exposed. Clutch the manila rope as you descend, but watch your step. The steps were made by banging in segments of rebar, against which were set old tiles; then the backside was filled with earth. The tiles stick up an inch or two over the 'step,' so lift your feet high. Don't trip. It’s almost straight down, especially in the part where the outer side has caved in and been shored up with sandbags. Of course, if you trip over the tile there and go down the sandbags, you'll probably bounce off the metal stairs just by the stream and land in the water. Maybe. Parts of you might.
Every time I go down those stairs, I imagine American lawyers looking and salivating.
Friday, August 06, 2004
On July 14, I posted a short sketch of Hozin's adventures with Apin's motorcycle. He hurt his right leg, but was otherwise unscathed after driving it into the stream.
The other day, Tokan borrowed Yagi's car to go get a bite to eat. Next door, Hozin was getting drunk, so to keep him from driving, Tasiy drove his (Hozin's) car away and hid it. Soon Hozin came out and couldn't find his car, but "Never mind, there is Yagi's car, and he certainly won't mind my borrowing it." So he got in and drove off before Tokan realized what was happening.
Now, Hozin had hurt his right leg, so he couldn't step on the gas pedal, but he managed both the gas pedal and the brake with his left foot. He discovered a problem just as he reached the curve at Tbaqsiso: Yagi's car is a stick shift. He immediately was faced with an urgent problem: choose between the clutch and the brake. He chose the clutch, and, as the car sailed off the road, he reflected that the brake would have been a better choice.
He swam to the bank, but someone had seen the car sink and phoned the police. This was obviously an outsider's doing. Someone from Wulai would have seen that it was Hozin swimming to the shore, and known not to worry. Not to worry too much.
Wulai police used to be mostly Tayal, but now they have Han Chinese policemen, because things were getting too cozy. A Han policeman it was who hauled the dripping Hozin into the police station and started shouting at him.
"Shout all you like," said Hozin, "Wait until my two big brothers get here. You know they are both policemen, and they both outrank you.”
In a moment the brothers arrived, and asked why their little brother was in handcuffs. The Han policeman explained, "He drove a car into the stream." Whereupon the brothers started beating Hozin: "You disgrace our ancestors!”
When they finished beating him, the Han police told Hozin, "If I see you driving again, I will beat you again."
So this story probably stops here.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
The Aborigines are still seething over Vice President Lu Hsiulien's racist remarks (posted on this blog July 17).
Outside the Aborigine community there has been no hue and cry for her removal – people in Taiwan have become inured to rudeness and arrogance from politicians nowadays. They are used to the Administration's noises and promises, which mean nothing.
Members of her party, the Democratic Progressive Party, have defended her remarks. President Chen Shuibian suggested that she apologize; she refuses to apologize. Apparently, insulting disadvantaged minorities struck by natural disasters does not seem improper to her. She is, after all, a rich, powerful politician, so she feels little to fear from the Aborigines, who she regards as a bunch of savages. (Fortunately, she has not gone as far as my acquaintance H, a hardline DPP Taiwan Independence backer, who advocates genocide: "The best thing we can do with the aborigines is wipe them all out, exterminate the race.") She has, however, retracted her statement about the negritoes, and is now trying to ignore the whole incident.
Outside the Aborigine community there has been no hue and cry for her removal – people in Taiwan have become inured to rudeness and arrogance from politicians nowadays. They are used to the Administration's noises and promises, which mean nothing.
Members of her party, the Democratic Progressive Party, have defended her remarks. President Chen Shuibian suggested that she apologize; she refuses to apologize. Apparently, insulting disadvantaged minorities struck by natural disasters does not seem improper to her. She is, after all, a rich, powerful politician, so she feels little to fear from the Aborigines, who she regards as a bunch of savages. (Fortunately, she has not gone as far as my acquaintance H, a hardline DPP Taiwan Independence backer, who advocates genocide: "The best thing we can do with the aborigines is wipe them all out, exterminate the race.") She has, however, retracted her statement about the negritoes, and is now trying to ignore the whole incident.
The aborigines have not been ignoring it. If you want to make instant friends with a Taiwan aborigine these days, any tribe, just say, “I hate the DPP, and I think Vice President Lu should be recalled.”
The aborigines are trying to institute dialogue with the Vice President. She told them to emigrate to South America if they don't like the DPP. Now the Aborigines say, “Okay, Vice President, first you find a husband in South America and move there. Then we will all follow you.” She has yet to respond to this proposal. (VP Lu has never been married.)
This proposal has also occasioned some discussion among the Tribes. “The Republic of China's diplomatic relations are few and tenuous. If Vice President Lu did manage to find someone in South America to marry her, wouldn't that spell the end of the ROC's good reputation throughout the region? They would hate us forever.”
Also, continued reflection has led to a tempering of certain rash statements the aborigines made in the heat of the moment. In a saber-rattling mood, some of the Tribes reminded people of the Aborigine tradition of headhunting, mostly among the Tayal tribe. However, the Tayal now say they will not remove Vice President Lu's head, because “it's too ugly.”
Monday, August 02, 2004
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
亂罵與默許
最近臺灣兩件事讓我非常難過。 其一、呂秀蓮污辱原住民。 她講的話，一個正常人想都不會想，更何況說出口。縱使說出口，有一絲惻隱之心的人也不會在山民飽受災難時說。現在山上最熱門的話題是罵呂秀蓮、罵民進黨、罵那幾個不吭聲的民進黨籍阿美族立委。原住民說，民進黨平常沒有為他們做任何事，很多『政績』對他們不利，然後副總統如此落井下石，怎能忍受?一位泰雅說，"副總統剛上任時，不住政府給她配的房子，另外租一棟月租四十七萬元的房子，錢是我們納稅人出的，還花了不知道多少錢幫她裝潢；住了一年又不住。她是大官，可以亂講話，不怕沒地方住。我們呢? 四十七萬，我全家大小可以生活一年!!"
其二、呂秀蓮污辱災民，平地人隔岸觀火，沒甚麼反應，政要亂講話，司空見慣：這是一個健康的政治環境嗎? 為什麼副總統仗勢凌人，大家袖手旁觀?這事若發生在歐美，她早已下台；不等受害者街頭抗議，自己政黨早就把她拉下台了，以免破壞形象。在此地同黨不但不譴責，反而辯護。很顯然執政黨眼中原住民只是用來撬大兩岸距離的棋子；假如稍有利用價值，姑且留著它吧。
好啦，臺灣政客亂講話，只顧鬥權不顧民權，不是一兩天的事。 臺灣大官離國際水準還差一大段距離，大家心知肚明。真正讓我難過的是老百姓默許大官狂言亂語、民眾對政壇人事的態度已淪為看笑話。民主民主呀，老百姓應該是主人，應該主動。不知是臺灣政壇要算太早呢? 或者已經太晚了。
其二、呂秀蓮污辱災民，平地人隔岸觀火，沒甚麼反應，政要亂講話，司空見慣：這是一個健康的政治環境嗎? 為什麼副總統仗勢凌人，大家袖手旁觀?這事若發生在歐美，她早已下台；不等受害者街頭抗議，自己政黨早就把她拉下台了，以免破壞形象。在此地同黨不但不譴責，反而辯護。很顯然執政黨眼中原住民只是用來撬大兩岸距離的棋子；假如稍有利用價值，姑且留著它吧。
好啦，臺灣政客亂講話，只顧鬥權不顧民權，不是一兩天的事。 臺灣大官離國際水準還差一大段距離，大家心知肚明。真正讓我難過的是老百姓默許大官狂言亂語、民眾對政壇人事的態度已淪為看笑話。民主民主呀，老百姓應該是主人，應該主動。不知是臺灣政壇要算太早呢? 或者已經太晚了。
無論如何，中正機場國門到處寫Naluwan、貼原住民照片，事實證明太虛偽。應該全部撕下來。 可以換上"第一家庭密友羅太太" 的照片。
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Taiwan was hard hit by a typhoon earlier this month. It just stayed and dumped water on us, creating disastrous landslides in the mountainous center of Taiwan. Over fifty people were killed, mostly Aborigines. Many people are homeless.
Faced with all this suffering, Vice President Lu Hsiulien announced that it serves those people right to die in landslides; the government should not do anything to help them, because they brought it down upon themselves by building roads and deforesting the mountains. (I am not supplying word for word translations of what she said, but this is all accurate.) The Vice President also pointed out that since she walks with a cane, the local people should be grateful that she went to all the trouble of visiting their disaster area, because, she says, she suffered from walking around there.
The Aborigines were not very happy with this unsympathetic announcement. They pointed out that the Aborigines are not the ones profiting from the destruction of the mountains; the money behind all this all flows into Han Chinese pockets, not theirs.
In response, the Vice President said, If you don't like it, why don't you just leave? You can go live in South America, or find some place in Central America like Nicaragua or San Salvador, nobody is asking you to stay here. (I swear I am not making this up.)
You can imagine that the Aborigines, trying to pick up the rubble of their destroyed villages, were angry with Vice President Lu. They exclaimed that they are the original inhabitants of Taiwan, having been here for six thousand years, so why should they have to leave their ancient homeland? (The main Han Chinese migration to Taiwan began in the 19th century.)
Vice President replied, You call yourselves aborigines, but you're not anything, you're not the original inhabitants of all. The original inhabitants of Taiwan were the negritoes, and they're extinct, they've all died, all gone, so you people who calls yourselves Aborigines are nothing, and you have no special claims to land or to anything.
The negritoes she refers to are mentioned in some tribal myths. Although there are still some negritoes in the Philippines, as far as I know there is no sure archaeological, anthropological, or genetic evidence that negritoes ever lived in Taiwan, while ample evidence proves that the ancestors of today's aborigines reached Taiwan six thousand years ago. No artifact or site has ever been solidly linked to black pygmies, and the time reference in the tribal myths does not specify who reached Taiwan first. In any event, this is not the sort of statement you would expect from a Vice President when disadvantaged minorities in her country are being wiped out by a natural disaster.
Needless to say, the Aborigines are furious. Friday groups from several tribes gathered in front of the Presidential Office, where Vice President Lu was having a meeting. She ignored their requests to explain her remarks to them, preferring to let her racist, unfeeling statements stand. The Aborigines are now reminding people that they have a tradition of headhunting. However, Vice President Lu has made it clear that she spits on their traditions, and that to her they are just a bunch of subhuman savages whom Taiwan would be better off without.
Faced with all this suffering, Vice President Lu Hsiulien announced that it serves those people right to die in landslides; the government should not do anything to help them, because they brought it down upon themselves by building roads and deforesting the mountains. (I am not supplying word for word translations of what she said, but this is all accurate.) The Vice President also pointed out that since she walks with a cane, the local people should be grateful that she went to all the trouble of visiting their disaster area, because, she says, she suffered from walking around there.
The Aborigines were not very happy with this unsympathetic announcement. They pointed out that the Aborigines are not the ones profiting from the destruction of the mountains; the money behind all this all flows into Han Chinese pockets, not theirs.
In response, the Vice President said, If you don't like it, why don't you just leave? You can go live in South America, or find some place in Central America like Nicaragua or San Salvador, nobody is asking you to stay here. (I swear I am not making this up.)
You can imagine that the Aborigines, trying to pick up the rubble of their destroyed villages, were angry with Vice President Lu. They exclaimed that they are the original inhabitants of Taiwan, having been here for six thousand years, so why should they have to leave their ancient homeland? (The main Han Chinese migration to Taiwan began in the 19th century.)
Vice President replied, You call yourselves aborigines, but you're not anything, you're not the original inhabitants of all. The original inhabitants of Taiwan were the negritoes, and they're extinct, they've all died, all gone, so you people who calls yourselves Aborigines are nothing, and you have no special claims to land or to anything.
The negritoes she refers to are mentioned in some tribal myths. Although there are still some negritoes in the Philippines, as far as I know there is no sure archaeological, anthropological, or genetic evidence that negritoes ever lived in Taiwan, while ample evidence proves that the ancestors of today's aborigines reached Taiwan six thousand years ago. No artifact or site has ever been solidly linked to black pygmies, and the time reference in the tribal myths does not specify who reached Taiwan first. In any event, this is not the sort of statement you would expect from a Vice President when disadvantaged minorities in her country are being wiped out by a natural disaster.
Needless to say, the Aborigines are furious. Friday groups from several tribes gathered in front of the Presidential Office, where Vice President Lu was having a meeting. She ignored their requests to explain her remarks to them, preferring to let her racist, unfeeling statements stand. The Aborigines are now reminding people that they have a tradition of headhunting. However, Vice President Lu has made it clear that she spits on their traditions, and that to her they are just a bunch of subhuman savages whom Taiwan would be better off without.
Friday, July 16, 2004
Thursday, July 15, 2004
The government has never really gone out of its way to encourage Tayal traditions, which may sound nasty and ethnocentric and politically incorrect until you remember that the epicenter of Tayal traditions rested squarely on headhunting. Governments tend to get a bit finicky about having headhunters in the backyard, so they went along with the Christian missionaries who told the aborigines that their superstitions would land them in hell.
Now everything is all sanitized and Disney, so a couple years ago, the reviled mayor Mila Watan got the idea of having a sacrifice to the ancestors and turning it into a tourist photo opportunity, bringing in the press. The village was furious, and Mila Watan died before the year was out, “because the ancestors were mad at him.” They don't want a bunch of Han Chinese gawking at their sacrifice.
A lotus grows out of mud; the seed had been planted. The tribespeople decided that they wanted to have sacrifices for their ancestors, and the minister and the church can go to helllllllp themselves. Last year, with no publicity, the ceremony was held on the Wulai athletic field. The only outsiders were an invited anthropologist and the camera crew they hired to film the whole event. Somewhere they even found a shaman to officiate. (When my computer crashed, I lost all my photos from last year's sacrifice. If any of you have those, please send me copies! I promise I will be better about backing up files!)
Last night as I was walking home after pottery class, Agogo pulled up beside me. “Yugan! Get in the car!.... do you know we are having the ancestral sacrifice tomorrow?”
“No, I hadn't heard anything about it.”
“It's just Wulai village, Shawye started it.”
“So the other villages aren't coming this time.”
“We will do it properly. We will sacrifice a wild boar and offer it to the ancestors. You have to come!”
“Where?”
This year the sacrifice was held off in the mountains, a distance from the village and from outsider's eyes. “There will be buses leaving the village at 8. It is just half a day. You can bring your dogs on the bus. Be sure to come!”
“Are you going?”
“Of course. Not that I really care that much about those two slices of boar meat – although I do care about those two slices of boar meat, talagay blaq niqun! (delicious!), the main thing is to show our respect for our ancestors and our tribe.”
I was not so enthusiastic about watching them knife the boar. I figured I would wake up when I woke up, and if didn't catch the bus, I could walk there. The place he mentioned is somewhere out by Lomankobu, and by the time I walked there, the meat should be cooked.
Exactly where, I wasn't sure, but there's a checkpoint there for cars entering the mountain, and Ahsiung, the policeman, would be able to tell me.
As usual, at sunrise I still had my brains scrambled in my pillow, so I missed the bus. Around 9:30 I left the house with the dogs. We walked down to the village, out past the school, and off into the beautiful, steep mountains. About an hour later, I reached the checkpoint. A bunch of picnickers, hikers, and mountain bicyclists were busy filling out forms (they want to make sure that those who enter the mountains make it back out again). When Ahsiung saw me approaching, he gave me a big salute: “Yugan! Are you going to the sacrifice?”
“Yes, but I'm not sure where it is.”
“Oh, it's not far, keep going and by a qesu tree you will see motorcycles and cars from the Tribe. Right there you'll see the path.” (note: there are a million qesu trees in Wulai.)
“Okay, sounds good. Not far, you say?”
“No, it's not far.”
“I'm walking.”
“Just keep going, you'll get there.”
“How far is it?”
“Not more than ten kilometers.”
“Ten kilometers? By the time I get there, everybody will have finished eating and be ready to go home.”
“No, because they won't be finished drinking yet. Go on, Yugan, ten kilometers is not far, you can get there before long.”
To make a long story short, I cut a long walk short. This explains why I missed the village's sacrifice this year. I wandered around the area of the checkpoint for a while, and decided to turn back. I comforted myself and the dogs by going swimming wherever the stream was convenient to the road.
I have to ask around. This was the village's sacrifice, so there may be others for all the Wulai villages together.
Next year, I'll take the bus.
Now everything is all sanitized and Disney, so a couple years ago, the reviled mayor Mila Watan got the idea of having a sacrifice to the ancestors and turning it into a tourist photo opportunity, bringing in the press. The village was furious, and Mila Watan died before the year was out, “because the ancestors were mad at him.” They don't want a bunch of Han Chinese gawking at their sacrifice.
A lotus grows out of mud; the seed had been planted. The tribespeople decided that they wanted to have sacrifices for their ancestors, and the minister and the church can go to helllllllp themselves. Last year, with no publicity, the ceremony was held on the Wulai athletic field. The only outsiders were an invited anthropologist and the camera crew they hired to film the whole event. Somewhere they even found a shaman to officiate. (When my computer crashed, I lost all my photos from last year's sacrifice. If any of you have those, please send me copies! I promise I will be better about backing up files!)
Last night as I was walking home after pottery class, Agogo pulled up beside me. “Yugan! Get in the car!.... do you know we are having the ancestral sacrifice tomorrow?”
“No, I hadn't heard anything about it.”
“It's just Wulai village, Shawye started it.”
“So the other villages aren't coming this time.”
“We will do it properly. We will sacrifice a wild boar and offer it to the ancestors. You have to come!”
“Where?”
This year the sacrifice was held off in the mountains, a distance from the village and from outsider's eyes. “There will be buses leaving the village at 8. It is just half a day. You can bring your dogs on the bus. Be sure to come!”
“Are you going?”
“Of course. Not that I really care that much about those two slices of boar meat – although I do care about those two slices of boar meat, talagay blaq niqun! (delicious!), the main thing is to show our respect for our ancestors and our tribe.”
I was not so enthusiastic about watching them knife the boar. I figured I would wake up when I woke up, and if didn't catch the bus, I could walk there. The place he mentioned is somewhere out by Lomankobu, and by the time I walked there, the meat should be cooked.
Exactly where, I wasn't sure, but there's a checkpoint there for cars entering the mountain, and Ahsiung, the policeman, would be able to tell me.
As usual, at sunrise I still had my brains scrambled in my pillow, so I missed the bus. Around 9:30 I left the house with the dogs. We walked down to the village, out past the school, and off into the beautiful, steep mountains. About an hour later, I reached the checkpoint. A bunch of picnickers, hikers, and mountain bicyclists were busy filling out forms (they want to make sure that those who enter the mountains make it back out again). When Ahsiung saw me approaching, he gave me a big salute: “Yugan! Are you going to the sacrifice?”
“Yes, but I'm not sure where it is.”
“Oh, it's not far, keep going and by a qesu tree you will see motorcycles and cars from the Tribe. Right there you'll see the path.” (note: there are a million qesu trees in Wulai.)
“Okay, sounds good. Not far, you say?”
“No, it's not far.”
“I'm walking.”
“Just keep going, you'll get there.”
“How far is it?”
“Not more than ten kilometers.”
“Ten kilometers? By the time I get there, everybody will have finished eating and be ready to go home.”
“No, because they won't be finished drinking yet. Go on, Yugan, ten kilometers is not far, you can get there before long.”
To make a long story short, I cut a long walk short. This explains why I missed the village's sacrifice this year. I wandered around the area of the checkpoint for a while, and decided to turn back. I comforted myself and the dogs by going swimming wherever the stream was convenient to the road.
I have to ask around. This was the village's sacrifice, so there may be others for all the Wulai villages together.
Next year, I'll take the bus.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Living in a village where everybody knows everybody else makes economy of words practicable.
On my way down to the city this afternoon, I saw Apin by the side of the road, astride Qalux's motorcycle, busily punching a number into his cell phone.
“Apin, what's up? Yesterday you were driving Yagi's taxi, and today you are riding Qalux's motorcycle.” Indeed, he even had Qalux's little son, fearless Qosun, with him.
“My motorcycle fell into the stream.”
“How did that happen?”
“I lent it to Hozin.”
“Understood.” I continued on my way. Hozin is a notorious drunkard, but there are no wakes in Wulai now, so he must have survived the plunge. If something as trivial as careening off a road into a stream would kill Hozin, he would have died years ago.
In a few minutes, Apin passed me. “Where are you going?”
“Teaching.”
I caught up with him a few minutes later as I passed the store. “Is the motorcycle still in the stream?”
“No, yesterday I got a crane.” So that explains why I saw Meina, Hanna's brother, driving his truck with the crane up the road yesterday.
On my way down to the city this afternoon, I saw Apin by the side of the road, astride Qalux's motorcycle, busily punching a number into his cell phone.
“Apin, what's up? Yesterday you were driving Yagi's taxi, and today you are riding Qalux's motorcycle.” Indeed, he even had Qalux's little son, fearless Qosun, with him.
“My motorcycle fell into the stream.”
“How did that happen?”
“I lent it to Hozin.”
“Understood.” I continued on my way. Hozin is a notorious drunkard, but there are no wakes in Wulai now, so he must have survived the plunge. If something as trivial as careening off a road into a stream would kill Hozin, he would have died years ago.
In a few minutes, Apin passed me. “Where are you going?”
“Teaching.”
I caught up with him a few minutes later as I passed the store. “Is the motorcycle still in the stream?”
“No, yesterday I got a crane.” So that explains why I saw Meina, Hanna's brother, driving his truck with the crane up the road yesterday.
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
President Bush has defended his decision to invade Iraq. “Although we have not found stockpiles of weapons of mass destruction, we were right to go into Iraq, we removed a declared enemy of America who had the capability of producing weapons of mass murder and could have passed that capability to terrorists bent on acquiring them. In the world after September the 11th, that was a risk we could not afford to take."
According to that logic, Reagan should have attacked the Soviet Union, and Nixon should have attacked the People's Republic of China.
They had the capability of producing weapons of mass murder, so we attacked them. This reminds me of the ruler during the Warring States period (3rd century BC, sorry, I'm too lazy to look up just who it was) who passed a law severely punishing anybody who simply had the capability for producing liquor; you didn't have to actually produce any liquor, but if you had the vats and whatnot (which were common farm devices), you were guilty. One day he was standing on his palace wall with his advisors when an old lady and a little boy walked by. One of the advisors said, “Quickly, go arrest them for adultery!” The ruler said, “But they haven't done anything.” The advisor said, “No, but they have the capability for adultery; the equipment is all there.”
The difference being that the ruler in our story, being an intelligent man, revoked his idiotic law, rather than continuing to defend it with his stiff neck.
According to that logic, Reagan should have attacked the Soviet Union, and Nixon should have attacked the People's Republic of China.
They had the capability of producing weapons of mass murder, so we attacked them. This reminds me of the ruler during the Warring States period (3rd century BC, sorry, I'm too lazy to look up just who it was) who passed a law severely punishing anybody who simply had the capability for producing liquor; you didn't have to actually produce any liquor, but if you had the vats and whatnot (which were common farm devices), you were guilty. One day he was standing on his palace wall with his advisors when an old lady and a little boy walked by. One of the advisors said, “Quickly, go arrest them for adultery!” The ruler said, “But they haven't done anything.” The advisor said, “No, but they have the capability for adultery; the equipment is all there.”
The difference being that the ruler in our story, being an intelligent man, revoked his idiotic law, rather than continuing to defend it with his stiff neck.
Sunday, July 11, 2004
L is a super-orthodox far right wing DPP (Democratic Progressive Party) diehard. He pines for the good old times when sons obeyed their fathers, and when women obeyed their husbands and stayed in their place. In his mind, if Japan had won World War II, the world would be a much better place, Taiwan a garden of delight. He insists that the KMT (Kuomintang, Nationalist Party) has never done anything good for Taiwan. Everything that is wrong with Taiwan is the fault of the KMT. Nothing the KMT ever did was right; nothing the DPP ever did was wrong. When DPP officials turned out to be even more corrupt than their KMT predecessors, L's explanation was simple: “They didn't want to take the money, but the KMT forced them to. It isn't their fault.” You get the idea: the DPP is his religion.
Or was? The other day he told me,“Over the years I have spent a great deal of time, effort, and money for the DPP. From local officials up, I always campaigned hard, ever since even before the DPP was founded. Earlier this year, almost every night I took people out to dinner, expensive dinners with good food, so they would vote for Chen Shuibian so we would have a DPP president and a DPP administration.
“It doesn't make any difference. It doesn't matter who is in office. They are all rotten. It doesn't matter what party they are. They just want power and money. They don't care about the people. It doesn't matter whether they are Minnan or mainlander. They don't care about the people, they just want to fight for their own power and money. Every single one of them is corrupt, even the DDP. They are all rotten.”
Kind of scary.
Or was? The other day he told me,“Over the years I have spent a great deal of time, effort, and money for the DPP. From local officials up, I always campaigned hard, ever since even before the DPP was founded. Earlier this year, almost every night I took people out to dinner, expensive dinners with good food, so they would vote for Chen Shuibian so we would have a DPP president and a DPP administration.
“It doesn't make any difference. It doesn't matter who is in office. They are all rotten. It doesn't matter what party they are. They just want power and money. They don't care about the people. It doesn't matter whether they are Minnan or mainlander. They don't care about the people, they just want to fight for their own power and money. Every single one of them is corrupt, even the DDP. They are all rotten.”
Kind of scary.
Monday, July 05, 2004
My Life's Plan and Ambitions
Central to my life's plan is this baby. Please go to
http://bemil.chosun.com/movie%20link/su-35.wmv
and watch the film. Neat! I want one! I want one!
So, I am going to go buy a lottery ticket. When I win the lottery, I will buy one of these one-seaters. The next six months will be devoted to playing with it and getting airsick.
Then I will declare war on Palau, or maybe the Seychelles. Some little country like that will (A) not have the firepower to beat my one-seater, and (B) be more than eager to obey anybody who has one: Coooooool!
When I have conquered Palau, or maybe the Seychelles, or even Tuvalu or Kyrgyzstan, I will declare myself Beloved Leader for Life and Minister of Air Defense. On selected days I will take selected constituents up for a joyride, thereby assuring their devotion and loyalty. If you're really nice to me, I'll invite you along too.
Central to my life's plan is this baby. Please go to
http://bemil.chosun.com/movie%20link/su-35.wmv
and watch the film. Neat! I want one! I want one!
So, I am going to go buy a lottery ticket. When I win the lottery, I will buy one of these one-seaters. The next six months will be devoted to playing with it and getting airsick.
Then I will declare war on Palau, or maybe the Seychelles. Some little country like that will (A) not have the firepower to beat my one-seater, and (B) be more than eager to obey anybody who has one: Coooooool!
When I have conquered Palau, or maybe the Seychelles, or even Tuvalu or Kyrgyzstan, I will declare myself Beloved Leader for Life and Minister of Air Defense. On selected days I will take selected constituents up for a joyride, thereby assuring their devotion and loyalty. If you're really nice to me, I'll invite you along too.
Friday, July 02, 2004
You will not find John or Mary in any book or teaching material I edit or write. These are so trite that I am done with them, and always substitute other names, variety being the spice of life.
All things in moderation: if you want to bust a gut on some of the names people come up with for their poor kids, http://www.notwithoutmyhandbag.com/babynames/ is the place to visit.
It seems that some people name kids after where they were conceived: god help any poor kid whose parents honeymooned in Pumpkin Center, Louisiana! Keep your parents AWAY from Hot Coffee, Mississippi or Two Egg, Florida. If your parents had a good time in Spot, Tennessee, you probably grew up wondering why so many people wanted to play fetch with you. Wouldn't be much better for kids whose parents visited England, either. What if they booked hotel rooms in Frisby On The Wreake, Leicestershire, Fattahead, Aberdeenshire, or Spital In The Street, Lincolnshire?
Angela T. told me about some dopeheads who decided to name their kid after the place they conceived them, so they named their daughter Shenandoah Valley. The problem was, they had twins, so ~~ sit down, take a deep breath, this is gruesome ~~ they named the other girl Country Dreaming. Now as much as I wonder if they parents knew that Shenandoah is the name of an Indian chief, a man's name, I mourn for the other little girl, because Shenandoah Valley goes by Shenan (not Shannon), so can you imagine what poor Country Dreaming gets called?
Oh my oh my
All things in moderation: if you want to bust a gut on some of the names people come up with for their poor kids, http://www.notwithoutmyhandbag.com/babynames/ is the place to visit.
It seems that some people name kids after where they were conceived: god help any poor kid whose parents honeymooned in Pumpkin Center, Louisiana! Keep your parents AWAY from Hot Coffee, Mississippi or Two Egg, Florida. If your parents had a good time in Spot, Tennessee, you probably grew up wondering why so many people wanted to play fetch with you. Wouldn't be much better for kids whose parents visited England, either. What if they booked hotel rooms in Frisby On The Wreake, Leicestershire, Fattahead, Aberdeenshire, or Spital In The Street, Lincolnshire?
Angela T. told me about some dopeheads who decided to name their kid after the place they conceived them, so they named their daughter Shenandoah Valley. The problem was, they had twins, so ~~ sit down, take a deep breath, this is gruesome ~~ they named the other girl Country Dreaming. Now as much as I wonder if they parents knew that Shenandoah is the name of an Indian chief, a man's name, I mourn for the other little girl, because Shenandoah Valley goes by Shenan (not Shannon), so can you imagine what poor Country Dreaming gets called?
Oh my oh my
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Francy phoned. “Hi, Yugan, what are you up to?”
“I'm cleaning my porch.”
Pause. “….. you're what?”
“I'm cleaning my porch. I've got water and detergent and a brush and I'm cleaning the porch.”
Long pause. “Yugan, are you all right?”
“Sure, I'm fine.”
“Tell me, Yugan, has something happened?”
“No, everything is fine.”
“You're sure you're fine?”
“I'm sure I'm fine.”
“And you're washing your porch?”
“That's right.”
I could hear Francy starting to sob. She calmed herself and said, ”Really, Yugan, if something has happened and you want to talk about it, I'm right here for you.”
“No, I'm fine, really. The porch was dirty, so I decided to clean it.”
Pause. “…. The porch was dirty so you decided to clean it?”
“That's right.”
“And you're fine, you haven't gotten sunstroke or heatstroke and everything is okay?” she asked cautiously.
“Absolutely.”
Francy pulled herself together. “Okay then, Yugan. Come by my office after you finish and I'll give you the keys so you can clean my balcony, too.”
“I'm cleaning my porch.”
Pause. “….. you're what?”
“I'm cleaning my porch. I've got water and detergent and a brush and I'm cleaning the porch.”
Long pause. “Yugan, are you all right?”
“Sure, I'm fine.”
“Tell me, Yugan, has something happened?”
“No, everything is fine.”
“You're sure you're fine?”
“I'm sure I'm fine.”
“And you're washing your porch?”
“That's right.”
I could hear Francy starting to sob. She calmed herself and said, ”Really, Yugan, if something has happened and you want to talk about it, I'm right here for you.”
“No, I'm fine, really. The porch was dirty, so I decided to clean it.”
Pause. “…. The porch was dirty so you decided to clean it?”
“That's right.”
“And you're fine, you haven't gotten sunstroke or heatstroke and everything is okay?” she asked cautiously.
“Absolutely.”
Francy pulled herself together. “Okay then, Yugan. Come by my office after you finish and I'll give you the keys so you can clean my balcony, too.”
Monday, June 21, 2004
sketch
The Hsintien Stream 新店溪 leaves the mountains at Chingtan/Green Pond 青潭 where it turns left, or east and flows into the Taipei plain at the edge of the city, at Pitan, Bluegreen Pond 碧潭. The north bank of Bluegreen Pond is flat, with the edge of mountains a short distance away. The south bank is hilly, with cliffs hidden in the lush vegetation.
At Bluegreen Pond, the stream widens to about fifty meters across. This is a favorite scenic and recreation spot for Taipei residents, so there is a row of shops on the north, or city, bank. This is where my pottery teacher is located. Friday I got there for class early, so I strolled upstream to the ferry, certainly the last manual (unmotorized) ferry in the Taipei area. A teenaged girl was pushing the oar to ferry across her sole passenger, a middle aged man who chatted with her as she pushed and twisted the oar; it simply can't be as easy as she made it look. Then she picked up an old lady and her grandchild and headed back, backing out and turning her twelve meter boat with a few efficient motions.
I could hear a drum. Tuesday is the Dragon Boat Festival. For thousands of years, boat races have been held on 端午節the fifth day of the fifth lunar month, and Bluegreen Pond has been the site of dragon boat races for decades. Two crews were practicing rowing their long boats; since this is just practice, the dragon heads have not been affixed on the boats. On Tuesday, before the races are held, the boats will be resplendent with dragon heads, and their eyes will be ceremoniously painted in. Yesterday was just practice, though. The rowers shouted cadence to the drum and their stokes as they whisked their boats through the evening mist rising off the river and flowing down from the south bank jungle.
The Hsintien Stream 新店溪 leaves the mountains at Chingtan/Green Pond 青潭 where it turns left, or east and flows into the Taipei plain at the edge of the city, at Pitan, Bluegreen Pond 碧潭. The north bank of Bluegreen Pond is flat, with the edge of mountains a short distance away. The south bank is hilly, with cliffs hidden in the lush vegetation.
At Bluegreen Pond, the stream widens to about fifty meters across. This is a favorite scenic and recreation spot for Taipei residents, so there is a row of shops on the north, or city, bank. This is where my pottery teacher is located. Friday I got there for class early, so I strolled upstream to the ferry, certainly the last manual (unmotorized) ferry in the Taipei area. A teenaged girl was pushing the oar to ferry across her sole passenger, a middle aged man who chatted with her as she pushed and twisted the oar; it simply can't be as easy as she made it look. Then she picked up an old lady and her grandchild and headed back, backing out and turning her twelve meter boat with a few efficient motions.
I could hear a drum. Tuesday is the Dragon Boat Festival. For thousands of years, boat races have been held on 端午節the fifth day of the fifth lunar month, and Bluegreen Pond has been the site of dragon boat races for decades. Two crews were practicing rowing their long boats; since this is just practice, the dragon heads have not been affixed on the boats. On Tuesday, before the races are held, the boats will be resplendent with dragon heads, and their eyes will be ceremoniously painted in. Yesterday was just practice, though. The rowers shouted cadence to the drum and their stokes as they whisked their boats through the evening mist rising off the river and flowing down from the south bank jungle.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
昨晚興致勃勃地到中正紀念堂國家音樂廳去聽陳孟亨女士直笛演奏會。 應有盡有，Bach 、Telemann 、Vivaldi都到齊了。小提琴、中提琴、大提琴、鍵盤(時大鍵琴，偶管風琴)伴奏直笛。潦響美妙，渾厚扎實，只覺得場地太大: chamber music嘛!台上最穩的是大提琴。後來與巴洛克長笛演奏Telemann，也效Amsterdam Loeki Stardust Quartet，四個直笛吹 Bach 的 Fugue，心滿意足。
下半場就不同了。 先看四個小男生上台，準備電吉他、爵士鼓、鍵盤。他們穿白褲、蘋果綠無袖大領襯衫，土氣十足(鍵盤手還帶上墨鏡…)，陳女士穿著鑲亮片的禮服，在大管風琴前演奏起爵士樂，實在不倫不類。我想到爵士樂，不會想到電吉他，更不會想到直笛。觀眾面面相覷，再來是東張西望，繼以俏俏地往太平門逃脫。很可惜。
依我看，直笛還是吹巴洛克最適合。
下半場就不同了。 先看四個小男生上台，準備電吉他、爵士鼓、鍵盤。他們穿白褲、蘋果綠無袖大領襯衫，土氣十足(鍵盤手還帶上墨鏡…)，陳女士穿著鑲亮片的禮服，在大管風琴前演奏起爵士樂，實在不倫不類。我想到爵士樂，不會想到電吉他，更不會想到直笛。觀眾面面相覷，再來是東張西望，繼以俏俏地往太平門逃脫。很可惜。
依我看，直笛還是吹巴洛克最適合。
Saturday, June 12, 2004
I'm back from the family reunion. I was amazed with the openness and honesty with which everybody dealt with family issues. Made me feel honored to be a member of this nutty family.
But by Tuesday, when we had a big meal at Aunt Helen's, things were winding down. Uncle Ted and cousin Connie had gone back to the east coast, and Mom and Steph were leaving the next day. Shortly after dark (9 PM in northern Colorado), there was a terrific hail storm. And do you know why?
Hail, hail, the gang's all here!
But by Tuesday, when we had a big meal at Aunt Helen's, things were winding down. Uncle Ted and cousin Connie had gone back to the east coast, and Mom and Steph were leaving the next day. Shortly after dark (9 PM in northern Colorado), there was a terrific hail storm. And do you know why?
Hail, hail, the gang's all here!
Thursday, June 03, 2004
I've got a great idea. This evening I start out on a twelve hour flight across the Pacific. But what to do on such a long flight? I know! I'll spend the whole time practicing making fax machine noises! With all that practice, I should be pretty good by the time I get there, so that means I can entertain all the passengers around me on the fourteen hour flight back!
PS: please remember that I want to be cremated.
(supposing, that is, that the other passengers
leave enough of me to cremate)
PS: please remember that I want to be cremated.
(supposing, that is, that the other passengers
leave enough of me to cremate)
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
Saturday, May 29, 2004
Are cellists careless, forgetful, or just newsworthy? That article about the LA philharmonic: one of their cellists has a Stradivarius cello worth US3.5 million (!). So one day recently he went home, opened his front door, and left his 3.5 million dollar cello sitting on the porch (!!). Next thing he knew somebody was carrying it away on a bicycle.
A few days later a lady found it by a dumpster. She was going to ask her boyfriend to cut it up to make a CD shelf out of it, but fortunately, he recognized it as the cello everybody was looking for.
Can you imagine? A 3.5 million dollar CD shelf? No, I mean, can you imagine being so careless?
But a couple years ago Yoyo Ma left his cello in a taxi in New York. How can you do that? It's not like it was a piccolo and it slipped out of your pocket or something, a cello is a large instrument, something you'd think you'd notice if you left it in a taxi.
Of course it was a cheapo cello, only one million US, which may explain his negligence. But still, hey, you can get a LOT of recorders for one million NT, much less US!!
A few days later a lady found it by a dumpster. She was going to ask her boyfriend to cut it up to make a CD shelf out of it, but fortunately, he recognized it as the cello everybody was looking for.
Can you imagine? A 3.5 million dollar CD shelf? No, I mean, can you imagine being so careless?
But a couple years ago Yoyo Ma left his cello in a taxi in New York. How can you do that? It's not like it was a piccolo and it slipped out of your pocket or something, a cello is a large instrument, something you'd think you'd notice if you left it in a taxi.
Of course it was a cheapo cello, only one million US, which may explain his negligence. But still, hey, you can get a LOT of recorders for one million NT, much less US!!
Thursday, May 20, 2004
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
As punishment for my sin of not backing up my files, last week a virus destroyed my hard disk. If you have not heard from me, I am not ignoring you, my entire e-address book is gone with the wind, so you're going to have to write to me. My apologies.
My apologies? Hull, my sniveling tears.
I have firewalls and anti-virus, but the virus still got through. "A warning by me take," and remember to back up your files.
My apologies? Hull, my sniveling tears.
I have firewalls and anti-virus, but the virus still got through. "A warning by me take," and remember to back up your files.
Thursday, April 29, 2004
When I first came to Taiwan, I lived in the International House. The most popular American there was Nick, cheerful, handsome, easy going, everybody's friend. After dinner one evening, we were all gathered in the lounge as usual when Nick came in, the first time we saw him wearing shorts. His arrival was greeted with shocked gasps, because he was on crutches, and had only one leg. It turned out that some years before, he had been working in Hawaii. He was helping dislodge a fishing boat (ironically, from Taiwan) that had gotten stuck on a sandbar. A cable snapped and took off his left leg at the knee. Nick got an artificial leg and learned to use it so well that even I House people who went out dancing with him were not aware that he was all plastic from one knee down. This discovery made a stir, and then we forgot about it.
About a year later, after I had moved into an apartment on Hsinsheng with Roger and Jerome, somebody from the I House looked me up at school with the news that Bill's mother had sent him a football from the States so they were having a game on the Shih Ta field, want to come along? I detest spectator sports and competitive sports, but if you have a football and just enjoy playing the game, it's a lot of fun, so I closed my books and headed for the field. The whole I House crew was there, so we managed to put together two teams. We took off our jackets and played in our street clothes, very impromptu. None of us were serious players, so it was fun.
This was in about 1973. Foreigners were very scarce in Taiwan then. Before long we attracted a large crowd of kids who had never seen a dozen Americans together at the same time. Plus, we were running around playing this unintelligible game that to this day is never seen anywhere in Taiwan but on a television screen. The kids were fascinated, especially when they had the chance to go after an out of bounds ball, try to catch it as it bounced, and toss it back to us. Exotic goings-on, to be sure.
Then Doug passed the ball to Nick, who had to reach far for it. Just as he went way off balance and touched the ball, Dan came running up behind him and nudged him, so Nick fell hard. He fell so hard that he bounced and his leg came off and slipped out of his pants. The crowd of children held their breath for a moment, gave an earsplitting shriek of horror, and disappeared as fast as they could run. Within a few seconds, there was not a child to be seen. They were probably all huddling in their closets at home by the time Nick got his leg attached.
But the poor kids. Can you imagine this kid racing home screeching: Ma, Ma, I was watching the big-noses playing a game, and their legs come off!
Nonsense, stop your nonsense!!
No, really, I was at the Shih Ta field, and these foreign devils were playing a game with a pointed ball.
A pointed ball? What's the matter with you? Everybody knows a ball is round!
No, really, Ma, listen to me! They were playing a game with a pointed ball, and one of them fell, and his leg came off, it came right out of his pants, I saw it!
Stop that nonsense!
Ma, it's real!
Oh, heavens, put your jacket back on, I'm taking you to the sorcerer to have your frightened spirit called home. I have no idea what could have put such strange notions in your poor little head.
But Ma!!
Hush, hush, baby, let's go.
Probably caused psychological scars that persist to this day. Sure did put the damper on our game. It just sort of petered out after that, and I haven't played football since.
About a year later, after I had moved into an apartment on Hsinsheng with Roger and Jerome, somebody from the I House looked me up at school with the news that Bill's mother had sent him a football from the States so they were having a game on the Shih Ta field, want to come along? I detest spectator sports and competitive sports, but if you have a football and just enjoy playing the game, it's a lot of fun, so I closed my books and headed for the field. The whole I House crew was there, so we managed to put together two teams. We took off our jackets and played in our street clothes, very impromptu. None of us were serious players, so it was fun.
This was in about 1973. Foreigners were very scarce in Taiwan then. Before long we attracted a large crowd of kids who had never seen a dozen Americans together at the same time. Plus, we were running around playing this unintelligible game that to this day is never seen anywhere in Taiwan but on a television screen. The kids were fascinated, especially when they had the chance to go after an out of bounds ball, try to catch it as it bounced, and toss it back to us. Exotic goings-on, to be sure.
Then Doug passed the ball to Nick, who had to reach far for it. Just as he went way off balance and touched the ball, Dan came running up behind him and nudged him, so Nick fell hard. He fell so hard that he bounced and his leg came off and slipped out of his pants. The crowd of children held their breath for a moment, gave an earsplitting shriek of horror, and disappeared as fast as they could run. Within a few seconds, there was not a child to be seen. They were probably all huddling in their closets at home by the time Nick got his leg attached.
But the poor kids. Can you imagine this kid racing home screeching: Ma, Ma, I was watching the big-noses playing a game, and their legs come off!
Nonsense, stop your nonsense!!
No, really, I was at the Shih Ta field, and these foreign devils were playing a game with a pointed ball.
A pointed ball? What's the matter with you? Everybody knows a ball is round!
No, really, Ma, listen to me! They were playing a game with a pointed ball, and one of them fell, and his leg came off, it came right out of his pants, I saw it!
Stop that nonsense!
Ma, it's real!
Oh, heavens, put your jacket back on, I'm taking you to the sorcerer to have your frightened spirit called home. I have no idea what could have put such strange notions in your poor little head.
But Ma!!
Hush, hush, baby, let's go.
Probably caused psychological scars that persist to this day. Sure did put the damper on our game. It just sort of petered out after that, and I haven't played football since.
Friday, April 23, 2004
Earthday is over
今早上坡傳來我最恨的聲音: 鋸樹聲。 聽到木裂聲，往上看，一棵十公尺高的相思樹倒地。 是不是有人盜伐樹，上去看看。Patu拎著鍊鋸爬上一棵更大的相思樹開始鋸，那一棵相思樹很粗，我兩手抱不起來。 我問他為什麼要鋸，原來是鄉公所派他們來，因為這些樹擋路旁櫻的光線，所以砍了。
Silan 搖頭歎息說，”這棵相思樹是我祖父種的，那個時候我爸還小，少說也有六十年。”
Patu說，”沒辦法，鄉公所說遊客要看的是櫻花。”Patu無奈。這項工作很困難，且極危險。Patu 又要開工程車又要鋸樹，一天工資八百元。
很諷刺的是，大樹殞命是在地球日的第二天清晨。難道鄉公所不知道生物多樣性的重要嗎? 只有遊客要看的樹才容許成長，管它生態不生態。
Yata來了，跳腳大叫，”你們把我最好的桑樹砍了，這棵的桑椹最好吃，多少年來，一過完年，就是期待吃這棵的桑椹。”
Patu說，”沒辦法，鄉公所說遊客要看的是櫻花。”
現代人被廣告訓練的非常聽話。這季滿山梧桐開白花，誰人來賞？路側幾朶櫻，來的人群把路塞死。櫻花與梧桐難媲美，差在櫻有宣傳；現代人訓練有素，看到電視雜誌指出:”這是美，”便很溫馴地攜家帶眷，把著照相機，列隊在櫻樹裸枝前拍照，小心被來往車朝撞。梧桐白花、相思黃花，缺人為它宣傳:鋸啦！！
下次知道烏來櫻花開，一定要來看，因為我們為了讓你們看那幾朶櫻花所付出的代價不算輕。
今早上坡傳來我最恨的聲音: 鋸樹聲。 聽到木裂聲，往上看，一棵十公尺高的相思樹倒地。 是不是有人盜伐樹，上去看看。Patu拎著鍊鋸爬上一棵更大的相思樹開始鋸，那一棵相思樹很粗，我兩手抱不起來。 我問他為什麼要鋸，原來是鄉公所派他們來，因為這些樹擋路旁櫻的光線，所以砍了。
Silan 搖頭歎息說，”這棵相思樹是我祖父種的，那個時候我爸還小，少說也有六十年。”
Patu說，”沒辦法，鄉公所說遊客要看的是櫻花。”Patu無奈。這項工作很困難，且極危險。Patu 又要開工程車又要鋸樹，一天工資八百元。
很諷刺的是，大樹殞命是在地球日的第二天清晨。難道鄉公所不知道生物多樣性的重要嗎? 只有遊客要看的樹才容許成長，管它生態不生態。
Yata來了，跳腳大叫，”你們把我最好的桑樹砍了，這棵的桑椹最好吃，多少年來，一過完年，就是期待吃這棵的桑椹。”
Patu說，”沒辦法，鄉公所說遊客要看的是櫻花。”
現代人被廣告訓練的非常聽話。這季滿山梧桐開白花，誰人來賞？路側幾朶櫻，來的人群把路塞死。櫻花與梧桐難媲美，差在櫻有宣傳；現代人訓練有素，看到電視雜誌指出:”這是美，”便很溫馴地攜家帶眷，把著照相機，列隊在櫻樹裸枝前拍照，小心被來往車朝撞。梧桐白花、相思黃花，缺人為它宣傳:鋸啦！！
下次知道烏來櫻花開，一定要來看，因為我們為了讓你們看那幾朶櫻花所付出的代價不算輕。
Thursday, April 22, 2004
我要發了
老友阿雞從美國打電話來，說有一個賺大錢的點子…喪家出殯時喜歡擺場面，所以阿雞說，咱可以組個孝子孝女團，全部以美國人披麻帶孝，到臺灣中南部打天下，穩發無疑。
這個點子的確不錯，但有些不足之處。 第一，美國人嘛，到時候一定會笑，不夠肅穆，我們要的是孝子，不是笑子。 第二，美國人要價高，而且囉嗦，甚麼健保啦、休假啦，我說美國人太麻煩，不如招募東歐人來的實在:白俄、烏克蘭人那一類的。斯拉夫人看起來夠外國（就是這個問題，所以不考慮用泰國人、菲律賓人）。前蘇聯的遺民窮哈哈的，一天發幾個馬鈴薯、幾包香煙、一些零用錢，就感激不已，哪會想到甚麼健保休假？加上、臺灣中南部炎熱的氣候，他們受不了；每一個人量身訂製羊毛黑袍子～像海青～為孝團制服，跟隨靈車扶柩幾步，一個一個地中暑，倒下去口吐白沫，跟家屬朋友解釋為哀慟氣絕，你說效果有多好就有多好，紅包滿天飛。如果喪家加錢的話，孝團裡身材最好的孝女激動到撕裂自己的衣服（撕裂的情形依紅包而斟酌）。
這樣做，在中南部不可能不賺。
反正，下地獄是以後的事。
老友阿雞從美國打電話來，說有一個賺大錢的點子…喪家出殯時喜歡擺場面，所以阿雞說，咱可以組個孝子孝女團，全部以美國人披麻帶孝，到臺灣中南部打天下，穩發無疑。
這個點子的確不錯，但有些不足之處。 第一，美國人嘛，到時候一定會笑，不夠肅穆，我們要的是孝子，不是笑子。 第二，美國人要價高，而且囉嗦，甚麼健保啦、休假啦，我說美國人太麻煩，不如招募東歐人來的實在:白俄、烏克蘭人那一類的。斯拉夫人看起來夠外國（就是這個問題，所以不考慮用泰國人、菲律賓人）。前蘇聯的遺民窮哈哈的，一天發幾個馬鈴薯、幾包香煙、一些零用錢，就感激不已，哪會想到甚麼健保休假？加上、臺灣中南部炎熱的氣候，他們受不了；每一個人量身訂製羊毛黑袍子～像海青～為孝團制服，跟隨靈車扶柩幾步，一個一個地中暑，倒下去口吐白沫，跟家屬朋友解釋為哀慟氣絕，你說效果有多好就有多好，紅包滿天飛。如果喪家加錢的話，孝團裡身材最好的孝女激動到撕裂自己的衣服（撕裂的情形依紅包而斟酌）。
這樣做，在中南部不可能不賺。
反正，下地獄是以後的事。
Sunday, April 04, 2004
A historical note from my mother:
“I remember when Charles Lindbergh flew into Dodge City. Everybody was out where he was going to land and we mistook the first star for his plane, until it was obvious it was a star. The landing field ― no airport ― was a pasture and people lit it with their cars' headlights. We waited and waited and finally, he got there, got out, and was tall and lanky, greeted by the mayor, etc. ― he went away with them after being introduced to & greeted by the crowd and then we all went home, thrilled and exalted.”
That would have been sometime in the late 1920s.
“I remember when Charles Lindbergh flew into Dodge City. Everybody was out where he was going to land and we mistook the first star for his plane, until it was obvious it was a star. The landing field ― no airport ― was a pasture and people lit it with their cars' headlights. We waited and waited and finally, he got there, got out, and was tall and lanky, greeted by the mayor, etc. ― he went away with them after being introduced to & greeted by the crowd and then we all went home, thrilled and exalted.”
That would have been sometime in the late 1920s.
Friday, April 02, 2004
I wrote this about two years ago, about another election.
Yagi Hakaw
Were I running for local office and found my candidacy endorsed by my good friend Yagi Hakaw, I would rush with glistening forehead to thrust gobs of large denomination bills into his stubby hands, beseeching him to root for my rivals. Yagi's support is the kiss of death for a local candidate, a staggering blow, barely to be survived, for a candidate in a larger election.
On the one hand, Yagi has an uncanny ability to pick losers. You want to know who's going to lose the next election, ask Yagi who he's voting for. You want to find out how many votes his candidate got in the last election, look at the bottom of the election results, the very last place.
On the other hand, Yagi's means of showing support practically guarantees opposite results. During the years he was driving a Wulai-Taipei bus, he won votes for all the other parties along the entire 25 kilometer line by his continued, vociferous, forceful support of the Democratic Progressive Party.
Yagi is a wonderful friend, but simply cannot handle a position of the slightest authority. I attribute this to his first job. Freshly graduated from junior high, he was, as were so many Aborigine boys, taken off to sea. This was the first time he had ever left his village in the mountains of Taiwan. He worked a fishing boat for six years, six years on a boat far from the Tribe, far from the mountains, far out at sea on a boat the size of a bus. He isn't sure where his boat was, somewhere in the Pacific, probably stopping in South American ports, because he speaks some Spanish. He was bilked six years of hard labor. He was fed, but every penny of his pay was swindled by various dodges. He escaped wage slavery only by being drafted.
My theory is that the main authority figure, the captain, imprinted on Yagi's soul during these formative years. He handles every position of authority as a tyrannical fishing boat captain, far from shore, would deal with potentially mutinous Aborigines. If ever some passenger, wittingly or not, might drop one coin short in the cash box, Yagi would stop the bus and demand, long and loud, that this thief not try to take advantage of an Aborigine and bilk the bus company, and pay in full. Taiwan may be modern and commercial, but this is still China, and such direct confrontation is frowned upon.
As luck would have it, Yagi's route goes by a government old folks’ home. The old folks, retired civil servants and soldiers, love to ride the bus to the city to buy a head of lettuce, pester doctors, pick up medicine, get a breath of city air, and see the sights. Let some old codger clamber into the bus with less than gymnastic alacrity, and Yagi would immediately begin blistering the paint: “Can't you hurry!? You're going to drive me insane, I don't have a schedule? How long do you want me to wait for you?”
The bus company concocted an excuse to fire him. Perhaps the boss, a DPP backer, also wanted to save some votes for his party.
Loyalties on the edge of tribal and city life are confused. A couple years ago, the government passed legislation requiring all motorcycle riders to wear crash helmets. In Wulai this was taken to imply, 'unless we are riding around the village.' Then one day the Provincial Chief of Police paid a visit to Wulai. He hit the ceiling when he saw a girl driving a motorcycle without a crash helmet. Of course nobody told him that she was a Wulai police officer's little daughter, at nine years old already half way to legal age to get a motorcycle license. To enforce the law, an officer was chosen, an outsider fresh out of police academy. Soon people opened their mail boxes to find fines attached to photos of themselves, from the back, showing license plates and no helmets. Fury! A compromise was reached. The hapless officer was posted far away, but people were asked to remember their helmets, sometimes, and for god's sakes, when the high mucky-mucks come, don't let the grade-schoolers drive motorcycles.
The bus company requires that expired passes be confiscated. The police sent word to the drivers: Yayut lives in the city where her husband works, and she has about thirty rides left on last year's pass, so let it slide. This request provoked several injured responses: I have never punched her ticket before, why would I start with this year's? She is, after all, a Tayal, one of the Tribe, if our boss wants her ticket punched, let him come punch it himself.
Like many Aborigines, Yagi's first loyalty is to Tribe, not Party. Two old men (Han Chinese, flat-landers, not Aborigines)
got on his bus one time before an election, loudly proclaiming in the Minnan dialect that the DPP was sure to win and then the Taiwanese people would stand up, yes sir! Yagi drove silently for about ten minutes, and suddenly bellowed, “Then you 'Taiwanese' can all go back to your goddamned home in the Chinese mainland and leave us Aborigines in peace!!” The old timers slipped off the bus at the next stop.
The unfortunate fact is that Yagi actually has a very sweet side, no matter what people along the route believe. A friend has only to ask, and his help is unstinting. Somebody started peddling an old Aborigine dish, bamboo rice: an instant hit with the tourists who flock to Wulai to enjoy the mountains, the waterfall, and the hot springs. Business boomed. Yagi opened up a stand with his mother and wife, adding banana rice. They produced the best bamboo rice in the Tribe, hands down, no doubt. His rice was so delicious that he was getting all the business. The neighbors complained: you're making all the money, nobody's coming to our stands any more. The accommodating Yagi voluntarily closed down his stand in order not to reduce his neighbors' income.
Now his cousin is running for office. For his election headquarters, the cousin has taken over Yagi's house, downhill from me. This strategic choice shows Yagi's craftsmanship, because we are out on the edge of the village, far enough away that everybody can beg off dropping by the headquarters with the excuse that I wasn't going that way. For his election fight song, he has chosen Naluwan (the word is the Taiwan Aborigine equivalent of Aloha). It consists mostly of a piercing female voice singing one monotonous line over and over
My home is at Naluwaaaaaaaaan~
A song of very high irritation quotient, especially when you hear it repeated all afternoon. He has cranked up the speaker so the people in the village can hear it. They can probably hear it on the moon. Things do not bode well for Yagi's cousin.
Of course not all of Yagi's candidates lose. He backed the winner by default in the last presidential election, Chen Shuibian of the DPP. Yagi celebrated Inauguration Day with the rest of the Tribe's tiny DPP contingent by formally quitting the Party. Then he got roaring drunk. I could hear him howling and crying late into the night.
Postscript: The day after the election, I was shooting the breeze with Abus. To nobody's surprise, Yagi's cousin polled 40 votes out of the thousand votes in Wulai, landing solidly in last place, even behind the Lukai tribesman who for some reason thought he might win some votes. Are you kidding? Running for office in Tayal tribal land all dressed up in a Lukai outfit for your campaign photo?
I laughed that even the Lukai got more votes than Yagi's candidate. Abus, who takes things literally, bristled. “Me? If I ran for office, and Yagi showed up to support me, I'd get my head-hunting knife and chop him up!”
Great minds think alike.
Yagi Hakaw
Were I running for local office and found my candidacy endorsed by my good friend Yagi Hakaw, I would rush with glistening forehead to thrust gobs of large denomination bills into his stubby hands, beseeching him to root for my rivals. Yagi's support is the kiss of death for a local candidate, a staggering blow, barely to be survived, for a candidate in a larger election.
On the one hand, Yagi has an uncanny ability to pick losers. You want to know who's going to lose the next election, ask Yagi who he's voting for. You want to find out how many votes his candidate got in the last election, look at the bottom of the election results, the very last place.
On the other hand, Yagi's means of showing support practically guarantees opposite results. During the years he was driving a Wulai-Taipei bus, he won votes for all the other parties along the entire 25 kilometer line by his continued, vociferous, forceful support of the Democratic Progressive Party.
Yagi is a wonderful friend, but simply cannot handle a position of the slightest authority. I attribute this to his first job. Freshly graduated from junior high, he was, as were so many Aborigine boys, taken off to sea. This was the first time he had ever left his village in the mountains of Taiwan. He worked a fishing boat for six years, six years on a boat far from the Tribe, far from the mountains, far out at sea on a boat the size of a bus. He isn't sure where his boat was, somewhere in the Pacific, probably stopping in South American ports, because he speaks some Spanish. He was bilked six years of hard labor. He was fed, but every penny of his pay was swindled by various dodges. He escaped wage slavery only by being drafted.
My theory is that the main authority figure, the captain, imprinted on Yagi's soul during these formative years. He handles every position of authority as a tyrannical fishing boat captain, far from shore, would deal with potentially mutinous Aborigines. If ever some passenger, wittingly or not, might drop one coin short in the cash box, Yagi would stop the bus and demand, long and loud, that this thief not try to take advantage of an Aborigine and bilk the bus company, and pay in full. Taiwan may be modern and commercial, but this is still China, and such direct confrontation is frowned upon.
As luck would have it, Yagi's route goes by a government old folks’ home. The old folks, retired civil servants and soldiers, love to ride the bus to the city to buy a head of lettuce, pester doctors, pick up medicine, get a breath of city air, and see the sights. Let some old codger clamber into the bus with less than gymnastic alacrity, and Yagi would immediately begin blistering the paint: “Can't you hurry!? You're going to drive me insane, I don't have a schedule? How long do you want me to wait for you?”
The bus company concocted an excuse to fire him. Perhaps the boss, a DPP backer, also wanted to save some votes for his party.
Loyalties on the edge of tribal and city life are confused. A couple years ago, the government passed legislation requiring all motorcycle riders to wear crash helmets. In Wulai this was taken to imply, 'unless we are riding around the village.' Then one day the Provincial Chief of Police paid a visit to Wulai. He hit the ceiling when he saw a girl driving a motorcycle without a crash helmet. Of course nobody told him that she was a Wulai police officer's little daughter, at nine years old already half way to legal age to get a motorcycle license. To enforce the law, an officer was chosen, an outsider fresh out of police academy. Soon people opened their mail boxes to find fines attached to photos of themselves, from the back, showing license plates and no helmets. Fury! A compromise was reached. The hapless officer was posted far away, but people were asked to remember their helmets, sometimes, and for god's sakes, when the high mucky-mucks come, don't let the grade-schoolers drive motorcycles.
The bus company requires that expired passes be confiscated. The police sent word to the drivers: Yayut lives in the city where her husband works, and she has about thirty rides left on last year's pass, so let it slide. This request provoked several injured responses: I have never punched her ticket before, why would I start with this year's? She is, after all, a Tayal, one of the Tribe, if our boss wants her ticket punched, let him come punch it himself.
Like many Aborigines, Yagi's first loyalty is to Tribe, not Party. Two old men (Han Chinese, flat-landers, not Aborigines)
got on his bus one time before an election, loudly proclaiming in the Minnan dialect that the DPP was sure to win and then the Taiwanese people would stand up, yes sir! Yagi drove silently for about ten minutes, and suddenly bellowed, “Then you 'Taiwanese' can all go back to your goddamned home in the Chinese mainland and leave us Aborigines in peace!!” The old timers slipped off the bus at the next stop.
The unfortunate fact is that Yagi actually has a very sweet side, no matter what people along the route believe. A friend has only to ask, and his help is unstinting. Somebody started peddling an old Aborigine dish, bamboo rice: an instant hit with the tourists who flock to Wulai to enjoy the mountains, the waterfall, and the hot springs. Business boomed. Yagi opened up a stand with his mother and wife, adding banana rice. They produced the best bamboo rice in the Tribe, hands down, no doubt. His rice was so delicious that he was getting all the business. The neighbors complained: you're making all the money, nobody's coming to our stands any more. The accommodating Yagi voluntarily closed down his stand in order not to reduce his neighbors' income.
Now his cousin is running for office. For his election headquarters, the cousin has taken over Yagi's house, downhill from me. This strategic choice shows Yagi's craftsmanship, because we are out on the edge of the village, far enough away that everybody can beg off dropping by the headquarters with the excuse that I wasn't going that way. For his election fight song, he has chosen Naluwan (the word is the Taiwan Aborigine equivalent of Aloha). It consists mostly of a piercing female voice singing one monotonous line over and over
My home is at Naluwaaaaaaaaan~
A song of very high irritation quotient, especially when you hear it repeated all afternoon. He has cranked up the speaker so the people in the village can hear it. They can probably hear it on the moon. Things do not bode well for Yagi's cousin.
Of course not all of Yagi's candidates lose. He backed the winner by default in the last presidential election, Chen Shuibian of the DPP. Yagi celebrated Inauguration Day with the rest of the Tribe's tiny DPP contingent by formally quitting the Party. Then he got roaring drunk. I could hear him howling and crying late into the night.
Postscript: The day after the election, I was shooting the breeze with Abus. To nobody's surprise, Yagi's cousin polled 40 votes out of the thousand votes in Wulai, landing solidly in last place, even behind the Lukai tribesman who for some reason thought he might win some votes. Are you kidding? Running for office in Tayal tribal land all dressed up in a Lukai outfit for your campaign photo?
I laughed that even the Lukai got more votes than Yagi's candidate. Abus, who takes things literally, bristled. “Me? If I ran for office, and Yagi showed up to support me, I'd get my head-hunting knife and chop him up!”
Great minds think alike.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
Yesterday the protests escalated. The Election Committee was stormed and occupied. There was some violence, but nobody was injured. A big parade to protest the election was being held today. Nothing to do with me, I was going to the train station to meet a friend at 3.
On the way down to the bus stop, a neighbor gave me a ride, so I got an earlier bus in to the city, and arrived downtown before 2:30. I figured, I can walk the last two stops in 15 minutes normally, so rather than arrive early, I may as well go look at the parade, and sample the mood.
The mood was exuberant. Chungshan South Road was packed solid to East Gate. I made my way through the crowd pretty easily, although I was almost deafened by the freon horns people were blowing off. I was amused to hear that the crowd had appropriated the old DDP cheer, Stand up, People of Taiwan! and I was confused when I heard the cry, 徐信良萬歲! Long Life for Hsu Hsinliang! Huh? Hsu was one of the founders of the DDP, President Chen's party, the other guys. Later I found out that Hsu is so incensed by irregularities in this election that he has gone on a fast in protest, calling for a return to democracy.
People were in high spirits. Police were mingling among the crowd, very much at ease. (During the Street Movement when the DDP was building power, the police would never have dared to walk amongst the protestors.) An excellent sign in English: Don't make Democracy a deMOCKracy!
A man sang a beautiful, slow song in Minnanese. Another man gave a speech in English; I could recognize it was English because I discerned “of the” “and so” and a few other phrases. The rest was totally unintelligible to me. I wanted to go up and say, Hey, I offer courses in pronunciation, want to sign up? People cheered him anyway, but were palpably relieved when he switched into Chinese.
I made my way north with an eye on the time. A pretty solid mass of people at East Gate, but the lawn of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was pretty vacant, so I set out across it, partly because you don't usually get a chance to tromp there. I immediately found out why the lawn was pretty vacant: apparently so many other people took advantage of this opportunity to tromp across the lawn that the grass had all been trampled into sticky mud. A little mud never stopped a barbarian down from the mountains, so I set off bravely, but soon found that this was really extra-gluey gooey gooey glutinous mud. Halfway across, one of my flip-flops flopped, snapping its strap. I succeeded in making it the rest of the way across; by this time, the people in the immediate vicinity had stopped listening to the speaker to see if I would make it across without falling flat on my back. Fortunately, I managed to stay upright, but decided to just take off my flip-flops.
Three policemen were lounging against a van, chatting. I asked one if it would be possible to cross north. He suggested that if I was in a hurry, I should go back to the subway stop and take the subway to the train station. So I did, weaving through the crowd as quickly as I could, carrying the remains of my flip-flops.
I reached our meeting point at 3:10, and showed my friend my muddy, broken flip-flops: "I just want to show these to you to prove that when I left my home, I was NOT barefoot, I was shod. However, they snapped in the mud in front of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, so before we go for tea, do you mind if we go around the corner and buy me a new pair?"
On the way down to the bus stop, a neighbor gave me a ride, so I got an earlier bus in to the city, and arrived downtown before 2:30. I figured, I can walk the last two stops in 15 minutes normally, so rather than arrive early, I may as well go look at the parade, and sample the mood.
The mood was exuberant. Chungshan South Road was packed solid to East Gate. I made my way through the crowd pretty easily, although I was almost deafened by the freon horns people were blowing off. I was amused to hear that the crowd had appropriated the old DDP cheer, Stand up, People of Taiwan! and I was confused when I heard the cry, 徐信良萬歲! Long Life for Hsu Hsinliang! Huh? Hsu was one of the founders of the DDP, President Chen's party, the other guys. Later I found out that Hsu is so incensed by irregularities in this election that he has gone on a fast in protest, calling for a return to democracy.
People were in high spirits. Police were mingling among the crowd, very much at ease. (During the Street Movement when the DDP was building power, the police would never have dared to walk amongst the protestors.) An excellent sign in English: Don't make Democracy a deMOCKracy!
A man sang a beautiful, slow song in Minnanese. Another man gave a speech in English; I could recognize it was English because I discerned “of the” “and so” and a few other phrases. The rest was totally unintelligible to me. I wanted to go up and say, Hey, I offer courses in pronunciation, want to sign up? People cheered him anyway, but were palpably relieved when he switched into Chinese.
I made my way north with an eye on the time. A pretty solid mass of people at East Gate, but the lawn of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was pretty vacant, so I set out across it, partly because you don't usually get a chance to tromp there. I immediately found out why the lawn was pretty vacant: apparently so many other people took advantage of this opportunity to tromp across the lawn that the grass had all been trampled into sticky mud. A little mud never stopped a barbarian down from the mountains, so I set off bravely, but soon found that this was really extra-gluey gooey gooey glutinous mud. Halfway across, one of my flip-flops flopped, snapping its strap. I succeeded in making it the rest of the way across; by this time, the people in the immediate vicinity had stopped listening to the speaker to see if I would make it across without falling flat on my back. Fortunately, I managed to stay upright, but decided to just take off my flip-flops.
Three policemen were lounging against a van, chatting. I asked one if it would be possible to cross north. He suggested that if I was in a hurry, I should go back to the subway stop and take the subway to the train station. So I did, weaving through the crowd as quickly as I could, carrying the remains of my flip-flops.
I reached our meeting point at 3:10, and showed my friend my muddy, broken flip-flops: "I just want to show these to you to prove that when I left my home, I was NOT barefoot, I was shod. However, they snapped in the mud in front of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, so before we go for tea, do you mind if we go around the corner and buy me a new pair?"
Thursday, March 25, 2004
People ask me if I'm blue or green. Actually, I'm sort of pinkish brown, though come summer I'll be darker brown. (In college, people in my class called me an egg: white on the outside and yellow on the inside.) Oh, you mean political affiliation? I try to steer clear of politics. Chad and the Supreme Court give you Dubya? On quiet nights, you can hear Ben Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and Andy Jackson moaning. Here in Taiwan, everything is too political. I feel freedom loving liberals everywhere should give all politicians, regardless of nationality or party, their due: inattention bordering on contempt. Doesn't anybody remember the old slogan? Power to the People! Since when did democracy become, power to the sly, the lawyers, and the fat cats?
The presidential election was held last Saturday, but it is hardly over. There is a matter about who actually won the election, and how. There have been accusations about sore losers, if you can't lose, don't play.
Sore losers are hardly new in Taiwan's elections. I'm too lazy to look up the dates, but the first time such poor sportsmanship came to my attention was about fifteen years ago, when the losing candidate in the mayoral race down south in Tainan called out the truckers to barricade the freeway. All traffic north and south was totally cut due to this sore loser's tantrum. I forget how long it lasted, you can look it up in the papers, but finally somebody assuaged the candidate's ego enough that he told the trucks to leave and permitted traffic to continue its normal flow. Hardly good sportsmanship, what?
Since then we have seen many such examples of sore losers, mostly among the green (the DDP, now ruling): when they win an election, it is the triumph of democracy, and when they lose an election, it's only because the blues (KMT) have cheated, so they hit the streets. And I do mean hit.
The DDP came to power on the streets, so before this election, they had an advertising campaign that I personally found disingenuous: they drilled in the message, go cast your vote (for us) and stay off the streets!! Don't march, don't protest, just give us your vote, because democracy is in the polls, not on the streets. Hardly the tune they sang way back when.
So recently the blues have been out, protesting certain oddities about this election. For example, friends in the armed forces have told me that surprise, surprise, military commands were quietly changed not long ago, so that if an alert of a certain stage is called, a certain proportion of servicemen cannot leave their bases. Most servicemen prefer the blue, so the ruling greens called a pretty high alert for election day, sealing all those votes far from the ballot boxes.
In this election were an unprecedented number of invalid ballots, and people are asking why. There was a high greater proportion of invalid ballots than ever before; so high that the invalid ballots outnumbered Chen Shuibian's winning margin by ten times. All you have to do is have someone surreptitiously smudge a ballot with a pen and it's invalid.
When you're talking about a margin of 29,500 votes out of 13 million, these things add up, and call for explanation.
Also, people have great doubts about the “assassination attempt, if it was an assassination attempt.” A growing scandal about campaign donations was drawing votes away from president Chen Shuibian in the week before the election, and then the day before the election there was this miraculous shooting. Amazing magical bullets, that could turn and stop: after turning 90 degrees to lightly scratching his tummy, one ended up sitting demurely in the president's coat pocket, probably all tuckered out by its acrobatic exertions in bringing in the sympathy vote.
There are allegations that the hospital (private Chimei Hospital, strong green supporters) to which the president was sent was prepared for the emergency days before it actually happened; that the Chimei hospital was not listed in the protocol of hospitals to which the president should be taken in case of emergency; that in any event, the alleged assassination attempt took place a dozen kilometers from Chimei hospital, so people wonder why they didn't take the president to National ChengKung University Medical Hospital, only two kilometers away.
People are unhappy. Crowds are protesting in front of the President's Office, which is just around the corner from Merica, where I teach. Wednesday (the 24th), I got to town early, so I decided to get off the subway a stop early and take a look.
I lived down in that area during the era of street demonstrations (by which the DDP built power). The only demonstration I missed entirely was 5/20 (more on that later), because I happened to be abroad. All of the other demonstrations I saw and heard; not by choice, but because I lived in the neighborhood for almost twenty years, and passed the Legislature on my way to work.
Those demonstrations were not happy affairs. You passed by as quickly as you could, averting your eyes for your own protection. The protestors would usually yell and scream insults at people passing by. On occasion they attacked passersby.
Lines of police in riot gear tensely waited to get assaulted (Taiwan is probably the only place in the world where demonstrators beat up the police, rather than the other way around).
Demonstrators would turn over trash cans, smash phone booths, spray paint everything in sight, vandalize business’ signs, litter everywhere, push over parked motorcycles, sometimes even turn over parked cars. You wanted to stay away from them when they started throwing rocks. Taipei's streets are well maintained, so you do not just pick up a rock. If you have a rock to throw, you have brought it with you, 'with malice aforethought.' Later it became popular to throw eggs. In one way that's an improvement, but I always felt sorry for the hens.
The one demonstration I missed was the May 20 (5/20) affair, when the greens rioted during the inauguration of Lee Tenghui. Sometime around 1990, I forget what year, look it up yourself. As I was not an eye-witness, allow me to cite one: hapless Eban was driving his bus by, doing his job, minding his own business, when the participants started throwing bricks at his bus. As if he had elected Lee Tenghui all by himself! Sore losers?
An experienced protest observer, I thought I would see how things were faring this week. The protest was totally unlike any of the earlier ones. They were confined to Katagalan Street between Park and Chungshan Streets. I approached from Chungshan South Road, which was lined with people waving flags and cheering the traffic on Chungshan. Police were directing traffic, which was flowing as well as could be expected. The police were dressed in their everyday uniforms, relaxed, and walking through the crowds unmolested. There were rows of tents for the people staying overnight, people passing out food and flags (I turned down both), rows and rows of people sitting and standing as they listened to the speakers.
A highly emotional young lady was giving a practically incoherent speech over the loudspeaker, but people cheered her anyway. She gave up after a few minutes, and a man came on: “We are here because we love Taiwan!” Cheers. “We are not here to make trouble.” Cheers. “We want democracy.” Cheers. “We will demonstrate peacefully, but we want our rights!” Cheers. And so forth. The crowd was very high spirited, but directed their energies into cheering and waving their flags. Overall, it was a very orderly crowd, and the general spirit was merry, not hateful.
My point in writing this is not to take sides or say who is right or who is wrong. I personally do not care that much which side wins: just stay out of my hair. What I would like to say, though, is that protests over election results are nothing new in Taiwan, and that this is the most genteel demonstration I have ever seen. May it continue in like manner.
Oh yes, and the name of that losing candidate years ago who, in his tantrum, had the freeway blocked? Chen Shuibian.
The presidential election was held last Saturday, but it is hardly over. There is a matter about who actually won the election, and how. There have been accusations about sore losers, if you can't lose, don't play.
Sore losers are hardly new in Taiwan's elections. I'm too lazy to look up the dates, but the first time such poor sportsmanship came to my attention was about fifteen years ago, when the losing candidate in the mayoral race down south in Tainan called out the truckers to barricade the freeway. All traffic north and south was totally cut due to this sore loser's tantrum. I forget how long it lasted, you can look it up in the papers, but finally somebody assuaged the candidate's ego enough that he told the trucks to leave and permitted traffic to continue its normal flow. Hardly good sportsmanship, what?
Since then we have seen many such examples of sore losers, mostly among the green (the DDP, now ruling): when they win an election, it is the triumph of democracy, and when they lose an election, it's only because the blues (KMT) have cheated, so they hit the streets. And I do mean hit.
The DDP came to power on the streets, so before this election, they had an advertising campaign that I personally found disingenuous: they drilled in the message, go cast your vote (for us) and stay off the streets!! Don't march, don't protest, just give us your vote, because democracy is in the polls, not on the streets. Hardly the tune they sang way back when.
So recently the blues have been out, protesting certain oddities about this election. For example, friends in the armed forces have told me that surprise, surprise, military commands were quietly changed not long ago, so that if an alert of a certain stage is called, a certain proportion of servicemen cannot leave their bases. Most servicemen prefer the blue, so the ruling greens called a pretty high alert for election day, sealing all those votes far from the ballot boxes.
In this election were an unprecedented number of invalid ballots, and people are asking why. There was a high greater proportion of invalid ballots than ever before; so high that the invalid ballots outnumbered Chen Shuibian's winning margin by ten times. All you have to do is have someone surreptitiously smudge a ballot with a pen and it's invalid.
When you're talking about a margin of 29,500 votes out of 13 million, these things add up, and call for explanation.
Also, people have great doubts about the “assassination attempt, if it was an assassination attempt.” A growing scandal about campaign donations was drawing votes away from president Chen Shuibian in the week before the election, and then the day before the election there was this miraculous shooting. Amazing magical bullets, that could turn and stop: after turning 90 degrees to lightly scratching his tummy, one ended up sitting demurely in the president's coat pocket, probably all tuckered out by its acrobatic exertions in bringing in the sympathy vote.
There are allegations that the hospital (private Chimei Hospital, strong green supporters) to which the president was sent was prepared for the emergency days before it actually happened; that the Chimei hospital was not listed in the protocol of hospitals to which the president should be taken in case of emergency; that in any event, the alleged assassination attempt took place a dozen kilometers from Chimei hospital, so people wonder why they didn't take the president to National ChengKung University Medical Hospital, only two kilometers away.
People are unhappy. Crowds are protesting in front of the President's Office, which is just around the corner from Merica, where I teach. Wednesday (the 24th), I got to town early, so I decided to get off the subway a stop early and take a look.
I lived down in that area during the era of street demonstrations (by which the DDP built power). The only demonstration I missed entirely was 5/20 (more on that later), because I happened to be abroad. All of the other demonstrations I saw and heard; not by choice, but because I lived in the neighborhood for almost twenty years, and passed the Legislature on my way to work.
Those demonstrations were not happy affairs. You passed by as quickly as you could, averting your eyes for your own protection. The protestors would usually yell and scream insults at people passing by. On occasion they attacked passersby.
Lines of police in riot gear tensely waited to get assaulted (Taiwan is probably the only place in the world where demonstrators beat up the police, rather than the other way around).
Demonstrators would turn over trash cans, smash phone booths, spray paint everything in sight, vandalize business’ signs, litter everywhere, push over parked motorcycles, sometimes even turn over parked cars. You wanted to stay away from them when they started throwing rocks. Taipei's streets are well maintained, so you do not just pick up a rock. If you have a rock to throw, you have brought it with you, 'with malice aforethought.' Later it became popular to throw eggs. In one way that's an improvement, but I always felt sorry for the hens.
The one demonstration I missed was the May 20 (5/20) affair, when the greens rioted during the inauguration of Lee Tenghui. Sometime around 1990, I forget what year, look it up yourself. As I was not an eye-witness, allow me to cite one: hapless Eban was driving his bus by, doing his job, minding his own business, when the participants started throwing bricks at his bus. As if he had elected Lee Tenghui all by himself! Sore losers?
An experienced protest observer, I thought I would see how things were faring this week. The protest was totally unlike any of the earlier ones. They were confined to Katagalan Street between Park and Chungshan Streets. I approached from Chungshan South Road, which was lined with people waving flags and cheering the traffic on Chungshan. Police were directing traffic, which was flowing as well as could be expected. The police were dressed in their everyday uniforms, relaxed, and walking through the crowds unmolested. There were rows of tents for the people staying overnight, people passing out food and flags (I turned down both), rows and rows of people sitting and standing as they listened to the speakers.
A highly emotional young lady was giving a practically incoherent speech over the loudspeaker, but people cheered her anyway. She gave up after a few minutes, and a man came on: “We are here because we love Taiwan!” Cheers. “We are not here to make trouble.” Cheers. “We want democracy.” Cheers. “We will demonstrate peacefully, but we want our rights!” Cheers. And so forth. The crowd was very high spirited, but directed their energies into cheering and waving their flags. Overall, it was a very orderly crowd, and the general spirit was merry, not hateful.
My point in writing this is not to take sides or say who is right or who is wrong. I personally do not care that much which side wins: just stay out of my hair. What I would like to say, though, is that protests over election results are nothing new in Taiwan, and that this is the most genteel demonstration I have ever seen. May it continue in like manner.
Oh yes, and the name of that losing candidate years ago who, in his tantrum, had the freeway blocked? Chen Shuibian.
Monday, March 22, 2004
Sunday, March 21, 2004
Saturday, March 20, 2004
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Monday, March 08, 2004
SERENDIPITY
One of the seminal events of my life was watching Mifune Toshiro 三船敏郎play 宮本武藏Miyamoto Musashi in Samurai. I was in the eighth grade, a beginner in the martial arts, learning Kenpo under Ed Parker. My mother was game, and took me down to the Toho La Brea (at the time, one of LA's two Japanese movie theaters) to watch all three movies in the series. We were the only two roundeyes in the place, probably the only two members of the audience who had to rely on the subtitles. I was enthralled by the power of the story, the strength of Mifune's performance, the sheer authority of Japanese aesthetics. At a time when Japan was largely ignored, or at most regarded as a defeated enemy flooding the American market with junk, I was swept by the surging images of the movies. The scenes were beautiful and memorable in a totally new mode, the language and music strange to my ears, the pace and plot were novel, and the costumes and customs portrayed opened a new world to me. I could never get the Orient out of my blood after seeing Miyamoto Musashi.
A couple of weeks ago, I saw an amazon.com ad for some DVD, and just happened to think, Gawd, wouldn't it be great if I could find Samurai on DVD or VCD? Yeah, good luck, forget it. That was years ago, and in another country, and besides, Mifune is dead.
On the way to class Saturday, on the spur of the moment I decided to eat lunch in the cafeteria on Wuchang Street instead of the one on Hsinsheng. When I got out of the subway, the exit I wanted to leave by was blocked off because the museum was damaged in the March 31 earthquake, and they're having trouble restoring the structure. From the signs and fences, seems like the whole building may keel over at any moment, so stay away! Okay, no sweat, I can go around the long way, and while we're at it, I decided to go the even longer way since I hadn't been up that section of bookstore street for so long. Sure enough, a new bookstore opened, selling lots of cut-rate books, probably nothing to interest me, but since I was early anyway, I strolled in, and practically the first thing to meet my eye was a DVD of the first episode of Samurai, starring Mifune Toshiro as Miyamoto Musashi. I got the whole set for NT$200 (less than six bucks).
One of the seminal events of my life was watching Mifune Toshiro 三船敏郎play 宮本武藏Miyamoto Musashi in Samurai. I was in the eighth grade, a beginner in the martial arts, learning Kenpo under Ed Parker. My mother was game, and took me down to the Toho La Brea (at the time, one of LA's two Japanese movie theaters) to watch all three movies in the series. We were the only two roundeyes in the place, probably the only two members of the audience who had to rely on the subtitles. I was enthralled by the power of the story, the strength of Mifune's performance, the sheer authority of Japanese aesthetics. At a time when Japan was largely ignored, or at most regarded as a defeated enemy flooding the American market with junk, I was swept by the surging images of the movies. The scenes were beautiful and memorable in a totally new mode, the language and music strange to my ears, the pace and plot were novel, and the costumes and customs portrayed opened a new world to me. I could never get the Orient out of my blood after seeing Miyamoto Musashi.
A couple of weeks ago, I saw an amazon.com ad for some DVD, and just happened to think, Gawd, wouldn't it be great if I could find Samurai on DVD or VCD? Yeah, good luck, forget it. That was years ago, and in another country, and besides, Mifune is dead.
On the way to class Saturday, on the spur of the moment I decided to eat lunch in the cafeteria on Wuchang Street instead of the one on Hsinsheng. When I got out of the subway, the exit I wanted to leave by was blocked off because the museum was damaged in the March 31 earthquake, and they're having trouble restoring the structure. From the signs and fences, seems like the whole building may keel over at any moment, so stay away! Okay, no sweat, I can go around the long way, and while we're at it, I decided to go the even longer way since I hadn't been up that section of bookstore street for so long. Sure enough, a new bookstore opened, selling lots of cut-rate books, probably nothing to interest me, but since I was early anyway, I strolled in, and practically the first thing to meet my eye was a DVD of the first episode of Samurai, starring Mifune Toshiro as Miyamoto Musashi. I got the whole set for NT$200 (less than six bucks).
Sunday, February 29, 2004
Saturday, February 21, 2004
I need your advice. A friend who wishes to improve his English (not his native language) has asked me to look over his compositions. Do you think I should tell him the difference between S and E in this passage?
At present, individuals attend universities to acquire new experience and face challenges. The liberal learning environment, enlightening concepts, abundance of faculty and equipment, and aptly designed teats are all most alluring.
Please enlighten me.
At present, individuals attend universities to acquire new experience and face challenges. The liberal learning environment, enlightening concepts, abundance of faculty and equipment, and aptly designed teats are all most alluring.
Please enlighten me.
Friday, February 20, 2004
Monday, February 16, 2004
Friday, February 13, 2004
If you had a digital camera ten years ago, in 1994, please raise your right hand… just as I expected, still firmly on the mouse. Ten years ago, who even knew what a digital camera was? And now, in 2004, Kodak has stopped producing film, driven out of that business by digital cameras.
You probably remember the sensation created a few years ago when photo shops started offering to develop your film in only an hour. An hour? Nowadays, who is going to wait an hour to see a photo? We want to see it immediately, on the camera's LCD. If a computer is handy, within moments the photo can be sent all over the world. Who foresaw that twenty years ago?
For that matter, twenty years ago, a mouse was something you tried to keep out of the kitchen. Twenty years ago: 1984. Few now remember the dread connotations of the name of that year, 1984. If somebody from the 1980s read that sentence about your hand being firmly on the mouse, they would not have been able to make heads or tails out of it.
If the past is a foreign country, how much more so the future. We can visit the past, but it will never come again. We cannot visit the future, but it will surely roll in on us.
There's a Jewish saying, “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.”
You probably remember the sensation created a few years ago when photo shops started offering to develop your film in only an hour. An hour? Nowadays, who is going to wait an hour to see a photo? We want to see it immediately, on the camera's LCD. If a computer is handy, within moments the photo can be sent all over the world. Who foresaw that twenty years ago?
For that matter, twenty years ago, a mouse was something you tried to keep out of the kitchen. Twenty years ago: 1984. Few now remember the dread connotations of the name of that year, 1984. If somebody from the 1980s read that sentence about your hand being firmly on the mouse, they would not have been able to make heads or tails out of it.
If the past is a foreign country, how much more so the future. We can visit the past, but it will never come again. We cannot visit the future, but it will surely roll in on us.
There's a Jewish saying, “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.”
Thursday, February 12, 2004
Monday, February 09, 2004
Raining Umbrellas
Toan wanted to take the noon bus from Rahaw to Wulai, so we went out to see if it was coming. As we waited by the road, admiring the view of the mountains in the rain, a noise downhill attracted my attention. I saw Tobut walking out to his car. 'Now this is fine,' I thought, 'I can rush over to ask Tobut to take Toan to the city, for that is surely where he is going. That will be better than standing here in the rain waiting for a bus that may not come.' Just then, Mrs Tobut appeared on the scene and forcefully hurled a black umbrella at Tobut. Hmmm. She stepped back inside for a moment, and flung a yellow umbrella at him. I realized that the noise which had attracted my attention had been Mrs Tobut shouting at him. She stepped inside again, and threw a green umbrella at Tobut. Tobut stood behind the car, so Mrs Tobut threw the red umbrella at the car. This was followed by another black umbrella, a plaid umbrella, a light blue umbrella, a dark blue umbrella, another green umbrella, and a nice red and yellow umbrella. Tobut stood behind the car. It rains a lot in Wulai, so people accumulate umbrellas. I imagined Tobut counting umbrellas, sort of like Indians used to count how many bullets the cowboys had left. A few moments later, a blue and white umbrella bounced off the hood of the car. I came to a decision: apparently the chimes of marital bliss were not pealing in the Tobut household, so it might not be politic to rush over and ask Tobut to drive Toan to the city, assuming, of course, that Mrs Tobut ever ran out of ammunition. A green umbrella with red flowers crashed into the back door. Tobut stood behind the car. The bus finally came, so I shepherded Toan onto the bus and waved goodbye. As I moved homeward, I heard more metallic crunches from the direction of the Tobut house. People in Wulai have a lot of umbrellas.
Toan wanted to take the noon bus from Rahaw to Wulai, so we went out to see if it was coming. As we waited by the road, admiring the view of the mountains in the rain, a noise downhill attracted my attention. I saw Tobut walking out to his car. 'Now this is fine,' I thought, 'I can rush over to ask Tobut to take Toan to the city, for that is surely where he is going. That will be better than standing here in the rain waiting for a bus that may not come.' Just then, Mrs Tobut appeared on the scene and forcefully hurled a black umbrella at Tobut. Hmmm. She stepped back inside for a moment, and flung a yellow umbrella at him. I realized that the noise which had attracted my attention had been Mrs Tobut shouting at him. She stepped inside again, and threw a green umbrella at Tobut. Tobut stood behind the car, so Mrs Tobut threw the red umbrella at the car. This was followed by another black umbrella, a plaid umbrella, a light blue umbrella, a dark blue umbrella, another green umbrella, and a nice red and yellow umbrella. Tobut stood behind the car. It rains a lot in Wulai, so people accumulate umbrellas. I imagined Tobut counting umbrellas, sort of like Indians used to count how many bullets the cowboys had left. A few moments later, a blue and white umbrella bounced off the hood of the car. I came to a decision: apparently the chimes of marital bliss were not pealing in the Tobut household, so it might not be politic to rush over and ask Tobut to drive Toan to the city, assuming, of course, that Mrs Tobut ever ran out of ammunition. A green umbrella with red flowers crashed into the back door. Tobut stood behind the car. The bus finally came, so I shepherded Toan onto the bus and waved goodbye. As I moved homeward, I heard more metallic crunches from the direction of the Tobut house. People in Wulai have a lot of umbrellas.
Monday, February 02, 2004
I began work on this scholarly paper last March. Unfortunately, this is as far as I got, and now I forget what point I was aiming at. Maybe you can tell me.
On the Evolution of Oral Traditions:
A Scholarly Examination
In days of yore, when men were men, women were women, rabbits was rabbits, pigs was pigs, and a dollar a day was not a white man's pay because the United States, land of the almighty aforesaid, had not been invented yet, very few in the global economy were receiving monetary compensation for their labors, and besides, globally, the whites have always been a minority, this seems to have become such a run-on sentence that even I have forgotten where I was headed.
Oh yes, the days of yore.
In the days of yore, I suppose people actually did say 'yore,' but it's not one of those words that really draws you in. Take 'rambunctious,' for example. Take 'aspirin' for another example, and phone me in the morning if you're not better yet. But 'rambunctious' is one of those words that you can say over and over. 'Yore' may sound intriguing the first couple of times you say it, and then you sound like a donkey with the hiccups. But 'rambunctious' is one of those words you say over and over again, and it gets more and more absorbing. The syllables flow out like a limpid mountain stream murmuring melodiously in a gradual crescendo as it bounces past sun-lit boulders dappled with spray, and you start thinking, 'my dog, this is really exciting!' but then you start thinking, 'But how come the sound "rambunctious" means "rambunctious"?' And before you know it, you have forsaken all your worldly possessions to spend a significant lifetime with your legs tied into knots as you sit contemplating dapples of spray on sun-lit boulders as a limpid mountain stream blah blah blah. Come on, give it a try, loud and clear: Rambunctious! Rambunctious! Rambunctious! Rambunctious! Rambunctious! Admit it. Tell the world proudly just how you feel. "I feel like a total fool for standing here saying this stupid word five times just because some idiot duped me into it." We are in touch with our feelings. That's what so great about the post-modern world.
That is the post-modern world, not days of yore. In the days of yore, they didn't understand these things, they didn't GROCK these things. One of the reasons they led such insipid lives was that they did not have the benefit of prolonged multisensory experiences. In other words, they didn't have television to tell them every night, in the privacy of their own living rooms, about sex in the city and other topics vital to human happiness.
Every night, they sat around talking to the same people: "Two summers before you were born, a raccoon took four of our turkeys in one night. I have never seen such a greedy raccoon. It came in the night and ate four turkeys. We woke up in the morning and found that four of our turkeys were gone. We saw raccoon tracks on the ground. There were four turkeys gone. That was two summers before you were born. It happened at night. It was dark. A raccoon took four turkeys, four of our turkeys, all in one night, that was some greedy raccoon. I remember, I woke up in the morning and found that four of the turkeys were gone. I saw raccoon tracks on the ground. I went inside and woke up your mother. 'Mother of my children,' I said, 'During the night, a raccoon took four of our turkeys.' 'How do you know that, father of my children?' your mother asked. 'Because, mother of my children, when I woke up this morning, I discovered that four of our turkeys are missing, and there are raccoon tracks on the ground' and your mother said, 'Father of my children, yes, perhaps a raccoon did take four of our turkeys" and they go on and on and ON about those dumb turkeys, night after night, year after year, and you understand why the human race traveled across vast deserts and soaring mountains to inhabit new lands: to get away from the old codgers at home going on for the zillionth time about the time the raccoon took four turkeys in one night.
This was definitely a significant motivation in human migrations.
On the Evolution of Oral Traditions:
A Scholarly Examination
In days of yore, when men were men, women were women, rabbits was rabbits, pigs was pigs, and a dollar a day was not a white man's pay because the United States, land of the almighty aforesaid, had not been invented yet, very few in the global economy were receiving monetary compensation for their labors, and besides, globally, the whites have always been a minority, this seems to have become such a run-on sentence that even I have forgotten where I was headed.
Oh yes, the days of yore.
In the days of yore, I suppose people actually did say 'yore,' but it's not one of those words that really draws you in. Take 'rambunctious,' for example. Take 'aspirin' for another example, and phone me in the morning if you're not better yet. But 'rambunctious' is one of those words that you can say over and over. 'Yore' may sound intriguing the first couple of times you say it, and then you sound like a donkey with the hiccups. But 'rambunctious' is one of those words you say over and over again, and it gets more and more absorbing. The syllables flow out like a limpid mountain stream murmuring melodiously in a gradual crescendo as it bounces past sun-lit boulders dappled with spray, and you start thinking, 'my dog, this is really exciting!' but then you start thinking, 'But how come the sound "rambunctious" means "rambunctious"?' And before you know it, you have forsaken all your worldly possessions to spend a significant lifetime with your legs tied into knots as you sit contemplating dapples of spray on sun-lit boulders as a limpid mountain stream blah blah blah. Come on, give it a try, loud and clear: Rambunctious! Rambunctious! Rambunctious! Rambunctious! Rambunctious! Admit it. Tell the world proudly just how you feel. "I feel like a total fool for standing here saying this stupid word five times just because some idiot duped me into it." We are in touch with our feelings. That's what so great about the post-modern world.
That is the post-modern world, not days of yore. In the days of yore, they didn't understand these things, they didn't GROCK these things. One of the reasons they led such insipid lives was that they did not have the benefit of prolonged multisensory experiences. In other words, they didn't have television to tell them every night, in the privacy of their own living rooms, about sex in the city and other topics vital to human happiness.
Every night, they sat around talking to the same people: "Two summers before you were born, a raccoon took four of our turkeys in one night. I have never seen such a greedy raccoon. It came in the night and ate four turkeys. We woke up in the morning and found that four of our turkeys were gone. We saw raccoon tracks on the ground. There were four turkeys gone. That was two summers before you were born. It happened at night. It was dark. A raccoon took four turkeys, four of our turkeys, all in one night, that was some greedy raccoon. I remember, I woke up in the morning and found that four of the turkeys were gone. I saw raccoon tracks on the ground. I went inside and woke up your mother. 'Mother of my children,' I said, 'During the night, a raccoon took four of our turkeys.' 'How do you know that, father of my children?' your mother asked. 'Because, mother of my children, when I woke up this morning, I discovered that four of our turkeys are missing, and there are raccoon tracks on the ground' and your mother said, 'Father of my children, yes, perhaps a raccoon did take four of our turkeys" and they go on and on and ON about those dumb turkeys, night after night, year after year, and you understand why the human race traveled across vast deserts and soaring mountains to inhabit new lands: to get away from the old codgers at home going on for the zillionth time about the time the raccoon took four turkeys in one night.
This was definitely a significant motivation in human migrations.
Friday, January 30, 2004
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
A young man hove into view, wearing a yellow sweatshirt blazoned with the legend:
A BERO DF THE TROCHLED TDHE
Now, to the inexperienced, this just may seem a mishmash of Roman letters, but my experienced eye immediately picked out the articles A and THE, indicating that this was once English, long since transmogrified. DF was easy, because we all know how similar D and O are.
Don't be misled by the allure of TROCHLED. This word, tripping merrily off the tongue, is one of those words which seems to exist, does not exist, but should exist, and would add spice and melody to everyone's conversation. “We were beroing along the gandersnaff when the stauropod trochled.” Beautiful, yes, and maybe, if they are lucky, people in the twenty-third century will talk like that, but for now, you are on the wrong path. That word is not what it is, it is what it appears to be, veiled in futility. For that matter, let me mention that over ninety percent of my students pronounce 'misled' as if it were the past tense of misle and rhymed with 'whistled.'
To be sure, I understand these things because I have the advantage of years of experience. Back when I was a tender teenager, new to Taiwan, I was enchanted by a little whitewashed cement building down near the east coast, proclaiming itself in wobbly, dripping letters on a hand painted sign: GARPON HOTEL. When I was down that way, I would sometimes detour just to admire that euphonious word, which, I imagined, might connote some abstruse concept in, in who knows, maybe the Amis or Puyuma aboriginal languages, since that is their territory. The HOTEL was the only English word to be seen for many miles in either direction.
Or so I thought, until I got used to reading Chinese signs. Glancing at the Chinese one day:花園大飯店: I suddenly realized that my Garpon Hotel was actually supposed to be the Garden Hotel.
So now you see the kind of training I have had. How are you coming? Have you deciphered that shirt yet? I am sure that by now you have correctly disentangled the words to read: A HERO OF THE TROUBLED TIME. Not so hard once you get used to it, right?
But I still think Garpon Hotel is more romantic.
A BERO DF THE TROCHLED TDHE
Now, to the inexperienced, this just may seem a mishmash of Roman letters, but my experienced eye immediately picked out the articles A and THE, indicating that this was once English, long since transmogrified. DF was easy, because we all know how similar D and O are.
Don't be misled by the allure of TROCHLED. This word, tripping merrily off the tongue, is one of those words which seems to exist, does not exist, but should exist, and would add spice and melody to everyone's conversation. “We were beroing along the gandersnaff when the stauropod trochled.” Beautiful, yes, and maybe, if they are lucky, people in the twenty-third century will talk like that, but for now, you are on the wrong path. That word is not what it is, it is what it appears to be, veiled in futility. For that matter, let me mention that over ninety percent of my students pronounce 'misled' as if it were the past tense of misle and rhymed with 'whistled.'
To be sure, I understand these things because I have the advantage of years of experience. Back when I was a tender teenager, new to Taiwan, I was enchanted by a little whitewashed cement building down near the east coast, proclaiming itself in wobbly, dripping letters on a hand painted sign: GARPON HOTEL. When I was down that way, I would sometimes detour just to admire that euphonious word, which, I imagined, might connote some abstruse concept in, in who knows, maybe the Amis or Puyuma aboriginal languages, since that is their territory. The HOTEL was the only English word to be seen for many miles in either direction.
Or so I thought, until I got used to reading Chinese signs. Glancing at the Chinese one day:花園大飯店: I suddenly realized that my Garpon Hotel was actually supposed to be the Garden Hotel.
So now you see the kind of training I have had. How are you coming? Have you deciphered that shirt yet? I am sure that by now you have correctly disentangled the words to read: A HERO OF THE TROUBLED TIME. Not so hard once you get used to it, right?
But I still think Garpon Hotel is more romantic.
I wore shoes today. When I was leaving for the city, it was seven degrees C and raining. I had been romping barefoot through the mud all morning, but decided that since I was going to be standing on a podium, I should consider putting on my shoes, if I could find them. Otherwise, through lack of practice, I might forget how to tie shoelaces.
Several years ago I bought an excellent pair of low-cut Lowa mountain shoes, and I have even worn them on occasion. The last such occasion was about two years ago, so I figured the time was ripe to try them out again.
I rummaged around, found the shoes, came up with some socks, put on my shoes, and stepped boldly out into the world, cautiously making my way down the steps through the ravine, feeling my unaccustomed way. Shoes really cut you off from the world around you.
Heading down to the bus, I bravely marched past the group of Tayal huddled around the fire by the betel stand. I heard a cackle and a call: “Yugan!? Is that you?”
I kept my head up bravely, “Yes, it's me. Happy year of the monkey, monkey.”
“What have you got on your feet?”
“Shoes.”
“Shoes? You have shoes?”
“Yes, I have a pair, can't you see?”
”We thought they looked like shoes, but we've never seen you wearing them before, so we thought you must have painted your feet.”
“Very funny, ha ha ha.”
I made it to the city, and made it through the whole evening, and back home again. From time to time my line of sight would dip and I would be startled by the sight of my encased feet. What happened? Where are my toes? You mean people wear these things every day?
It was an interesting experience, and I may repeat it some day. Probably not soon, though.
Several years ago I bought an excellent pair of low-cut Lowa mountain shoes, and I have even worn them on occasion. The last such occasion was about two years ago, so I figured the time was ripe to try them out again.
I rummaged around, found the shoes, came up with some socks, put on my shoes, and stepped boldly out into the world, cautiously making my way down the steps through the ravine, feeling my unaccustomed way. Shoes really cut you off from the world around you.
Heading down to the bus, I bravely marched past the group of Tayal huddled around the fire by the betel stand. I heard a cackle and a call: “Yugan!? Is that you?”
I kept my head up bravely, “Yes, it's me. Happy year of the monkey, monkey.”
“What have you got on your feet?”
“Shoes.”
“Shoes? You have shoes?”
“Yes, I have a pair, can't you see?”
”We thought they looked like shoes, but we've never seen you wearing them before, so we thought you must have painted your feet.”
“Very funny, ha ha ha.”
I made it to the city, and made it through the whole evening, and back home again. From time to time my line of sight would dip and I would be startled by the sight of my encased feet. What happened? Where are my toes? You mean people wear these things every day?
It was an interesting experience, and I may repeat it some day. Probably not soon, though.
Monday, January 26, 2004
Friday, January 23, 2004
Yikes, happy new year!
This is to wish you all a happy, healthy, wise new year, the year of the monkey. Which reminds me of a story my sister told me once, years ago, about a friend of hers who gave birth to a red headed boy who was of such, shall we say, extraordinary appearance that the first time the new mother saw her baby, rolling over sort of dreamy-like in her maternal bed, she yelped, YIKES! and opened her eyes wide, then shut them.
The baby boy would now be in his twenties. Maybe somewhere this morning a newly wed bride fondly opens her eyes, and says YIKES!
The occassion behooves me to tell a story of appropriate dignity and good taste. It concerns a lady who had a little boy of, shall we say, extraordinary appearance, but as mothers are wont to do, she loved him and thought the world of her little boy. One day when she got on a bus, the bus driver said, YIKES!
"What do you mean, yikes?" the incensed mother asked.
The driver took up his courage and said, "Lady, that is one UGLY little boy."
The mother burst into tears and dragged her little son onto the bus. A kind old lady noticed her tears, and asked, "What is wrong, my dear?"
"The driver insulted me!"
"That is just terrible! Don't take that, you go right back up there and insult him back, and while you're doing that, I'll watch your monkey for you."
This is to wish you all a happy, healthy, wise new year, the year of the monkey. Which reminds me of a story my sister told me once, years ago, about a friend of hers who gave birth to a red headed boy who was of such, shall we say, extraordinary appearance that the first time the new mother saw her baby, rolling over sort of dreamy-like in her maternal bed, she yelped, YIKES! and opened her eyes wide, then shut them.
The baby boy would now be in his twenties. Maybe somewhere this morning a newly wed bride fondly opens her eyes, and says YIKES!
The occassion behooves me to tell a story of appropriate dignity and good taste. It concerns a lady who had a little boy of, shall we say, extraordinary appearance, but as mothers are wont to do, she loved him and thought the world of her little boy. One day when she got on a bus, the bus driver said, YIKES!
"What do you mean, yikes?" the incensed mother asked.
The driver took up his courage and said, "Lady, that is one UGLY little boy."
The mother burst into tears and dragged her little son onto the bus. A kind old lady noticed her tears, and asked, "What is wrong, my dear?"
"The driver insulted me!"
"That is just terrible! Don't take that, you go right back up there and insult him back, and while you're doing that, I'll watch your monkey for you."
Monday, January 19, 2004
Sunday, January 18, 2004
Saturday, January 17, 2004
Thursday, January 15, 2004
Uray『烏來』是泰雅語『溫泉』的意思。 時常有人問我，在烏來洗溫泉哪一家最好。如果要洗真正的溫泉水，而不是加熱的山泉水，還是溪邊最可靠。 兩三年前部落的人已經在說溫泉水分光了，不夠大家用。 兩年來開了那麼多家溫泉會館，哪來那麼多溫泉水？ 所以有業者跟我說：八二。 八分加熱山泉水、兩分溫泉水。
溫泉業者拼命抽溫泉水，挖空山坡，上方的環山路、溫泉路差點垮了，所以地方政府必須出大筆錢破壞原有的山坡生態、灌幾十噸水泥做擋土牆。工程費當然不是溫泉業者出的。
河川地怎麼可以如此亂破壞，恐是拜前任鄉長密臘瓦旦所賜。 泰雅對長輩、長官極其恭順，唯有前任鄉長死後，無人為之說一句好話。對他的評語是："祖先不高興，把他收走了。" 這個問題就譚到此為止。
起碼烏來的水源豐沛乾淨：聽說中南部有的溫泉館一個月換一次水…
不過，烏來的問題相當嚴重。 為什麼烏來人講到溫泉會館就艴然不悅，其來有自。
首先要了解，溫泉館這麼多，烏來人並沒有賺到甚麼錢。泰雅經營的只有幾家，如沙利達、烏來民宿藝術村等。大錢都是外面的投資人賺的。從外面來投資賺錢，所以對烏來既沒有感情或責任感，又不關心。錢賺了就好了，如果賺錢的代價是殄滅生態、破壞部落組織，他們在乎嗎? 這不是他們的家。
我們的家在這裡。 烏來這幾天才在擺自來水的水塔、水管。向來是自己找水源接管就可以了，烏來是水源區，多得是水。 現在不同。溫泉館需要大量的水，所以他們接大管子，把水引到溫泉館賣給客人，住家水就不夠用了。 甚至於，業者如果認為居民的水管太大，他們就拔掉，斷水源。(我自己有一次沒水，沿管去找，發現整個管子被溫泉館拉去佔用!)
原來充沛的水源被產業道路破壞、剩餘的溫泉業者霸佔，居民產生缺水問題。住家不能沒有水，因為水不夠用，現在部落有鄰居互相告到法院。同族在法院見，兩三年前是不可能發生的事情。 這是溫泉館帶來給烏來的。
讀者也許想，起碼溫泉館創造一些就業機會。恐怕不多吧。業者找員工的順序似乎是: 大陸人最優先，再來是平地人，實在沒有人才考慮到原住民。我知道有一家的招待請泰雅，還有一家接電話的是泰雅，但這似乎是例外。如果原住民在溫泉館工作，通常只有掃地、刷廁所的份。有的溫泉業者表明，幫客人叫計程車，絕對不叫原住民的司機。可能覺得客人太尊貴，原住民配不上為他們開車吧?
當然不是所有客人需要叫計程車，很多是自己開車來，把車子停放在居民門口，堵死住家的出路，業者不管。
做溫泉業真好賺。拉個管子接免費的溫泉水，再一個接免費的山泉水，就可以看現金滾滾入帳。還想吸引客人，可以附設卡拉OK。我常覺得現代人生活實在太貧乏。到了山明水秀的野外，無福享受大自然的祥寧、體悟山巒天空的寂漻、或安下心靜玩一些人生滋味，卻放聲模擬電視上的俗麗歌星，唱起流行歌曲，吼到夤夜還不釋麥克風。唱的好一點也就罷了，加上音響遠傳的變質，在山上唱卡拉OK，十分像是孤魂野鬼在懺悔前世造的孽業。部落的習慣，最晚九點半十點就睡了(除了打飛鼠的獵人)，遠方傳來震耳驚魂的慘叫聲，又是平地人來山上唱歌，如何能做好夢?
這並不表示沒人唱歌時烏來的深夜是安靜的。溫泉館有工程，通宵電鋸榔頭聲，管你鄰居九點要上班、孩子要上學，讓你用電就不錯了。為了配合工程，把電斷掉，包括鄰家的在內，他們不會事先通知或說到幾點才復電，住溫泉館附近是你的榮幸:"忍耐一下就好了"(附近溫泉老闆常跟我說這一句。)
總是抱著那麼一絲的希望。臺灣的風潮流行一陣子就退。 泡湯熱過了，溫泉不好賺的時候，烏來還給居民，我們可以開始收爛攤。
溫泉業者拼命抽溫泉水，挖空山坡，上方的環山路、溫泉路差點垮了，所以地方政府必須出大筆錢破壞原有的山坡生態、灌幾十噸水泥做擋土牆。工程費當然不是溫泉業者出的。
河川地怎麼可以如此亂破壞，恐是拜前任鄉長密臘瓦旦所賜。 泰雅對長輩、長官極其恭順，唯有前任鄉長死後，無人為之說一句好話。對他的評語是："祖先不高興，把他收走了。" 這個問題就譚到此為止。
起碼烏來的水源豐沛乾淨：聽說中南部有的溫泉館一個月換一次水…
不過，烏來的問題相當嚴重。 為什麼烏來人講到溫泉會館就艴然不悅，其來有自。
首先要了解，溫泉館這麼多，烏來人並沒有賺到甚麼錢。泰雅經營的只有幾家，如沙利達、烏來民宿藝術村等。大錢都是外面的投資人賺的。從外面來投資賺錢，所以對烏來既沒有感情或責任感，又不關心。錢賺了就好了，如果賺錢的代價是殄滅生態、破壞部落組織，他們在乎嗎? 這不是他們的家。
我們的家在這裡。 烏來這幾天才在擺自來水的水塔、水管。向來是自己找水源接管就可以了，烏來是水源區，多得是水。 現在不同。溫泉館需要大量的水，所以他們接大管子，把水引到溫泉館賣給客人，住家水就不夠用了。 甚至於，業者如果認為居民的水管太大，他們就拔掉，斷水源。(我自己有一次沒水，沿管去找，發現整個管子被溫泉館拉去佔用!)
原來充沛的水源被產業道路破壞、剩餘的溫泉業者霸佔，居民產生缺水問題。住家不能沒有水，因為水不夠用，現在部落有鄰居互相告到法院。同族在法院見，兩三年前是不可能發生的事情。 這是溫泉館帶來給烏來的。
讀者也許想，起碼溫泉館創造一些就業機會。恐怕不多吧。業者找員工的順序似乎是: 大陸人最優先，再來是平地人，實在沒有人才考慮到原住民。我知道有一家的招待請泰雅，還有一家接電話的是泰雅，但這似乎是例外。如果原住民在溫泉館工作，通常只有掃地、刷廁所的份。有的溫泉業者表明，幫客人叫計程車，絕對不叫原住民的司機。可能覺得客人太尊貴，原住民配不上為他們開車吧?
當然不是所有客人需要叫計程車，很多是自己開車來，把車子停放在居民門口，堵死住家的出路，業者不管。
做溫泉業真好賺。拉個管子接免費的溫泉水，再一個接免費的山泉水，就可以看現金滾滾入帳。還想吸引客人，可以附設卡拉OK。我常覺得現代人生活實在太貧乏。到了山明水秀的野外，無福享受大自然的祥寧、體悟山巒天空的寂漻、或安下心靜玩一些人生滋味，卻放聲模擬電視上的俗麗歌星，唱起流行歌曲，吼到夤夜還不釋麥克風。唱的好一點也就罷了，加上音響遠傳的變質，在山上唱卡拉OK，十分像是孤魂野鬼在懺悔前世造的孽業。部落的習慣，最晚九點半十點就睡了(除了打飛鼠的獵人)，遠方傳來震耳驚魂的慘叫聲，又是平地人來山上唱歌，如何能做好夢?
這並不表示沒人唱歌時烏來的深夜是安靜的。溫泉館有工程，通宵電鋸榔頭聲，管你鄰居九點要上班、孩子要上學，讓你用電就不錯了。為了配合工程，把電斷掉，包括鄰家的在內，他們不會事先通知或說到幾點才復電，住溫泉館附近是你的榮幸:"忍耐一下就好了"(附近溫泉老闆常跟我說這一句。)
總是抱著那麼一絲的希望。臺灣的風潮流行一陣子就退。 泡湯熱過了，溫泉不好賺的時候，烏來還給居民，我們可以開始收爛攤。
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