We also see a bamboo carving of the eight immortals of the Sung Dynasty, and an ivory food container that took 100 years to carve. And finally the most valuable piece of pottery in the world, to my eyes a not-exceptional blue on white effort with the ubiquitous dragon.
Thanking Miss Hu and, reluctantly, handing back my 009 arm band, I join Colonel Chan on the steps of the museum and head to the airport. On the way, he talks about the favorite Chinese topic, food. Taiwan, he claims, offers the greatest Chinese food, in all its varieties, in the world. (Hong Kong residents might argue and Pekingers might claim they get the best northern food). While serving dog is now illegal in Taiwan, food stalls in an old section of the city offer “fragrant meat.” Tonight, Chan promises, we will sample tiger and dragon soup (which I learn later is snake and a kind of wild mountain cat.)
First we attend the changing of the guard at the National Revolutionary Martyr’s Shrine. Black-clad schoolgirls pose alongside ramrod-stiff marines in crisp G.I. Joe uniforms, white belts, gloves and scarves, the intricate moon door reflected in their stainless steel helmets. The navy, army, air force and marines take turns providing the honor guard for the shrine to both military and civilian martyrs.
Actually, two guards corps stride into the shrine precincts together: the formal Marine guard, marching with brisk precision, and a ragtag mob of young students doing their best to imitate the military maneuvers. By the time the guard has officially changed, the orange glow on the intricate red and green drum tower has faded to a dull grey and lights are coming on over the city.
On our way to Huahsi, or Snake, Street we pass a temple celebrating its 240th birthday. The streets around the temple are alive with people, lights and color. The Chinese celebrate religious occasions with considerably less restraint than Westerners. Votaries burn joss sticks and offer crackers, algae cakes, cookies and sweets at the altar, then hurry outside to shop in the adjacent streets at stalls lit by the harsh glare of bare bulbs. Black-and-yellow-robed monks hurry past the 12-foot-high floral wreaths, and, in a corner of the temple, a trio of dreamy-eyed ancients saw away on unrecognizable stringed instruments. Is the strange squawking emanating from the overhead speakers a distortion by the antiquated amplifier or an accurate reproduction of the trio’s efforts?
Down on Snake Street, that great street, rows of snake and herbal medicine shops vie for the attention of an all-male crowd apparently all fearful of encroaching impotence. Colonel Chan explains that the snake soup and the blood and bile mixtures are good for the eyesight and general health, but I see no women in thick glasses here. We know what is really troubling these men, don’t we Colonel?
One tout has hustled a particularly large crowd with his spiel, playing with a Taiwan cobra which sways its hooded head and darts its tongue at the spectators.
Keeping up a constant patter, the snake man feels along the belly of the reptile, finds the right spot, and with a flash of garden-size shears, rips out the heart and gall bladder which he tosses aside, and drains the blood into a glass. Then, with a sound like the opening of a long zipper, he tears the snake out of its skin with his scissors and hangs the wriggling body from a rope near a dozen other skinned snakes. He pierces the gall bladder, drains the vile green bile into the glass of blood, adds powerful white Chinese wine, and offers it up for sale. Three drunken German tourists buy the potent brew, and to the noisy approval of the crowd, drink it between them. In a corner of the table, the snake heart is still beating 10 minutes later.
The snake man produces a tray with bowls of Tiger and Dragon soup, pops a pill in each one, and leads the way inside the restaurant. The potion is rather bland and a little tough, like barnyard rooster stew, but the colonel assures me I will be warm and “strong” all winter.
Our declining libidos thus fortified, we head for one of Taipei’s popular Mongolian barbecue restaurants to feed our bodies. The smoky hall is already packed when we arrive, just in time to get the last table with gas heated hotpot with high chimney in the center. We grab a bowl line up with other diners at the kitchen, and file past a groaning board of beef, mutton, chicken, pork and venison, frozen and thinly sliced. Ghenghis Khan conquered half the world on this grub. Next come the sliced tomatoes, bean sprouts, green peppers, two kinds of onions.
Now we come to the sauces, everyone mixing to taste the soya sauce, shrimp oil, lemon water, liquid sugar, chopped chili, chopped garlic, sesame oil and liquid ginger. At the end of the line, four tough looking cooks surround a four foot diameter griddle heated by an immense charcoal fire. Reaching out of the cloud of smoke and steam, they grab the bowls, slap the contents on the hot metal surface, mix it around with three foot chopsticks and swirl the barbecued meat and vegetables back in the bowl. Above the hubbub of the diners and the sizzle of the stove, I imagine shaggy ponies whinnying as they graze on the steppes outside a felt walled yurt.
Back at our table, we mix up a “hotpot stew” in another bowl. This time, it is cabbage, bean curd, rice noodles, more mutton and egg white, all poured into the trough of water in the tabletop stove. Almond-eyed, amber-skinned, raven-tressed maidens flit between the tables serving Taiwan beer and shoshi, a foul, fiery Chinese wine. The shoshi burns its way down with the red meat and vegetables.
Finally, gorged, we struggle to the door with loud belches and grunts, and instead of mounting our ponies and riding off into the inky black Asian heartland like the Mongols, we taxi back to the hotel.
Half-an-hour later, Colonel Chan deposits me outside the Carnival Hotel on Nanking East Road, but flushed by the Tiger and Dragon soup, the red meat and the wine, I am unable to sleep. I prowl Taipei’s streets impressed by the tonsorial fastidiousness of the locals. Every second doorway has a barber pole in front of it. Finally, tempted by the whispered invitation of “massage, massage” of young ladies in the doorways, I peer in. Young men stretched out on rows of barber chairs are getting massaged. An actual massage in a massage parlor? What has this ancient civilization degenerated to?
Shattered by this revelation, I retreat to my chamber to seek serenity and to dream of almond-eyed Mongolian beauties.
QUEMOY
War, then Peace
Spring 1997
FOR a tiny place that was one of the world’s major battlefields a few decades ago, and which has only been open to foreign tourists for about a year, Quemoy is remarkably casual. About 20 minutes after arriving on the 55-minute flight from Taipei, my wife and I have checked into the River Kinmen Hotel, and are in Kincheng village at the motor-scooter rental shop.
The grinning owner shoves a Chinese form at me, and says his only three words of English: “Name. Number. Money.”
What number does he want? Passport? Credit card? International Driver’s License? I write down my Hong Kong telephone number and give him the equivalent of about $20 in Taiwanese dollars. He hands me the keys to an almost new burgundy scooter of the type that gigolos ride in Italian movies, and leaves us to it, with no instructions, no helmets.
But these scooters are simple, with no clutch, no gears, no shifting, just gas and brake controls. The light traffic in the few blocks of town presents no problem, then we are out on the open road, exulting in the born-to-be-wild, wind-in-your-hair riding -- even though we can only reach about 35 miles an hour. The pleasant, pine-covered island with its fine, empty roads is perfect for motorcycle riding.
But Quemoy (Kinmen, or Golden Gate, to the Mainland Chinese), an archipelago of 12 islands covering 58 square miles, is much more than a scenic tropical getaway. Once, the world’s black-and-white TV sets were tuned to daily news reports from this outpost just off the coast of mainland China. In an attempt to wrest the island from Taiwan, the Communist army launched a massive artillery barrage on Quemoy on August 23, 1958.
Over the next 44 days, half a million shells fell on the island. Taiwan’s forces, equipped by the U.S., retaliated with their own artillery and air offensive, severely damaging mainland forces. In October, China announced an “even-day cease-fire
” program, and for the next 20 years the two sides traded artillery fire only on alternate days (with Sundays a day of rest). Instead of artillery shells, they fired canisters containing propaganda leaflets.
The volume of the war of words increased to karaoke-like levels, however, with the mainland broadcasting its propaganda to Quemoy, while Taiwan retaliated with four 30,000-watt loudspeakers on Quemoy blasting out anti-Communist messages and rock songs across the narrow strait. As well, over many years, when the wind was right, Nationalist forces on Quemoy launched thousands of helium balloons toward the mainland carrying pocket calculators, digital wristwatches and other products of Taiwan’s capitalist factories (including, it is rumored, see-through silk lingerie) to demoralize the mainland Chinese. As far as I know, no one has determined the effectiveness of silk panties as a propaganda weapon. All of this ended in 1991, with the general relaxation of tension. What was one of the world’s major battlefields a few decades ago gradually opened up to local, then international tourism.
So the island is a repository of fascinating military sites and memorabilia as well as natural beauty. Decades of large-scale reforestation, with each soldier stationed there responsible for the growth of one tree, has succeeded in the greening of Quemoy, turning it into what residents, (with an obvious eye on tourism), call a “park on the sea.” And with the captive labor of all those soldiers based on the island, it is as trim and clean as a military base.
As we scooter across the island, we happen on soldiers everywhere in mottled, camouflage uniforms, like Chinese male Spice Girls. It is the most militarized place I’ve seen, with armed guards standing by sandbag emplacements, anti-aircraft guns mounted on the roundabouts, and jeeps and army trucks draped with netting. Yet the atmosphere seems unthreatening, like a military theme park, and there appears to be no restriction as to where we can go, except into the bases.
Navigating with our Chinese map, we reach the northeasternmost point of the island, and the Mashan Observation Station, the closest point to China. Despite not speaking a word of English, two bespectacled armed soldiers standing guard at the camp entrance make it clear that we can’t enter now. The station is closed for lunch.
Shortly before 1:30pm, several Taiwanese teenagers show up on scooters, then a tour bus disgorges excitable, amiable rustics.
At precisely 1:30pm, the soldiers let us pass, and we enter a tunnel, which goes a long, long way, arrow-straight towards the beach. At the end, the tunnel opens into a blue-painted room, with narrow slits at eye-level, looking out to China, visible just beyond the narrow strait. We all take turns peering through one of the five mounted binoculars to what was once called the Bamboo Curtain. It is eerie, seeing this once forbidden zone, just over a mile away, and imagining the deadly artillery duel. Perhaps it is the only bit of their former homeland that many of these Taiwanese will ever see.
Continuing on, and frequently getting lost in the maze of roads, we find the August 23 Artillery War Museum. Like the entire island, this is now a swords-to-plowshares endeavor. Set in a pleasant park with a lake, it displays an F-86 jet fighter, a 155mm cannon and an amphibious landing craft, all now backdrops for tourist photographs. Laughing youths strike heroic poses before the pieces, hoist their girlfriends into the intake of the jet, and click off souvenir snapshots for the folks back home.
Inside, the museum displays grainy black-and-white photographs of Quemoy’s military past. There is considerable media content here, with a display of news clippings and pictures depicting war correspondents with PRESS on their helmets and TV newsmen with an antique hand-held newsreel camera. Another shows mainly American correspondents gathered under a makeshift Quemoy Press Club sign. A display of English, French and Spanish clippings includes a U.S. News and World Report story: “The Reds are the real losers in the Quemoy war.”
At the northwest point of the island, we happen on the Kuningtou Military History Museum, near the site where local forces repelled a major Communist amphibious assault in 1949 (10 years before the deadly artillery duel). Displays here are mainly huge, heroic battle-on-the-beach paintings, some basic mock-ups of the battle zone, plus weapons such as American M5 A1 tanks, known here as Kinmen Bears.
With dark (and the cocktail hour) fast approaching, we return to the River Kinmen Hotel, and reluctantly hand the desk clerk the scooter key to return to the rental office. I feel like a Hell’s Angel robbed of his Harley.
In this spotless, friendly hotel, once again we face communication problems as the restaurant menu is only in Chinese. But a woman from a party of ebullient locals comes to our rescue. She explains the menu through the practical expedient of darting over to nearby tables to spirit away dishes from under the chopsticks of diners, to show us what is available. With her recommendations, we feast on lemon chicken, chili prawns, fish grilled with garlic, steamed vegetables, rice and chilled Taiwan beer.
People able to withstand the world’s greatest artillery barrage are not stymied by the problems of a pair of hungry foreigners.
ISLA FORMOSA
Hard-boiled, Naturally
Spring 1997
HIKERS coming down the mossy stone path out of the thick forest welcome us with cheery greetings: “Ni hao, Ni hao?” (“How are you” in Mandarin). Hiking is a social activity in Taiwan, and all along the way we encounter friendly groups of climbers with walking sticks, tinkling bells on belts and backpacks, carrying umbrellas and wearing sporty khaki outdoor hats.
Walking the trails of Yangmingshan National Park, a 30-minute drive northeast of Taipei, we can appreciate why the Portuguese called this Isla Formosa (Beautiful Island). On rugged Taiwan, weekend escapes from the capital are only a taxi, train or subway ride away.
Even though this is the closest getaway to the capital, locals seem pleased, and mystified, to find foreigners here. “How you find Yangmingshan?” ask those with a modicum of English. Easy. We took a cab from downtown Taipei.
Like travel all over Taiwan, getting around the park can be a challenge. At the visitor center, park rangers try to help, but speak little or no English. Finally we buy a map in Chinese (English maps are out of stock) and, with much sign language, work out basic directions for a suitable half-day hike. At the canteen, we buy bottles of water and lichee juice and packets of biscuits and set off up the mountain.
From the center, we follow a broad, paved stone path up to a junction, where a map and directional sign are posted on a board. Taiwanese parks are well marked -- unfortunately, only in Chinese characters. So we stand there attempting to match the squiggly symbols on the sign to those on our map, until another hiker comes along and points the way.
As we continue up through the sweet gum trees, green maples and flowering cherry trees, we encounter more hikers. One elderly Taiwanese walking with his cronies wears a red ball cap that says, appropriately, Top Climber. “Very good healthy,” a spry septuagenarian assures us as his wife nods approvingly at our efforts.
Foliage changes within the park, and we pass through pine and acacia forests planted during large-scale afforestation programs early in the century. With the clear air and the scent of pines, we could be in the middle of British Columbia, Canada, except for those pesky Chinese signs.
A couple walking down the hill carrying a bag of cuttings stops to chat. When I look at the fernlike plants and smell them, the woman says they are used for making tea. “Good for the throat, and for a cold,” she explains. In her best English, she adds that their proper name is “Under the Stone Plant,” and shows how they grow under the paving stones along the path.
The higher we climb, the fewer hikers we encounter. When no one is around, all we can hear is the throaty warbling of the bulbuls and babblers and the scraping of our boots on the ancient mossy stones. Little lizards skitter along the path, birds rustle in the bush and the wind sways the cherry trees. It is a rare, and welcoming, sound of silence so seldom heard in Asia.
At another intersection, as we struggle once more with the map, trying to mak
e sense of the mysterious Chinese characters, a hiker coming down a path to the right says, “Chihsing Park. There,” pointing back the way he came. The sign indicates it is just a few hundred yards away, so we follow the path. A few minutes later we break out of the woods to an open hanging valley with a panoramic view of the city spread around the Tamsui River more than 3,000 feet below. Families gather in groups, sitting on the benches, playing, reading papers and barbecuing chicken wings around Chinese-style pagodas and gazebos with upturned tiled roofs.
We pause awhile in the afternoon sun, nibbling biscuits and enjoying the expansive view. The lichee juice we bought earlier is delicious, thick, sweet and pulpy, like eating a succulent fruit dessert.
A turnoff from the park leads down to a small mountain lake, a fumarole we can see steaming in the distance, and a highway back to Taipei. But it is still early, so we continue up to the peak. The path becomes very steep, and it is hard going, straight up stairways of stone. You should be moderately fit to climb to Mt. Chihsing, but we’ve allowed plenty of time, so stop on the way to enjoy the views and catch our breath. Here above the tree line, it seems as though we can see all of Isla Formosa.
The last stiff section is like climbing a staircase, a steady slog up that finally takes us to the top of 3,739-foot Mt. Chihsing (the park’s highest peak). Weather is unpredictable up here, with rain, wind and clouds common, so a weatherproof jacket is useful. But our luck holds. The sky, which has been changing all day, clears now, and from the top of this volcanic cone we have magnificent views of Taipei to the south, the mountains all around, the sea coast and Taiwan Strait to the north.
It is all downhill from here, the path zigzagging a long way down, through pine trees, pampas grass and dense thickets of young bamboo. Soon we start to catch the distinctive smell of sulfur, like fizzling matches. Further down, we walk on paving stones through fumaroles, great patches of parched, blackened earth belching and billowing steam, like agitated tea kettles. Some steaming fumaroles have the telltale yellow sulfur coloring around the charred area, others unnatural green crystals, like a color created in a scientific experiment gone wrong. Further down, the side of the mountain looks as though it has just been bombed, and we can feel the heat of the volcano under our soles.
The Peace Correspondent Page 10