A Stroll in Taiwan
Walking to a park in Taiwan isn’t easy. The roads are hazardous to all — with barrages of motor scooters and cars and exhaust fumes. Normally polite Chinese turn into something else altogether when a car or a scooter seat is under them. It wouldn’t be so bad if scooters and pedestrians could use the side lanes for bike lanes. But cars are solidly blocking the side lanes.
That wouldn’t be so bad if pedestrians could walk on the sidewalks. But motor scooters are not only parked there, they are also ridden in both directions on the sidewalks.
That wouldn’t be so bad, but the little cubicles called stores that line the street have no back entrance. Thus, loading and unloading takes place on the sidewalks too. Often a distrusting expensive car owner parks his car right in the store while he’s working. That, by itself, wouldn’t be so bad except that each store must have a puppy or small dog to sniff and challenge every passerby.
Now, that might be manageable except for the street and sidewalk vendors who set up shop right in your path. Little rocking horses might line the sidewalk, followed by piles of shoes.
I passed a store selling flashy new cars that lined the side of the road and, of course, the sidewalk. Next to it was a car repair shop for the many cars that lose battles in the fight they wage with too many other cars and aggressive drivers. Of course, they do most of the repair work on the sidewalk or side of the road.
Taiwan is by no means a poor country. Its prices rival the U.S., and money is plentiful. However, it retains a gritty, grimy, over-crowded, jumbled appearance more like mainland China than Hong Kong. They must prefer it this way.
A city park is like an oasis in the desert. It brings peace, serenity, some quiet, trees, flowers, and nature — while high buildings soar above and around it. Among the growing things are brightly dressed, running, hopping, playful children. It almost could be anywhere. However, the arched bridges over the little lake, the pavilions, the Chinese characters on the buildings, the old people doing tai chi, and the young people gaily babbling in Chinese distinguish it as a park on the island of Taiwan.
Everyone plays. The mothers and fathers play with the children. A quite pregnant wife runs heavily to pick up a fallen kite her husband is trying to keep aloft. A crippled husband, supporting himself with two crutches, plays Frisbee (but with a hole in the middle of it) with his wife. A middle-aged mother sits with her son who has no hair and looks like he will not live to see another springtime.
A mother comes by with an unusual assortment of children. Two are beautiful Chinese girls. A boy is an obvious Caucasian-Oriental mix. Somehow the physical characteristics of each parent look uncomfortably combined — Caucasian eyes with Oriental eyelids. The youngest little girl is blond, not at all Chinese-looking, and obviously underdeveloped and sickly. All eat strawberry ice cream cones with enjoyment.
The little boy begins to speak with me in fluent English. Then, his mother begins to chat with me. The two Chinese girls are her sister’s children. She herself is married to an American and they live in the U.S., presently Las Vegas. She asks what I’m doing in Taichung. She explained that the little girl was born quite premature and has already had corrective surgery for a variety of problems. She told me about two big, new, glamorous hotels opening up in Las Vegas. She likes the idea of being able to buy a nice house in Vegas for a fraction of the sum of a house in Taiwan. Plus, her American passport renders her unable to buy a home in Taiwan.
She said she hardly knows her hometown, Taichung, after ten years away. I think of myself and how alien I feel in the U.S. now, and I understand. She then recommends several American style restaurants she has found in the area. She seems more comfortable in the pseudo-American environment than in her own. She excuses herself to go off to McDonald’s. Then, back to the glitziness and glamour of Las Vegas.
I pass an old man who squats timelessly and silently by his fishing pole in the lake. On the way back home, I stop at the Buddhist shrine in the corner with the too-loud Chinese music blaring from a semi-elaborate puppet stage. I stop and watch alongside the sole spectator — a Down syndrome child dressed brightly in yellow. He sometimes seems to respond to the action of the play, and sometimes converses with an invisible friend. The puppets are dressed and masked rather elegantly, as in Chinese opera. They do not sing as in Chinese opera, but there is a lot of monotonous, loud music. The boy in yellow does not move from the spot, while other children playing on the playground totally ignore the efforts of the puppeteer and his smoking assistant who activates and shuts off the very loud music.
An older lady comes by on her motor scooter with groceries arranged efficiently in, on, and around the motor scooter. Without a glance at the puppet show, she removes her anti-pollution facemask and burns paper money to the gods in the shrines. This done, she scooters off.
Among the many things I don’t understand is why the puppet stage is angled in a corner with little room and no chairs for spectators. But then, there is only one spectator plus me after all. The father comes for the boy in yellow. The puppeteer continues as though he is playing to a full house. Or, perhaps he doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. He seems to be a man who plays with his work.
This is the entry in my travel journal on March 10, 1990, and appears in my book, Memoirs of a Middle-aged Hummingbird.
Tags: Streets in Taiwan; Taichung, Taiwan, Taiwan; a park in Taiwan; walking in Taichung, Travel
