From Asia to Europe

“It is ILLEGAL to bring PROSTITUTES into the building.” (reads the sign beside the elevator)

Looks as though it won’t be the dream vacation I was hoping for.

Finally here on a bit of a buzz. The last week or so in Taiwan was an 11th hour marathon, right down the literal 11th hour before the flight. As it goes, a regular sized suitcase seems to be menace in Taiwan – they won’t allow one to store or ship it. The only option is to fly home with it – easier said than done if it’s 8am before your 9am flight to Bangkok with an interim 49 days of travel in between. Once again, Taiwanese friend Delphine to the rescue, who took the bloody case home with her so that we can liaise in late October to reclaim all my ratty, old clothing and CD’s.

The flight to Bangkok was smooth, as was finding the guesthouse that Gary (colleague) booked by phone for us; though the 2 hour bus crawl through the city left me wanting to walk the route.

New Siam 2 guest house is in the foreign-infested Khao San Rd. area – as I said to Chrissie, a place where retro-hippie bohemic types come to discover that they aren’t as unique as they thought. The look is freshly tanned and clad in Thai clothing – hair extensions and tattoos abound – dreadlocks by the dozen. Every passerby speaks a new European language. Shopping is impossible to get away from. Converted motorcyle tuk-tuks swarm the tourists to pluck off the weakest links – though I find that they are much more demure here than their hard-selling Filipinos counterparts.

Strangely, the place feels somewhat common after 2 years in Taiwan and I’m more surprised that I’m not as surprised by the surrounding sights. (Surprise!)

Chrissie and I are working out the kinks in spending two years on opposite sides of the world – while she is quite efficient and logical in her thiking, I am purely Chinese, take-it-as-it-comes and driving her mad in the process. “We’ll know when it comes” (in reference to bus, etc.) is my line that has hinted at sending her over the edge.

And a funny to end with, overhead by a local girl on her mobile to her scolded boyfriend:

“The ploblem is that you talk too much…” (exasperation, exasperation)

Wish I could say “You go girl,” in Thai with wagging head and hands on hips.

Foggily, Laura.

Phew! I’ve just looked back to notice that it’s been a good couple of weeks since I’ve made any progress here. Fortunately though, I have the understandably distracting World Cup to blame for the dead air. How can one even think of ‘blogging’ (sounds dirty) when she’s busy parading around as an Argentina fan while scanning all squads for fresh meat (and talent)? To properly do so takes an all encompassing effort and disregard for anything else of consequence, ie. work, sleep, diet, and ‘style’. To prove my point, a short narrative:

My flakey kindergarten soul Zoe gave me a cross-eyed glance this morning during a water break and shot me a mischevious smile:

Zoe: “Teacher, why do you always wear that shirt?” (short pause) “Do you wash your clothes?”

I have only myself to blame for insisting that they develop a sense of humour (MY sense of humour) towards school. Evidently, I have some room for polishing up. That, or I should plan to leave here with my ego in tatters.

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Some World Cup stories:

(Qualifying Round, USA vs. the Czech Republic, 0-3)

American Tina, Swiss Mirjam and yours truly find ourselves at the ‘Deluxe Sports Bar’, as token foreigners in the crowd. Harrassment for our bar stools, reserved for another party, entices Tina to pull out her B.S. tactics in Mandarin, sales and foreign ignorance. She is successful and we keep our plum spots infront of the screen. The half time ‘show’ of dancers down the bar sees Mirjam making a new friend as Dancer A, in between hip thrusts, bends down to exclaim “Nice to meet you!” to her before continuing down the bar. Mirjam, though only subtlely elated, earns her name ‘Friend Magnet’.

Later in the evening, we are invited to the VIP room by a very drunk Mr. Peter, owner and connoisseur of (seemingly) Taipei and the Far East. Re-entry to the VIP room after a bathroom break involves patting down the wall of a lengthy hallway in an embarrassing fashion, praying to find the secret door. Inside, beer flows like water and the food is memorable – my favourite being ‘fish legs’, announced after my umpteenth drink. A curious red button sits on a coffee table all the while and produces some interesting effects when pressed: a parade of helpers with beer, food, and underage dancers. We get in touch with the OCD in us and use the button like a joystick, as the staff find it increasingly difficult to maintain their shiny smiles.

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(Quarter Finals, Argentina vs. Germany, 2-4 P.S.O)

Rebecca, Elliott (housemates), Mirjam and her boyfriend Hans, Rebecca’s friend Justin, and neighbour Pete all cram into a 2m squared barspace to take in the game. American man beside me is out to impress and is overly forthright about his role as a venture capitalist here during the past decade. I spot a fly on the wall and take interest. My singlehood continues unthreatened. There is a Taiwanese woman dressed up as a proper ‘frau’ for her German boyfriend, acting more as a masseuse than fan during the match. I feel a mix of pity and curiousity. I suggest to Mirjam that, coming from ‘the area’, she’s not keeping up her end of the relationship, with her feet outstretched on a nearby barstool and Hans standing behind her.

Our group is an even split of support for both teams, and the women of the clan go home disappointed that our Latinos can’t dive their way to victory. I feel contempt for the squeaky Taiwanese woman in German colours beside me who is in a full prayer during the penalty kicks. I want to push her from the barstool but resist the urge by pounding on the bartop and shouting ‘ARGENTINA’, in disruption of her moment with Football God.

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( Quarter Finals, England vs. Portugal, a loss for England at any rate)

Off I go with neighbour Pete to Carnegie’s, the less-than-reputable foreigner-Taiwanese hookup bar with the match projected on the wall. It’s shoulder to shoulder England fans with a smattering of Portuguese in discreet places. I jockey for a view behind a Taiwanese cougar who decides to sit on the bartop for a better ‘view’ – without room to push or pound, I divide my energy between supporting England and shooting her dirty looks. I meet Pete’s friends Francey and Rich, who are an American-English couple with tarnished dreams of teaching in Greece, who ‘ended up’ in Taiwan. While I can describe Rich as an overly stressed English fan, the pressure is lost on Francey, who looks around uninterestedly and explains that she is orginally a belly dancer from Queens NY. I decline with a polite “You first!” when she suggests that we should dance on the bar after the match.

Cristiano Ronaldo pounds the final nail into the coffin for England and I lose sight of the tragedy momentarily while he and I share a moment through the screen.

Shortly after, I get the hell out of dodge as the token Portuguese fan nearby cheers to himself while surrounding English fans poise empty pint glasses suggestively in their hands.

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Buring the candle at both endsedly, Laura.

Pre-afternoon coffee time found itself a spectator to Yonghe’s finest fashions yesterday afternoon. With one ‘strut’ down the catwalk (crowded avenue), my rather ordinary day then took a swift leap into the extraordinary. A brief history shall set the scene:

On virtually every street, alley and nook in Taiwan, there can be found troops of elderly entrepreneurs who make a small wage collecting recyclables. Ancient, rickety, and rusted out pull or push carts serve as their collection trucks. As in good Chinese fashion, they tend to stock these glorified wheelbarrows well beyond a safe capacity, taunting both gravity and passing vehicles.

Now be it senility, their obstructing pointed (‘coolie’) hats or a combination of the two, they tend to regard traffic lights only as a ‘suggestion’. As such, major and minor arteries are prone to blockage as our dear urban gardeners pause their barrows mid-intersection to chase runaway bottles.

Already, they are a great show for foreign rubber-neckers.

During my brief coffee repose yesterday, and to my great delight, pushing the local Yungyuan Rd. cart was Yonghe’s answer to fashion designer Alexander McQueen.

Imagine if you will, a rather generously ‘voluptuous’, middle-aged Chinese (Taiwanese) woman, hair unkempt ‘au naturel’, skin thinly coated a la car exhaust, spine curved from years behind the cart. Now imagine this loosely elegant woman in loud conversation with herself, eyes scanning up and down the street like a hungry chicken, cart narrowly missing parked cars and children.

Finally, try to picture a garishly colourful Hello Kitty bedspread, like a neon safety uniform. Take a piece of rope, tuck it under the top end of the bedspread and now tie it tightly around the woman’s chest, cinching her massive ‘udders’ in two, Hello Kitties and other body parts falling around her much like a strapless wedding dress would. Situate her behind her cart.

10 out of 10?

This was the fantastic sideshow before me. As if this wasn’t enough, at one point her ‘wedding dress’ began to droop, sparking a priceless reaction: in a quick save, she paused mid-road, hunched over, yanking her robe towards the sky with several quick jerks, in a full chicken dance, underarms flapping like flags.

The kicker is that, as per the Yonghe grapevine, she is apparently quite well off from doing this since she was a young girl. She boasts not one, but two properties! (Structure and location underdetermined.) Additionally, she may be the token Taiwanese non-consumer as she acquires all her fashions – and furniture – for free.

I can’t wait for her to flaunt her – gasp – summer collection’s swimsuit, which I’m told is quite the sexy number.

Impressedly, Laura.

I just dread being sick in Taiwan.

It’s not because of the annoyances and inconveniences of being sick itself. Not the colds, the vomiting, or the runs that seem to sprint more than jog.

While it’s been taught to me (and generally agreed upon by many at home) that any of the above require thorough rest, fluids, and a supporting diet; the Taiwanese believe that a trip to the doctor will have you back on your feet in no time. That is, they believe that there is a pill to cure every symptom. There is no acknowledgement that the body just needs time to recover.

This morning I found myself in that unfortunate cold/flu state, having to make a phone call to the school, telling them that I had no place teaching today. (Nevermind the spread of illness, which isn’t considered.) It’s now 12:32pm and I’ve been ‘encouraged’ by two teachers at school to see a doctor. One of them just asserted that if I would like to have a ‘happy weekend’, then I should go see a doctor straight away!

I am certain that the journey to the doctor by scooter, chaotic and uncomfortable, would undo all of the recovering of this morning’s sleep-in. I can already predict his diagnosis (‘it’s a virus’!) and prescribe myself the necessary drugs, of which are stockpiled in my cabinet (a decongestant and painkiller for the aches!).

I feel sad that doctors here essentially act as catalysts to get you back to work again. Sickness seems not to be accepted as credible, and the Taiwanese will arrive at work in a half-dead state, as if to gain some sort of pride from it.

Why is it that work here takes precedence over all others? I can’t find the sensibility in it, yet I don’t want to dismiss this as nonsense. I just plainly do not understand them.

Or perhaps they just like to support their doctors. (I like Dr. Chao, I have his collector’s card. Who’s your favourite?)

Surely they must comprehend a little more than they let on about health? Have they come so far materially in the past 25 years that their education has not caught up to their standard of living?

I’ve tried to explain the differences in treating viruses and infections to them; and furthermore, to elaborate on the possible complications of suppressing symptoms. I hate to use such pompous language, but this is common knowledge across the seas!

That said, they seem to, on the whole, understand the necessity of spirituality – whereas many of us in the west can’t measure this quantitatively, so we tend to dismiss it.

The challenges of living in one and believing the other!

Sniffingly, Laura.

Generally, as I’m told, last week’s Dragon Boat Festival marks the end of the rainy season and the beginning of the scorching summer. Yet true to the nature of the elusive Taiwanese, it’s been pouring on and off everyday now for 3 weeks with little sign of changing its tune. I doubt that superstition and global climate change ever expected to meet one another face to face.

My Dad both flattered and surprised me lately in his wine inspired email to a Toronto Star columnist, sending her the link to this blog. (Fair enough – if you want advice, then ask for it.) But could I ever die a thousand deaths! Here I am, amongst the thousands of other bloggers worldwide, rattling off my dailies and frivolities for those who feel only obligated interest. Never did I suspect that anyone of any consequence would take a gander at my banter. (The consequence being a rather sweet reply from the columnist, eloquently asserting that I could use, perhaps, some ‘structure’ to my writing, and wishing me luck and direction in finding it.)

Oh, dear columnist, I could use some structure in my life, let alone words!

(But thanks Dad for your effort, it added a moment of surprise and excitement to my Sunday morning beyond feline orgasms in the alley below my bedroom window.)

Lately my focus has been moderately directed at Chinese lessons – and mainly at the upcoming World Cup. (Could the Taiwanese ever be introduced to the joys of the beautiful game! I find it odd that they’ve focused their attention on baseball and basketball, both of which require substantially more solid frames than their biologically bird-like skeletons. In passing by, I’ve witnessed if flaccid enthusiasm during matches as sportsman and spectator – it almost appears as though sport is another facet of the Chinese ‘face’, as a status symbol.) (I read recently that Buddhism regards passion as an extreme to be avoided. It boggles my Western mind – especially in light of how many children I see in the street.) As for the cup – I expect a sleepy month ahead of me in the kindergarten as the students will be taking a backseat for 3am match start times. Oyo.

I must be off to bed – I can feel the prick in the back of my throat that only signals a cold on the horizon. Tonight I shall go to bed thinking of Lindie, a South African friend who’s just returned home from England to join her family after the loss of her baby nephew (he would be nearly a year old, I believe).

The order of life is a mystery.

Soggily, Laura.

To illustrate what driving in Taiwan might be like, I’ll select a question from my roommate’s written driving test (which he failed):

You slip and fall due to oil stain on the road, you must:

a) forget it and leave
b) report to the nearest police station
c) use tree branches or other signs to warn other cars

(answer: c)
(First, best of luck finding the tree.)

So you can well imagine that a country that encourages you to put more junk on the road might have, let’s say, ‘confusing’ signage.

Yesterday I had a 9-9 day, ending with 2 hours of Chinese class. At 9pm I was due to go to a colleague’s housewarming in the south part of the city, and planned to get there by scooter. It has been raining heavily for about a week, so the roads are slick and visibility is poor. (How’s that for building my defense?)

I followed my colleague’s hand drawn map across a bridge that splits into several lanes, for scooters and cars. As I was crossing the bridge in the scooter lane, I noticed the sign above me said ‘to Taipei City’ and the one next to it, ‘to Xindian City’ (my goal). I was convinced that I was in the wrong lane.

I did a full U-turn on the other side of the bridge to cross again, and then another to direct myself towards Taipei or Xindian City once again. Just before the lane split, I left the pack of scooters and sailed solitarily toward the Xindian City sign. I can’t quite place whether it was the frantic honking behind me or the widened lane that prompted me to giggle hysterically as I realized that I was driving my tiny 50CC onto the elevated highway.

My plan was to find the nearest exit and make a quick turn off. But while I was looking up, between raindrops, and staring at signs, I hit one hole… and then another. The second was the entire size of my scooter, half a foot deep and filled with water. Given that I was going 60km/hr or so, when I hit the inside edge of the hole, the bike flew up into the air and I went over the top of the handlebars. Miraculously, I held on tightly, and gravity worked its wonders, tossing me back down onto the seat along with bike down on two wheels.

(As passing Chinese motorists drove by, shaking their head and exclaiming, “What typically shitty foreign drivers!”)

I kept driving, feeling less amused about the whole ride, and ended up cutting across several lanes (yikes) to take a left exit off the highway. Driving was becoming quite difficult, so I pulled off to the side of the road to find that I had a flat rear tire. (More to put into this two-wheeled money pit!)

I called my colleague to pick me up and off I went to the housewarming, an hour and a half late but as if nothing had happened. The scooter will sit parked for a day until it’s ready to be dealt with on Thursday, after the national Dragon Boat Festival holiday today.

The experience wasn’t a total inconvenience – when I finally rolled the scooter to a stop, I found that I was sitting under the sign for TESCO, the English supermarket chain. Finally, after months of searching, I’d found it.

Incompetently, Laura.

As a kid, I remember checking the tags and stickers of clothing, shoes, toys, and especially cheap Christmas crackers, only to exclaim, “Made in Taiwan!” (I wonder where that is?)

And wouldn’t you know, that will all the same interest and enthusiasm, this morning my kids were found to be checking the backs of their chairs, exclaiming, “Made in the USA!” (I wonder where that is?)

An endearing look at the ‘other side’.

Nostalgically, Laura.

Lately my kids have been struck by the funny bug.

Tuesday morning, I was guiding them through an ‘idea map’ that would help them to chart ideas for their writing assignment on Friday. The topic this week was “When I grow up…”. The obvious question was to state whether ‘I will/will not have a husband/wife’. In turn, each child announced their intentions until only Melissa was left, my sweet-natured, obsessively-neat, slow-learner. She practically sang out her answer bearing a broad smile, “I will have a wife!”

After confirmation and reconfirmation with her about the meaning of ‘wife’, I began to giggle to myself, which sparked the kids’ curiousity and their own laughter. Sunny, the alpha-female who craves attention, bellowed out, “WHAT is so funny teacher?”, to which I began to laugh harder with tears welling up in my eyes.

My state only worsened when I noticed that airhead Zoe, our ‘artiste’, was sitting in the corner of the room, drawing a picture and singing happily to herself: “Girl and girl marry! Girl and girl marry!”

It was at that moment that I was forced to take a brief time out in the hall to regain my composure. No sooner had I set foot back in the door did Sunny begin her interrogation, “Teacher, what is SO FUNNY?” To which I replied, “Sunny, I can’t explain so that you’ll understand.” At that moment, Candy, our know-it-all princess in the corner, didn’t miss a beat as she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted “It’s because Melissa wants a WIFE!” to which the whole class burst out into giggles and Melissa skipped proudly to her cubby, basking in all the attention.

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Fast forward to today, where after their nap and lunch and I rejoin the class in the afternoon. We are arranging the tables in their proper places. Joey and Zoe have taken either end of one table – while Joey is holding his end waist-high, Zoe is pushing hers above her head with antagonizing giggles. Joey is a bright boy but a bit of a hothead – and in his usual fashion, he dramatically drops his end, puts his hands on his hips and exclaims:

“Zoe, you are TERRIBLE and MISPOSSIBLE!”

_________

Amusedly, Laura.

I’ve come to realize that I may be a bit of a simpleton.

It’s not the remarkable, memorable events that inspire me to write. Not the trip to Hualien with my school; not the Gaelic football games last weekend with the Hsinchu team; not last weekend’s dance-dance-dance nights. Not the Chinese class I just began on Tuesday.

No: it’s the bump-and-vomit sequence that wove its way into my ride home today at lunch. After coming out on the winning end of several swerving near misses for half of the ride, I found myself sitting at a red light. I was minding my own business when all of a sudden I felt the jerking ‘bump’ on my back tire and my scooter shot forward a few inches. While in Canada, I might have shot the driver a dirty look and a few crass words – I believe that it might have been at that moment that I perceived my hurdle over the culture shock hump – for I simply turned around, nodded, and moved my scooter forward a few inches. La-de-da… your regular ‘mini accident’.

Little did I know that I’d hardly hit the climax of the trip!

Further down the road I came to another stop, and as the light turned to green again, a scooter carrying two men shot by me on the left and swerved directly infront of me towards the right side of the road. The driver slowed down, sped up, wobbled a bit, and then, throwing his head sideways and to the right, released a mighty waterfall of vomit into the air, raining down on nearby cars and all over his friend on the back of the bike. He continued for a second heave before it occurred to him to stop the bike and let it out all in one place.

I just managed to veer out of harm’s way shaking with my bike in an uncontrollable fit of laughter – I must have sounded like a jackal based on the expression of pedestrians nearby.

I can now fairly compare driving in Taiwan to riding a rollercoaster.

What an interesting day! And on top of this, I left the classroom for one and a half hours after my kindergarteners asserted that they didn’t need me as a teacher anymore. Years must have gone by during their period of solitude (or perhaps, their grumbling stomachs spoke) – for they arranged themselves in a group near the middle of the second hour, apologized in teary unison and presented me with several homemade cards. Kids really are wise, aren’t they?

Dodgingly, Laura.

I made a disturbing mistake this morning.

I opened the internet to my cbc.ca homepage; and from there I led myself down an unusual path. I ended up on Time’s list of 100 influential people; from there I caught a glimpse of the name of Michael Savage (I think) as someone the media hesistates to mention; out of curiousity, I pasted his name into Google and came up with a few sites; I clicked on one and up popped a loud, colourful and seemingly pro-American site (at first glance); to the right lower corner there were a number of videos to download, some Taliban – and of course here, my curiousity got the best of me and I downloaded one.

Having never for a moment considered beheading someone, I was caught unprepared for what I was about to see. There sat an American man, from his looks in his late 20’s, seated infront of four Taliban members. After a lengthy script was read, there was a moment of screaming from somewhere unidentified, and swiftly the hostage was hauled down on his side. What followed was an absolute nightmare, and had my heart beating as fast as my last birthday, in the bar when the machete swung down only a few feet from my right shoulder.

I felt profoundly sad all day that we as humans have the capacity to inflict such brutality on one another. In my mind, I spent the day jumping shoes from the hostage, to the members, to the hostage’s parents, and replacing each with real people in my own life – each time, pausing to consider how it might feel.

I suppose that I could recoil in horror, double lock the doors and refuse to leave the apartment after dark to be safe. But what good would that do? What good is it to dwell on your fears and ignore the joys? Would that not just breed unnecessary fear – paranoia – and in time and many steps down the line, perhaps put oneself in a position to commit such a horrific act as to guard their illusions?

Perhaps the only path is to, while being circumspect and avoiding overly brazen steps, throw fear ‘out the window’ and put one’s focus on joy, peace. By doing away with self-imposed mental walls, would we not find a common compassion to overcome clannishness, greed – and ultimately, such rash situations?

It’s just a hunch. We’ll see where that path leads.

Evangelically, Laura.