Hospitality

On Saturday afternoon I took a hike up one of the many local mountains and found myself on a trail, densely crowded with leaves of impossible proportions and remarkable colors, that led along the ridge. There was a small sign indicating a temple which pointed towards a barely perceptible path down the western bank of the ridge. I decided to check it out and follow the winding trail through amazonian foliage.

When I reached the end of the trail, it cut off abruptly where a small landslide had cut short the path. The rail road ties that served as a staircase for the last twenty feet reached along to the edge, where the last visible tie hung loosely at a nearly vertical angle over the ten foot drop to the brick forge on the temple grounds. I made my way down the muddle incline and traipsed through mountains of freshly stacked bricks to reach the entrance.

I was greeted by two two women, one about forty years of age and the other in her seventies. The elder of the two immediately called me over and asked if I wanted any tea. I thanked her but told her that I was fine, she then offered water, to which I replied that I had some in my backpack, she then offered coffee and I could see that there really was no refusing this woman and I obliged despite never having finished more than a few sips of coffee in my life.

She sat me down and scurried off to make me, a complete stranger, some coffee and the other woman joined her. I sat at a small fold-out table and stared out into the misty drizzle of the afternoon as they came back with crackers and a pot of hot water. They opened two bags of crackers for me and prepared my coffee. I thanked them profusely and took a tentative sip of the Maxwell-House instant brew. We chatted amiably for a while as I quickly used up every word and phrase of my Chinese and they laughed as I repeated "I don't know" many times to their questions. The older woman explained that she was very happy that I had come all the way from America to live in Sansia and that she was even more impressed that I'd wanted to see the little temple at the base of the mountain. It was, after all, just another temple among the thousands in the Taipei area alone and was not in any way remarkable, by their standards.

I did manage to suck down all the coffee and found that I had actually enjoyed it to a certain degree, though much of that was due to the comfort of friendly conversation. I asked for a photo and the younger woman made it clear that she did not want to be in it, after I explained that it we could set it up to take a photo of all three of us. She snatched the camera herself and squeezed the older woman and I together on one of the chairs. It took four tries but eventually there was photographic evidence of my having been there. I grabbed my bag and started to say some parting words when the old woman told me I needed an umbrella. I explained that I had one in my bag and that it was only drizzling anyway. She wagged her finger at me and scurried back to the house again, imploring me to follow.

I left with both bags of crackers that I'd munched on during my coffee, twelve packs of instant coffee and an umbrella. I pulled out my phrase book and managed to say "Thank you very much for your hospitality" to which they looked at me quizzically then repeated to one another with a smile. I swear their version sounded exactly the same as mine but apparently it didn't make any sense until they'd said it.

I headed back towards the mountain path that had led me into the compound and yet again, the old woman stopped me, telling me that to get to Sansia, I should take the road. I tried to tell her that I had come from the mountain, pointing towards it and then to my muddy shoes and that I wanted to go back up. She wagged her finger again and tugged my arm, leading me to the exit that lead to the road. I could see that, again, there was no stopping her. I took the road as she had instructed and searched for a path, out of sight of the temple, for which to make it back up the mountain, but could not find one. Instead I walked back home to my high rise apartment building with the marble floors and grand entryway with a smile, thinking of the two women back at the temple fussing over the next passerby, maybe even telling them the story of the American boy who showed up for no reason and wanted to climb a mountain.

Just Another Friday of Flagellation

As I sit down to relax after an eight hour day of screaming children and the repetitive chanting, by me, of "No Chinese, English Please!" I find myself getting comfortable on the couch with a steaming bowl of chicken noodles and fried rice picked up on my three minute walk home from work. It was during this moment of blissful content that I heard the sounds that drew my ear to the window. The explosions and rhythmic drum beating of a none to distant war cry was cracking it's way through the space between my building and the one adjacent. In it's expansive echo could be heard the tingling of excitement and a gathering of dancers, drummers, and observers.

I ran to my door, camera in hand, and hopped into the elevator with elation tingling down my spine. I had seen what I believed I would be about to find before in Bancio, a borough of Taipei where some friends live. I was not able to capture the beauty of that festivity on film and i was excited at the prospect of being able to share one of my favorite parts about living in Taiwan.

You are never sure what you'll find when you head in the direction of the pervasive din that is a Taiwanese temple ceremony. It is not uncommon to hear a tidal wave of crackling, buzzing, and explosive sound for a few minutes on any given day of the week, but this felt different. There was more power in these blasts and more drumming than I'd heard on previous nights.

When I arrived on the scene there were three men who's job, it seemed, was to fire off as many fireworks as they could hold in their hands throughout the entire length of the ceremony. There were a plethora of performers and a separate cavalcade of drummers who were pounding away at a rhythmic tune who's origins lie in the very fabric of Taiwanese history. They each stood over their large, circular red drums and beat down on the taut surface with wooden mallets while standing on a rolling platform being pulled behind a Jeep that was so monstrous it would have made any American proud. Ahead of them were the stars of the drum section with two gigantic drums, no less than eight feet in diameter, lit up with neon lights powered by a rolling generator. The shirtless men who had the pleasure of beating these monoliths took their jobs very seriously, and kept the whole procession on a steady beat.

Around the drummers, men holding one end of a long post which carried a shrine in the middle, much like a King or Queen of old may have traveled in the days before a horse drawn carriage, danced in a circular way moving backward and forward to the music. The shrine bounced up and down on the long flexible polls and some of them emitted vast plumes of smoke generated by a smoke machine hidden within the ornate structure.

To accompany the shrine bearers, six young men with faces painted with red, black and white stood guard with ancient weapons. Their job was to protect the shrine from another group of young men dressed in gigantic suits that were planted on their shoulders, reaching to a height of 10-12 feet. The warriors went ahead of the shrine bearers and taunted the giants with a dance which showcased their weapons and prowess. Once the giants conceeded, they allowed the procession to move through the archway of the Temple and down the long corridor to the main temple square. As the Shrine is danced through the alleyway, strips of firecrackers are laid out in front of it which blow up as the shrine passes over them.

I ran after the procession and tried to stay on the outskirts of the action, so as not to interfere. Once the group gathered in the main square, the warriors began a dance where pairs imitated a duel with their particular weapons. The drummers kept right on with their job and brought a temporal thrill to the majesty of the event.

As I scrambled around the outside of the crowd to find high ground, I noticed a shirtless man of about 20 who was holding a wooden mallet covered in sharp, dazzlingly polished, spikes. I decided to center my attention on him as he made his way through the crowd.

When I was with my friends in Bancio watching a similar ceremony, Caleb had mentioned that at some of these events people will submit themselves to self flagellation which he was really hoping to see. This thought squirmed itself into my consciousness as I watched the man with the spikey club.

He took the club, with both hands, and raised it above his head, staring up at it while he brought it down in a swift motion to meet the crown of his head. The spikes held fast to the flesh covered skull and when he removed his hands from the hilt, the club stayed in place on top of his head as he danced his way through the crowd. His eyes were turgid with devotion, or adrenalin. When he looked through the crowd he was staring through people as if he were all alone performing this act of ritual discomfort.

When he stopped and bowed down at a slight angle, another man spat what appeared to be alcohol on the wound before lifting the club from the man's head. It was at this point that thick crimson blood began to stream down the front of his forehead and split at the top of his nose to run down both cheeks. He swung his clenched fists out from his body and with a bow-legged prowl he made his way to the center of the temple square. The man who'd blown the alcohol on him moments before returned to hand him the club and he began the process of splitting the skin on his skull once more.

With every thrust downward I felt my entire spine shiver in commiseration for his pain. With each yank of the club to separate it from it's home at the top of his head, the same shiver crept back down through my nerve endings and tingled in the base of my spine. I got as close as I could to the action and took photos as they came. The crescendo of drums signaled the height of the ceremony, as the young man withdrew the club for the last time and stood before the altar to drip blood from his face into a pot of fire beneath the base of a vast table covered in gifts of food for the spirits and gods of this particular shrine.

As quickly as the whole thing had started for me, it had ended. The young man, followed by a few friends went and collected their things and he wiped the blood from his laughing face with rag before throwing a shirt over himself. The drummers tapped out a feeble ending to their triumphant chorus and even ad-libbed a few measures before tossing their mallets to waiting hands who carted all the pieces away.

I drifted back to the main street where my bike was parked and began to feel my pulse returning to normal, though it felt as though it was still synchronized with the beat of those massive drums. I hopped on my rusty, one wheeled bicycle (the back tire has been, and forever will be, flat) and pedaled back to my high-rise apartment pondering the meaning of all of this pageantry we call life.

But, as I say, this is just another day.