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.

Spring Scream

The good ol' two in the morning bus out of Taipei. Caleb and Mark, trusty side kicks. A good book and a long ride is what we've got before us and we're going to make that trip to the south of the island one more time.

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Spring Scream is Taiwan's quintessential music festival hosting a myriad bands and genres. We were able to witness, in a twenty minute walk around the grounds: a band that had all the angst and fire of a garage band back in Seattle, a mellow and folksy trio bust out a soulful take on Lady Gaga's Poker Face, and a face melting drum solo from a shaggy haired panda of a boy with a bow tie and indelible smile. Add to this variety the natural beauty of the national park in which the festival is held, just a stones throw from the lapping ocean waves, and you find that this is the most heartwarming music venue in the greater pacific ocean.

A French duo blew our collective minds with an all instrumental lineup accompanied by Native American inspired singing that could not be said to resemble any language in all of the linguistic world. They rocked the house with a stage presence that oozed confidence and style, the drummer taking time to get up out of her chair and pretend to kick her husband in the pants while he picked away at a stunning, based out, solo.

You could find yourself in a crowd of a hundred people rhythmically bobbing to the beat or bouncing off the walls in a quasi-mosh pit (I say quasi because there really is no Taiwanese equivalent for a mosh pit as defined by the United States, the people here are just too considerate to be throwing themselves around with reckless abandon) and bump into three different languages before your ears drifted back to the stage and the Taiwanese band members addressing the crowd with a chant of "crap your hands ewerbowry!"

Add to this cheap and delicious food and beverage and the combination screams success in as many languages as could be heard in the crowd.

Our fun didn't end merely on the festival grounds, we also found time to lounge on the fine sand beaches, take in the healing properties of the turquoise blue waters and even catch a few waves. On Saturday morning, a few of us get out of Kenting early so that we could enjoy a day of snorkeling. We happened upon a Taiwanese friend of a friend and she directed us to the best place to find accessible reefs. She did not steer us wrong. Twenty minutes of desperate back and forth in the little Chinese the four of us could scrounge together and we found ourselves kitted with a mask, snorkel and water shoes standing on the side of a dusty lane paneled on one side with houses and various diving shops and on the other a wide open view of the crystal blue bay we were about to enter. We hopped in the back of a modified van which could carry about twenty passengers on two wooden bench seats on either side and discussed our plans.

We were hoping to see a few fish, maybe discover a species or two but really we had mild expectations and would have been happy to dunk our heads in the water whether or not there was anything lively going on below our all-too-human extremities.

What we found was a treasure trove of life that, on the whole, couldn't care less whether or not some white guys had managed to invade their space for a little while, to flounder about in the water looking terribly un-menacing with our awkward paddling and the occasional choking down of seawater. I saw things that I never knew existed and paddled after fish that looked like Dr. Seuss characters. I floated in awe over the top of a brainy looking coral that was as wide in diameter as I am tall and which rolled back and forth to the rhythm of the waves.

We tried desperately to call eachother over whenever we spotted something of interest, only to find that the moment we turned back to admire the oddity we were so eager to show off had already swam away or scuttled off to our chagrin. We did stick out like sore thumbs though, and I think the fish were somewhat curious about seeing people without rubber suits and hefty life preserves covering ninety percent of their body. The Taiwanese, as has been noted, are not big on swimming, in fact we were able to sit on the beach and watch as a group of fully decked out adventurers took to a pool of water no more than bellybutton deep with air tanks and flippers.

After a few hours of fortifying exploration among the ocean's most beautiful creatures, we decided to catch a cab to our favorite beach, Baisha Bay. This is not the first time this particular strip of the coast has been featured on this blog and it won't be the last I'm sure. Water the color of Tropical flavor Mike and Ike's makes for a perfect backdrop to a white sand beach nestled against a thick green belt. After playing our favorite "Run into the water just as the wave is about to crash into the shore and get flung like a rag doll into a pile of limbs while laughing our asses off" we decided to get down to business and join in on a game of beach volleyball. The net was set to a height of about five and a half feet, which was nice, and made for a much more relaxed game. We showcased our many talents, including Mark's unique ability to flail with every ounce of determination toward the ball, only to have it bounce off his arms and into his face, and still make it over the net to the other side.

We made for quite a spectacle and a small gathering of women, covered head to toe in clothing so as not to suck up a single iota of UV ray, sat on the sideline to laugh at our athletic prowess.

The weekend came to an end with an all-white Rastafarian band waxing philosophical and making all sorts of references to global tyranny and the fall of democratic thought. We cheered them on, despite their obvious lack of depth, and enjoyed the throbbing bass and funky beats coming through the speakers. It was our last night in Kenting, and Caleb's birthday, and it is my humble opinion that we showed him the best birthday celebration he's had in his 24 years.

For me, it was a weekend filled with once in a lifetime moments of laughter and solemn moments of natural beauty. We squeezed every sugary drop of life out of our time there and I look forward to sharing more time with the friends that I've made here, no matter the time or place. Though it has been on my mind more and more, the possibilities of my future in this country, I have to say that the time that I have spent here was not wasted. It is the first in what I hope to be many forays into the wide world and it has been every bit as inviting as I hoped it could be. Though America, and the west coast in particular, will always be my home, it is my wish to find a place that fits my mind and soul so completely that I will never be able to say that I died without finding heaven on Earth. Until that day, I will keep exploring, keep putting myself into new and interesting situations and continue to open myself up to the world around me. Sooner or later it's going to take one look at me and punch me in the gut, to be sure, but you can't bake a cake without a little salt.