What do you get when you mix two parts carnival, one part flea market and sprinkle in a handful of Asian flair? (No, not a new Pokemon series.) You get a Taipei night market; perhaps one of the most exciting activities for a foreigner experiencing Taiwanese culture for the first time. The mix of sights, sounds and smells is overwhelming, and completely different than anything experienced in the States. Store after store, food cart after food cart, your senses are smacked with so much of Asia you’ll swear there’s a ninja in your head.
Where do I start? There are so many night markets, each with their own feel and flair. Shilin is the largest and perhaps the most popular. Raohe has a quaint feel and a definite lean toward clothing and fashion. Banqiao seems to stretch on forever and has a little bit of everything, including a great diversity of edible options. Most interesting (and disturbing) is Huaxi. Known as the “tourist” night market and by many as “snake alley”, it has snake blood, turtle heads and all the Taiwanese trinkets you could ever want. (Family at home take note, these trinkets make amazing Christmas presents!) Considering the many night markets and the vast amount of literary substance they contain, I will attempt to summarize each market and share some of the “highlights” from our visits.
Being more than a little OCD, this blog will follow the order of my night market visits, which means I am required to begin with Raohe. From the moment I stepped off the plane onto this island, I had been like a kid with money to spend. I had to go to a night market as soon as possible. I had done my research online and read about night markets and watched videos about night markets and everyone had a night market and I needed to buy a night market. Okay, I got a little carried away with my analogy as usual, but the point is, I was dying to go to a night market! One of our newfound local friends volunteered to escort us and immerse us into the night market culture. Being wholeheartedly Baptist, I went for total immersion; none of that half-hearted, Methodists sprinkling for me. I tried chicken feet and duck tongue and some unidentified seafood blob. I did the cattle herd shuffle with ten thousand Asians. I looked at cheap knock-offs of major brands and t-shirts poorly translated into English. I drank one of eighteen types of tea and haggled price on a backpack. As they say “When in Rome…” (Which really doesn’t apply, I guess, since I would have refused to fight to the death in a loincloth, had that been offered.) But I did my best to be as “Taiwanish” as possible. This was just the beginning of a small addiction.
Having decided to visit a different night market every weekend, next on the list was Shilin. Feeling bold after my first experience I figured why not go for the biggest, baddest night market of all? And why not tackle it without a guide or anyone fluent in Chinese? We grabbed Scott and Jennifer (our addict friends we picked up at night market AA) and headed out to tackle the beast. All of the descriptions were accurate; this truly was the king of night markets. The first section we found was the snack section which gives a very poor mental image considering you can find entire meals in all kinds of shapes, sizes and smells. Nestled in between the booths peddling Taiwanese hot dogs and stinky tofu you can find a few novelty shops selling different items. Let me take a moment here to explain stinky tofu. It is exactly like normal tofu except it’s stinky. (Rocket science, I know.) Shilin is the only place I have found that plays it smart and sells stinky tofu right beside the bathrooms so that you are always left guessing about the aroma. I’m told very reassuringly that it does not taste like it smells but I’m waiting until a future date to enlighten myself. Back to the shops; we found a quaint used book stand where I bought a bilingual copy of “Green Eggs and Ham” after which we moved on to find the heart of Shilin. After a little wandering we found the main streets of Shilin and the ten million people that were currently inhabiting them. Seriously, for the next two hours we walked like penguins with hemorrhoids. Coming at perhaps the busiest time of the week, we found it difficult to enter a store without crowd surfing. We enjoyed the shops as much as possible and made our way through the crowd until we could take no more. Following our internal compass we wandered back to refresh ourselves with huge corndogs and chips on a stick, and enjoyed watching the man in line with his seven foot albino python. The rest of Shilin would have to be explored on a night when less than eight percent of the country’s population was there.
If you think tofu that smells like recycled meatloaf is gross then you should most likely avoid going to the night market at Huaxi. Snake Alley derives it’s name from the eccentric old men who play with cobras and then peddle the snake’s innards. The true man can prove his worth with a simple three shot combo. The first shot consists of water and snake blood from the writhing, twitching cobra that has been hung, slit and bled alive. The second is cave man Viagra, a mix of water and certain parts of the serpent’s manhood. The third, by my observations and assumptions, is a small shot of extremely hard liquor. Not sure why anyone would want that after the previous two…This whole process is healthy and extremely safe; just ask the seven fingered man with the cobra. If this isn’t your cup of tea just slide next door to visit the snake man’s brother for some turtle and alligator. The showmanship is lacking but they do however, rip the turtle’s head off and leave it squirming in a pan. Not wanting to sicken anyone or give Huaxi a bad name, I’ll move on to the finer points like porno and prostitution. It was here that we met our first Asian hookers. Actually, Scott met them when he wandered too far without his wife. They are very persistent until the cops show up and send them scattering into the shadows. Apparently this section of town was formally the seedy, red light district. The hookers and porn stores right next to the kiddy arcades seem to back up this history lesson. All of this aside, Huaxi is very entertaining and diverse with a huge array of souvenirs and traditional Taiwanese trinkets. The other main attraction is the twenty-four dollar full-body massages. Which, after typing, will put this at the top of my mother’s places to visit list. Don’t worry, mom; there’s a discount on the snake blood if you buy a massage.
Next on our list was the Banqio market. A little more remote and a lot less exciting, Banqio was fun but nothing groundbreaking. There were still plenty of cool shops and lots of questionable, edible items. The greatest part of Banqio was the crowd. Having experienced the prom king night markets, this was Napoleon Dynamite. No where near as popular but still plenty strange, and cool enough to pull of some awesome moves in the end. Unfortunately I didn’t find any chapstick though, cause my lips hurt real bad. After describing the larger night markets, there is little new ground to cover other than the puppy store. This may not seem like a big deal, but you’re not married to Julia. The sight of any canine (even a three-legged, one-eyed, mangy, flea extravaganza) elicits a squeaky, quickly mournful “Puppy!” from my significant other. The next ten minutes revolve around her deepest desires to join the ranks of mutt ownership, and her perfect future adoption plans. Those of you at home, heed my warning. Anyone encouraging this cute, puppy obsessed craziness will be the lucky recipient of a cute puppy bag of flaming poo. Guard your words or you’ll need to guard your porch.
Last, but far from least is the Shida night market. Shilin having claimed the title of King, Shida most definitely comes in second as the Queen. For those of you from England it’s a Queen/Prime Minister thing without the silly accents and Austin Powers. Although we have enough clouds and rain to make you long for London. Not that I’ve ever been to London personally, but it doesn’t matter since Hollywood has given me a clear picture of the English. (See Austin Powers reference above.) Anyway, back to the bloody night market. Shida is located near a local college so the flair is definitely more youth driven. (Listen to me, dropping the word “youth” as if it doesn’t apply to me anymore. I’m getting way too old.) The greatest part of Shida is the food. They have the best Malaysian Curry stand in the world, followed by a fried mushroom stand and a great little drink shop. There are a million other amazing options but my stomach stopped there. Many of the shops are trendy and offer a little more of what you’d expect to find in the States. Once again the crowd was stupendous and with all the “youth” around it was like being in a mall in the middle of a concert mosh pit. By now, we’re just used to this feeling and embrace it as part of the culture, though I’m still not a fan of a knee in my butt and my face in an armpit.
In conclusion of this insanely long blog about insanely unimportant things, I’ve slowly been able to handle my addiction and curb my cravings. Visiting so many markets along with the patches and Nimarkorette gum, I’ve found a healthy control. The unimaginative would say that once you’ve seen one night market, you’ve seen them all. I beg to differ. While the atmosphere and offerings start to seem very familiar, each market has its own flavor and flair. Each one features something more prominently or has the better prices on certain merchandise. For the short term visitor however, stick to the royal family. Visit the King, Queen, and that crazy Joker known as Huaxi. If you’re English, I’m done translating, go read a history book.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
A Pinch of Humor
“Good things come to those who wait.” A great motto to live by when considering how long it’s been since I wrote a blog, or the next four years in America. In light of the recent events, I offer you humorous and slightly entertaining prose to ease your troubled mind. (Fans take heart, there is a long blog coming as soon as I finish editing.) After my long absence I’d like to wander from the beaten path of blogging and offer you some classic moments from my wonderful students. Hopefully you will find these tidbits as amusing and smile-inspiring as I did.
Between one rain storm and the next we drag the children out into the sunshine and sweltering heat to enjoy vigorous activity in the local park. They participate in a wide variety of activities including kickball, dodgeball, basketball, chasing bugs and running laps for being naughty. Second and third grade enjoy a game called capture the ball and were playing a round one sunny Taiwanese afternoon. However, Chung-Wei, our second grade space cadet, was once again intent on being the first Taiwanese child on the moon. As the children we engrossed in an epic battle, Chung-Wei was frantically hopping like a frog. No matter what game, as nineteen other kids are intent on scoring a point, it is a common occurrence for Chung-Wei to come cart wheeling by like a tumbleweed. As the crazy frog inched ever closer to me, I asked exactly what he was doing. A strange little smirk and chuckle was my only reply. A few moments later I felt something on the back of my leg and found that I was being stalked by the frog. When I felt another nudge I looked down and found Chung-Wei sniffing the back of my calf. I told him he was weird and received another strange smirk and chuckle. Upon the third sniff I played along with the madness and asked, “Does it smell like chicken?” “Nope,” he replied, “Smells like computer!” And with that Chung-Wei the smir-chuckling frog hopped into the distance.
When I am not enjoying P.E. in the park I teach a few Bible classes. One of my sections is a small group of five who either don’t learn as well in big groups or who have a very small English vocabulary. Last week we had finished our lesson and were taking prayer request. After the usual requests for amazing grades without studying, I received perhaps the strangest request in my career of working with youth. As I was about to pray, Danny blurts out, “Mr. Harris, pray for the ants in Cindy’s book bag!” Not sure how to pray, (Healing? Pregnancy? Loss of loved one? Death of the Queen?) I needed more information.
“Cindy, you have ants in your book bag?”
“What is a book bag?”
“Your backpack.”
“Oh! Yes, so many ants. Live in my dictionary.”
“They live in your dictionary?”
“Yes! I open and say, ‘Out! Out!’ and they leave, but next day, they are return.”
Baffled, but needing to finish class, I prayed an exorcism on the ants and we dismissed for lunch. I later discovered that Cindy’s dictionary is her portable electronic translator and when she opens the cover there are ants hiding inside. She denies leaving remnants of anything edible inside so apparently the ants are just city slickers who got sick of dirt.
If your one job in life was to translate a language onto t-shirts that hundreds of people would wear, wouldn’t you triple check your translation? Personally I would like to make sure my shirts said “I Love Pizza” and not “I Enjoy Rusty Eggs”. Unfortunately, t-shirt creators here in Taiwan have poor translation skills and just plain weird mottos. Although they are not entirely from my student’s shirts, the following are some of the more humorous body billboards I have experienced.
“Would you rather be amuck?”
“Blue Japan, the standard for spicy girls.”
“Sheepo. What a boring. Where is the exciting?”
“Kill the eyesores and blinking drivers.”
“Banana Chippy. A jolly monkey.”
“Big Black Pull”
“Happy Soup”
“New York I love you but you’re bringing me down.”
These are a handful of the ones I can remember at the moment. In the few months I have been here, countless chuckles have been stifled while navigating the city. Everywhere you turn there’s a shirt just waiting to make you laugh. Hopefully these few stories made you stifle a chuckle or two as well. I’m sure there will be many more blogs about the random humor of this great country! Remember, let the smir-chuckling frog eat those ants in your dictionary, unless you'd rather be amuck...
Between one rain storm and the next we drag the children out into the sunshine and sweltering heat to enjoy vigorous activity in the local park. They participate in a wide variety of activities including kickball, dodgeball, basketball, chasing bugs and running laps for being naughty. Second and third grade enjoy a game called capture the ball and were playing a round one sunny Taiwanese afternoon. However, Chung-Wei, our second grade space cadet, was once again intent on being the first Taiwanese child on the moon. As the children we engrossed in an epic battle, Chung-Wei was frantically hopping like a frog. No matter what game, as nineteen other kids are intent on scoring a point, it is a common occurrence for Chung-Wei to come cart wheeling by like a tumbleweed. As the crazy frog inched ever closer to me, I asked exactly what he was doing. A strange little smirk and chuckle was my only reply. A few moments later I felt something on the back of my leg and found that I was being stalked by the frog. When I felt another nudge I looked down and found Chung-Wei sniffing the back of my calf. I told him he was weird and received another strange smirk and chuckle. Upon the third sniff I played along with the madness and asked, “Does it smell like chicken?” “Nope,” he replied, “Smells like computer!” And with that Chung-Wei the smir-chuckling frog hopped into the distance.
When I am not enjoying P.E. in the park I teach a few Bible classes. One of my sections is a small group of five who either don’t learn as well in big groups or who have a very small English vocabulary. Last week we had finished our lesson and were taking prayer request. After the usual requests for amazing grades without studying, I received perhaps the strangest request in my career of working with youth. As I was about to pray, Danny blurts out, “Mr. Harris, pray for the ants in Cindy’s book bag!” Not sure how to pray, (Healing? Pregnancy? Loss of loved one? Death of the Queen?) I needed more information.
“Cindy, you have ants in your book bag?”
“What is a book bag?”
“Your backpack.”
“Oh! Yes, so many ants. Live in my dictionary.”
“They live in your dictionary?”
“Yes! I open and say, ‘Out! Out!’ and they leave, but next day, they are return.”
Baffled, but needing to finish class, I prayed an exorcism on the ants and we dismissed for lunch. I later discovered that Cindy’s dictionary is her portable electronic translator and when she opens the cover there are ants hiding inside. She denies leaving remnants of anything edible inside so apparently the ants are just city slickers who got sick of dirt.
If your one job in life was to translate a language onto t-shirts that hundreds of people would wear, wouldn’t you triple check your translation? Personally I would like to make sure my shirts said “I Love Pizza” and not “I Enjoy Rusty Eggs”. Unfortunately, t-shirt creators here in Taiwan have poor translation skills and just plain weird mottos. Although they are not entirely from my student’s shirts, the following are some of the more humorous body billboards I have experienced.
“Would you rather be amuck?”
“Blue Japan, the standard for spicy girls.”
“Sheepo. What a boring. Where is the exciting?”
“Kill the eyesores and blinking drivers.”
“Banana Chippy. A jolly monkey.”
“Big Black Pull”
“Happy Soup”
“New York I love you but you’re bringing me down.”
These are a handful of the ones I can remember at the moment. In the few months I have been here, countless chuckles have been stifled while navigating the city. Everywhere you turn there’s a shirt just waiting to make you laugh. Hopefully these few stories made you stifle a chuckle or two as well. I’m sure there will be many more blogs about the random humor of this great country! Remember, let the smir-chuckling frog eat those ants in your dictionary, unless you'd rather be amuck...
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
The Doctor
After much begging and pleading I decided it was time I finally wrote a new blog entry. I do have excuses considering I had to teach in chapel this week and I have been sick. (Nothing major, just your typical Asian bird flu.) Seriously though, I mention my sickness only because it provides a topic for my blog. Today I participated in my first Taiwanese visit to the doctor. I must say that I enjoy American commodities such as drinkable tap water and chicken parts that aren’t organs. However, Taiwan’s medical system has that little Aflac duck’s head on a Night Market barbeque cart.
Taiwan requires that you have national health insurance, which unbelievably is very easy to obtain. It’s a little pricey at six hundred dollars per person, per month, but the service is well worth it. My experience earlier today was perhaps the easiest doctor’s visit of my life and the receptionist knew approximately five English words! She took my card, wrote down my information and I sat on the bench and waited. No questionnaire searching for my first family member to die of emphysema upon their departure from the Ark. No legal waivers or advisories or desire for past records. There is the possibility that the doctor is an avid fan of Michael Crichton and I’ll wake up strapped to a table with a laser eye and two stainless steel thumbs. I’m not worried, although I’m probably not legally covered for that; steel thumbs would be awesome! After waiting for a grueling three minutes, the doctor called my name. Conversing with him was painless considering his English was better than thirty-five percent of the residents in Alabama. He asked what was bothering me, told me how he was going to fix it and sent me back out front to wait for my prescription. Yes, the pharmacy is right there at the office and yes, the wait for my happy-pills was another grueling three minutes.
My ten minute visit being far too long, I decided it was time to pay and leave. The total for visit, diagnosis and drugs was only one hundred dollars. Not bad for a foreigner in a strange land. Oh and did I mention that those prices are all in Taiwanese dollars? Meaning that my insurance cost eighteen dollars a month and my visit and pills came to an astronomical three dollars by American prices. Sorry if you hurt your chin when your jaw dropped. Stop mumbling evil things about me under your breath, send me three dollars and I’ll call my doctor for you…
Taiwan requires that you have national health insurance, which unbelievably is very easy to obtain. It’s a little pricey at six hundred dollars per person, per month, but the service is well worth it. My experience earlier today was perhaps the easiest doctor’s visit of my life and the receptionist knew approximately five English words! She took my card, wrote down my information and I sat on the bench and waited. No questionnaire searching for my first family member to die of emphysema upon their departure from the Ark. No legal waivers or advisories or desire for past records. There is the possibility that the doctor is an avid fan of Michael Crichton and I’ll wake up strapped to a table with a laser eye and two stainless steel thumbs. I’m not worried, although I’m probably not legally covered for that; steel thumbs would be awesome! After waiting for a grueling three minutes, the doctor called my name. Conversing with him was painless considering his English was better than thirty-five percent of the residents in Alabama. He asked what was bothering me, told me how he was going to fix it and sent me back out front to wait for my prescription. Yes, the pharmacy is right there at the office and yes, the wait for my happy-pills was another grueling three minutes.
My ten minute visit being far too long, I decided it was time to pay and leave. The total for visit, diagnosis and drugs was only one hundred dollars. Not bad for a foreigner in a strange land. Oh and did I mention that those prices are all in Taiwanese dollars? Meaning that my insurance cost eighteen dollars a month and my visit and pills came to an astronomical three dollars by American prices. Sorry if you hurt your chin when your jaw dropped. Stop mumbling evil things about me under your breath, send me three dollars and I’ll call my doctor for you…
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Mr. MRT
They lurk in the shadows of every city; waiting to spring out unexpectedly and scare the surrounding population. They frequent secluded corners and public parks, and scurry through the mass transit systems. As soon as you let down your guard, just when you think it is safe to relax, in an instant they appear and rattle your normalcy. They are The Crazies, those scant few who are so far out in left field they’re standing by first base. You know the ones I’m talking about. The guy skipping down the sidewalk in cut-offs and a tube top, spreading the joy of the rainbow with his fairy wand. The lady arguing with her coffee and ordering pie for herself and President Lincoln. The seventy-five year old who doesn’t shave her armpits, bathes in goat’s milk and wants to tell your fortune with a deck of cards. They are loony, off-center, tipping the scales toward freak-ville, and we’ve all met them somewhere, somehow. News flash! Taipei, like other big cities, still has Crazies. The following is a tale of our first encounter with their kind.
It was a normal, peaceful Sunday morning. We met up with our fellow teachers, Matt and Melanie, and started the long subway trek to church. We enjoyed a quiet MRT ride all the way to Taipei Main Station, the hub of the subway lines. Switching to the green line, we headed towards Gonguan, where church awaited. As we started moving, Matt’s new travel partner greeted him in Chinese. Let me take a quick moment to explain that this is not the behavior of Crazies. Many normal Taiwanese people say hello and even like to practice their English with you. (Unlike the subway in New York where riders only practice four-letter English words with strangers.) Being a stellar example of American friendliness, Matt began talking to Mr. MRT. (As I have so skillfully labeled him.) All was well until a whole sentence in Chinese appeared. Matt explained he did not speak Chinese, so Mr. MRT decided to translate his sentence for Matt. As a matter of fact, he became his own speaker/translator for the next ten minutes, teaching Matt everything from “What time is it?”, to “Do my socks smell funny?” For those of us standing by, our desire to save Matt was trumped by our non-interrupting manners. Truthfully, it was just too darn funny to stop. (However, the first explanation does provide a quick glimmer of parental pride in our upbringing.) The conversation continued to get better with Mr. MRT explaining that Matt was tall, broad, and fat. Full membership in the family of Crazies was almost reached by the accompanying hand motions that looked like Sunday school children singing Deep and Wide. Completely crossing the line was the final Buddha belly rub, at which point Matt exclaimed, “Whoa buddy, that’s a little too far!” He then explained how in America it is very difficult to make friends by emphasizing certain aspects of their person. Matt then responded with his own hand motions as his finger circled his ear and he asked, “Are you crazy?” “Yes!” Mr. MRT said, laughing and nodding his head. “Yes, crazy!”
Congratulations, Mr. MRT! You are now an official member of The United Order of Crazies. I dub thee, Mr. Madman Roaming Taipei, and present you with this ticket to visit Michael Jackson, one of your American relatives.
Note: No Crazies or oversized teachers were harmed in the writing of this story.
It was a normal, peaceful Sunday morning. We met up with our fellow teachers, Matt and Melanie, and started the long subway trek to church. We enjoyed a quiet MRT ride all the way to Taipei Main Station, the hub of the subway lines. Switching to the green line, we headed towards Gonguan, where church awaited. As we started moving, Matt’s new travel partner greeted him in Chinese. Let me take a quick moment to explain that this is not the behavior of Crazies. Many normal Taiwanese people say hello and even like to practice their English with you. (Unlike the subway in New York where riders only practice four-letter English words with strangers.) Being a stellar example of American friendliness, Matt began talking to Mr. MRT. (As I have so skillfully labeled him.) All was well until a whole sentence in Chinese appeared. Matt explained he did not speak Chinese, so Mr. MRT decided to translate his sentence for Matt. As a matter of fact, he became his own speaker/translator for the next ten minutes, teaching Matt everything from “What time is it?”, to “Do my socks smell funny?” For those of us standing by, our desire to save Matt was trumped by our non-interrupting manners. Truthfully, it was just too darn funny to stop. (However, the first explanation does provide a quick glimmer of parental pride in our upbringing.) The conversation continued to get better with Mr. MRT explaining that Matt was tall, broad, and fat. Full membership in the family of Crazies was almost reached by the accompanying hand motions that looked like Sunday school children singing Deep and Wide. Completely crossing the line was the final Buddha belly rub, at which point Matt exclaimed, “Whoa buddy, that’s a little too far!” He then explained how in America it is very difficult to make friends by emphasizing certain aspects of their person. Matt then responded with his own hand motions as his finger circled his ear and he asked, “Are you crazy?” “Yes!” Mr. MRT said, laughing and nodding his head. “Yes, crazy!”
Congratulations, Mr. MRT! You are now an official member of The United Order of Crazies. I dub thee, Mr. Madman Roaming Taipei, and present you with this ticket to visit Michael Jackson, one of your American relatives.
Note: No Crazies or oversized teachers were harmed in the writing of this story.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Travel
Not to keep picking on the little guy known as “Travel”, but the first thing I did after travelling to Taiwan was travel; so it is only fitting that I continue in that theme. From this point forward, please fasten your seatbelt.
First, let me give the all inclusive list of travel options in Taiwan. Walking. That is pretty much it. We walk everywhere. The locals feel safe driving; I however, would rather rip out my spleen and deep fry it. (I’m not exactly sure what my spleen is, but deep fried I’m sure it would taste like half of the dining options here in Taiwan.) If you consider those who do drive, winning the top spot by a landslide is the scooter, followed by cars (half of them taxis) then buses and beyond that is mass public transit by subway and train.
Apparently those driving in Taiwan fancy themselves as pirates, or just love that speech by Captain Barbosa in Pirates of the Caribbean. Like the Pirate’s Code, the “Traffic Code” is more of what you call “guidelines” than actual rules. They do have crosswalk signs, complete with a bright green man who walks like he has mechanical legs whenever it is safe to cross. I believe he used to have a normal stride before his legs were mangled by a scooter following the “traffic code” rather than the red light. Those crossing the street without looking, even when the green man is hobbling, are on the bottom of the IQ scale. (Of course they are also probably the same ones who can tell you what your own deep fried spleen would taste like.) It is never safe to cross the street considering the fact that “right of way” translated into Chinese means something like “drive as fast as you can anywhere your vehicle will fit”.
When it comes to scooters or mopeds or motorcycles as they are called in Taiwan, there is no end to the different styles and colors. We have everything from trendy Vespas to forty year old bikes with engines; everything from tricked-out mega-scooters to pink Hello Kitty scooters. Scooters serve as minivans and pickup trucks. A family of four or five will all ride on one scooter. People use them to carry dogs, cats, rice cookers, ladders, bedding, trash, tools, boards, even John McCain’s house. (Which probably explains why he doesn’t know how many he has anymore.) Scooter drivers also seem to be the greatest pirates of all, deeming all rules as merely guidelines. They run red lights, turn left on red, drive on the sidewalk, pass on double lines, etc. Despite their strict piratical guidelines, scooters really are the ninjas of the Asian traffic world. Watch your back at all times. Lock your doors when you sleep. There is always a scooter lurking somewhere close, ready to attack.
Cars in Taiwan are like professional football players. They cost a lot of money, get pampered between games, and then get pounded, beaten and pushed to the limit at game time. Seventy-five percent of parked cars are being washed and waxed as I write. One hundred percent of those not parked are swerving, weaving, and honking their way through scoters like Adrian Peterson through Indy’s defense. Holding true to the NFL analogy, cars are loud and obnoxious, announcing their presence by constantly tooting their own horn. Not surprising, cab drivers are the worst, claiming the title of Terell Owens in the Official Automobile League. For those of you lost by my references to football, shame on you for your ignorance of America’s greatest sport! The point was simply that people take amazing care of their cars only to drive them like idiots as soon as they leave the driveway.
I’ll keep my bus comments to a minimum. They are everything you imagine a bus to be in a foreign country. They are big, bumpy and cramped. They drive like scooters, neglecting any idea that they might actually be ten times larger than a scooter. They are cheap and they do drive fast, but if you are looking for a pleasurable mass transit experience please keep reading.
Last and surely not least is the subway. Here it is known as the MRT which I believe stands for mass rapid transit, but could be something completely different, like Me Rao Tong. I haven’t the slightest inkling as to what Me Rao Tong means, if anything, but I do apologize if I just called your mother a goat. The MRT is like a normal subway in the States except here it is actually safe, clean and efficient. The stops are written and announced in English, making navigation a breeze. The cost is relatively low and the use of a reloadable fare card makes life a breeze. Travel to any part of Taipei is available through the MRT and many stations have underground restaurants and shopping. By far the best travel option in the city, I recommend riding your mother the goat whenever possible.
First, let me give the all inclusive list of travel options in Taiwan. Walking. That is pretty much it. We walk everywhere. The locals feel safe driving; I however, would rather rip out my spleen and deep fry it. (I’m not exactly sure what my spleen is, but deep fried I’m sure it would taste like half of the dining options here in Taiwan.) If you consider those who do drive, winning the top spot by a landslide is the scooter, followed by cars (half of them taxis) then buses and beyond that is mass public transit by subway and train.
Apparently those driving in Taiwan fancy themselves as pirates, or just love that speech by Captain Barbosa in Pirates of the Caribbean. Like the Pirate’s Code, the “Traffic Code” is more of what you call “guidelines” than actual rules. They do have crosswalk signs, complete with a bright green man who walks like he has mechanical legs whenever it is safe to cross. I believe he used to have a normal stride before his legs were mangled by a scooter following the “traffic code” rather than the red light. Those crossing the street without looking, even when the green man is hobbling, are on the bottom of the IQ scale. (Of course they are also probably the same ones who can tell you what your own deep fried spleen would taste like.) It is never safe to cross the street considering the fact that “right of way” translated into Chinese means something like “drive as fast as you can anywhere your vehicle will fit”.
When it comes to scooters or mopeds or motorcycles as they are called in Taiwan, there is no end to the different styles and colors. We have everything from trendy Vespas to forty year old bikes with engines; everything from tricked-out mega-scooters to pink Hello Kitty scooters. Scooters serve as minivans and pickup trucks. A family of four or five will all ride on one scooter. People use them to carry dogs, cats, rice cookers, ladders, bedding, trash, tools, boards, even John McCain’s house. (Which probably explains why he doesn’t know how many he has anymore.) Scooter drivers also seem to be the greatest pirates of all, deeming all rules as merely guidelines. They run red lights, turn left on red, drive on the sidewalk, pass on double lines, etc. Despite their strict piratical guidelines, scooters really are the ninjas of the Asian traffic world. Watch your back at all times. Lock your doors when you sleep. There is always a scooter lurking somewhere close, ready to attack.
Cars in Taiwan are like professional football players. They cost a lot of money, get pampered between games, and then get pounded, beaten and pushed to the limit at game time. Seventy-five percent of parked cars are being washed and waxed as I write. One hundred percent of those not parked are swerving, weaving, and honking their way through scoters like Adrian Peterson through Indy’s defense. Holding true to the NFL analogy, cars are loud and obnoxious, announcing their presence by constantly tooting their own horn. Not surprising, cab drivers are the worst, claiming the title of Terell Owens in the Official Automobile League. For those of you lost by my references to football, shame on you for your ignorance of America’s greatest sport! The point was simply that people take amazing care of their cars only to drive them like idiots as soon as they leave the driveway.
I’ll keep my bus comments to a minimum. They are everything you imagine a bus to be in a foreign country. They are big, bumpy and cramped. They drive like scooters, neglecting any idea that they might actually be ten times larger than a scooter. They are cheap and they do drive fast, but if you are looking for a pleasurable mass transit experience please keep reading.
Last and surely not least is the subway. Here it is known as the MRT which I believe stands for mass rapid transit, but could be something completely different, like Me Rao Tong. I haven’t the slightest inkling as to what Me Rao Tong means, if anything, but I do apologize if I just called your mother a goat. The MRT is like a normal subway in the States except here it is actually safe, clean and efficient. The stops are written and announced in English, making navigation a breeze. The cost is relatively low and the use of a reloadable fare card makes life a breeze. Travel to any part of Taipei is available through the MRT and many stations have underground restaurants and shopping. By far the best travel option in the city, I recommend riding your mother the goat whenever possible.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
The Trip
Perhaps I am an American abnormality, but I dread the thought of spending time in an airplane. Needless to say, the idea of spending 18 of the precious 24 hours in my day trapped inside one of these roughly suspended, speeding balls of metal produces another ball of metal in my insides. The thought of living in Taiwan was thrilling, even exhilarating. The thought of how I was going to get half way around the world, was not.
After saying our goodbyes in Virginia, we moved on to D.C. to visit the Taiwanese consulate. With our visas procured we tackled the frustrations of navigating our beloved Capitol's traffic system. It was great to once again see the sights that inspire patriotism in even the most apathetic of American citizens. The weather was gorgeous and perfect for taking snapshots. The parking, however, was any adjective meaning the exact opposite of gorgeous. I can think of a few special adjectives that would be most fitting indeed. Once we had worn ourselves out on the carousel of D.C. traffic circles, we settled into our hotel near the airport to prepare for our journey.
The next morning came far too quickly and before we knew what hit us, we realized it was our suitcase falling out of the truck at Dulles. We had arrived! Like good children we made it to the airport over two hours early to make sure we had time for the twenty minute check-in. Our airline helper, who shall remain nameless, graciously refrained from weighing our luggage claiming that we were "Doing a good thing over there". The next time they want to charge eighty dollars for having a fifty-one pound suitcase, I'm playing the "good deed" card. Three hours, twenty-one hugs, three snivels, and two quart-size Ziploc bags later, we were on our way to California.
Five grueling hours in the air rewarded us with Los Angeles, Spanish for something about angels, I think. Not sure what it has to do with angels other than possibly the fact that they work overtime to fly through the smog and protect people from paparazzi and a high crime rate. It didn't matter to me. I was finally in California. For some strange reason I have always dreamed of going to California. I'm not sure LAX fulfilled that desire, but it's a start. The terminal we landed in was unfortunately not the international terminal. A little hiking, some McDonald's, and another barefoot trip through security landed us at our gate. I still have theological doubts about the need for this gate to exist. It is not really a gate, but rather a portal. A portal into another world. A world of cramped, sweaty, jostling, bus passengers on the fifteen minute ride to their plane. See, apparently in California it is illegal to board an international flight, so they actually load somewhere in the Nevada dessert. Truth be told, it wasn't that bad and the end result was the biggest, roughly suspended, speeding ball of metal I had ever seen.
The previous comment was perhaps a little hasty. This was an Airplane. It deserves that title, all seven letters. Even economy class is stylish. I might actually like flying when I sit in a seat larger than a toddler potty and have my own interactive video, music, gaming device. They actually have camera's showing you the takeoff and everything below the plane. If you die in this baby, you can watch the nose hit the ground. (Provided you don't pass out first.) They even have a trip tracker that shows your progress and removes any need of asking "Are we there yet?". On top of all of this they feed you dinner and breakfast. You can't beat it. You actually don't want to go to sleep, which was probably a bad thing for me. However, the sundry devices kept me occupied and made the thirteen hours seem bearable. I am a little bitter that I didn't get to the end of Iron Man. I like that movie. Middle of Iron Man or not, we touched down in Taiwan, in one piece, still alive and I was never happier to see an airport.
The airport here was amazing. Very organized, very clean, and those little luggage carts are free. See what you have been missing? We had no trouble with luggage (Taiwan-4, US-0) and customs was no issue at all. We actually found Mrs. Chow and were on our way in no time at all. Taiwan was our new world, and it was amazing. Well, as amazing as anything can be in the dark...
After saying our goodbyes in Virginia, we moved on to D.C. to visit the Taiwanese consulate. With our visas procured we tackled the frustrations of navigating our beloved Capitol's traffic system. It was great to once again see the sights that inspire patriotism in even the most apathetic of American citizens. The weather was gorgeous and perfect for taking snapshots. The parking, however, was any adjective meaning the exact opposite of gorgeous. I can think of a few special adjectives that would be most fitting indeed. Once we had worn ourselves out on the carousel of D.C. traffic circles, we settled into our hotel near the airport to prepare for our journey.
The next morning came far too quickly and before we knew what hit us, we realized it was our suitcase falling out of the truck at Dulles. We had arrived! Like good children we made it to the airport over two hours early to make sure we had time for the twenty minute check-in. Our airline helper, who shall remain nameless, graciously refrained from weighing our luggage claiming that we were "Doing a good thing over there". The next time they want to charge eighty dollars for having a fifty-one pound suitcase, I'm playing the "good deed" card. Three hours, twenty-one hugs, three snivels, and two quart-size Ziploc bags later, we were on our way to California.
Five grueling hours in the air rewarded us with Los Angeles, Spanish for something about angels, I think. Not sure what it has to do with angels other than possibly the fact that they work overtime to fly through the smog and protect people from paparazzi and a high crime rate. It didn't matter to me. I was finally in California. For some strange reason I have always dreamed of going to California. I'm not sure LAX fulfilled that desire, but it's a start. The terminal we landed in was unfortunately not the international terminal. A little hiking, some McDonald's, and another barefoot trip through security landed us at our gate. I still have theological doubts about the need for this gate to exist. It is not really a gate, but rather a portal. A portal into another world. A world of cramped, sweaty, jostling, bus passengers on the fifteen minute ride to their plane. See, apparently in California it is illegal to board an international flight, so they actually load somewhere in the Nevada dessert. Truth be told, it wasn't that bad and the end result was the biggest, roughly suspended, speeding ball of metal I had ever seen.
The previous comment was perhaps a little hasty. This was an Airplane. It deserves that title, all seven letters. Even economy class is stylish. I might actually like flying when I sit in a seat larger than a toddler potty and have my own interactive video, music, gaming device. They actually have camera's showing you the takeoff and everything below the plane. If you die in this baby, you can watch the nose hit the ground. (Provided you don't pass out first.) They even have a trip tracker that shows your progress and removes any need of asking "Are we there yet?". On top of all of this they feed you dinner and breakfast. You can't beat it. You actually don't want to go to sleep, which was probably a bad thing for me. However, the sundry devices kept me occupied and made the thirteen hours seem bearable. I am a little bitter that I didn't get to the end of Iron Man. I like that movie. Middle of Iron Man or not, we touched down in Taiwan, in one piece, still alive and I was never happier to see an airport.
The airport here was amazing. Very organized, very clean, and those little luggage carts are free. See what you have been missing? We had no trouble with luggage (Taiwan-4, US-0) and customs was no issue at all. We actually found Mrs. Chow and were on our way in no time at all. Taiwan was our new world, and it was amazing. Well, as amazing as anything can be in the dark...
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