Small Town Taiwan

Fat on handmade noodles and steak, I rolled down the quiet main street with a French Father, who gently spoke with me of divine will in English, his third language. I never fail to be inspired by young men who commit themselves fully to a spiritual search. Particularly, one that brings them to small-town Taiwan.

Riding through the night, I worked to keep awake. My eyes weary and vision blurring I held conversation for 90 minutes before we arrived at a small Catholic monastery about 45 minutes outside Tainan City. The gates left open, my small team of seven unloaded our mini-van and walked up the stairs to a drop-dead sleep.

There are little things that start to happen when one travels with the intention of building relationships and experiencing culture. The word “no” often begins to slip from usage. If someone asks me or others to do/try/ask/say/build/write something, we often say “yes” and see where the rabbit hole goes. (I actually saw a British Late night show when a man tried this experiment out for some weeks at a time. His only answer to any yes-or-no question was “yes”. He wrote a book about it and the idea caught me. I’ve found myself being more affirmative ever since.)

So when Brother Thomas walked in on our afternoon meeting and asked if we would like to meet his pottery teacher, we agreed. Two minutes later we were at a sublime art studio off the main street. The warehouse split in two sections. To the right a potter’s wheel, two kilns and stack of ceramics in all parts of the process. To the left an open space with five working canvases. On the walls hung large portraits.

Immediately upon arrival, a middle-aged Taiwanese man approached in jeans and cracked leather shoes. We warmed to his good looks immediately and his English made the interaction easier. Within minutes we were into his work, peering around every corner of the studio. He paints and his wife write children’s books. A third artist works the wheel in the back.

It didn’t take long for my incessant questioning to strike gold. The portraits, large (3’x4’), oil heavy and worked with a spatula, displayed faces, almost mutated in their distortion. The depictions were harrowing, but human and I didn’t shy away from them. Instead, I drew closer, locking eyes with each and understanding the depths of the characters, anonymous yet vivid. They were pictures from memory. From intense memory.

The painter told the story of his political dissidence in the 1970’s. Well, dissidence would be perhaps an overstatement. That said, he told me that he had been a political prisoner in Taiwan for 2 years in his early 20’s. At somepoint he had disagreed with the ruling party of Taiwan (led by Chiang Kai Shek, who moved to Taiwan following the successful Communist Revolution on the mainland in 1949). A few small words landed him in prison where he stayed for 24 months along with a number of other inmates, many serving time for uncommitted crimes.

They were the faces, speaking out over the years to him as he taught in a primary school. They were the voices he tried to amplify through his work.

Times in Taiwan have changed. Martial law was lifted. Democratic elections in the Yuan took place in 1991. There’s even been a different ruling party in power at the federal level.

So has the life of this artist-teach. In a remarkable (and at one point unthinkable) turn of events he was personally invited by the Taiwanese president to display his work in the presidential palace two years ago. A new age of freedom and openness.

We arrived back at the monastery in time for the brothers’ evening expedition: Night Market. Every Tuesday the men head to the local town square to join the other hawkers, wielding twin pans of brilliant cake. The sweet is an obvious cover to hang out with the people in the market, but its fantastic nonetheless. We pitched up our lights, rolled out the extension chord and even busted out the guitars, drinking in the magical scene of the Taiwanese Night Market

It’s spring and with the cool air settled in, we traded roles selling (actually not really selling) our cakes, playing music and shooting hoops. Few people attended the market, so it was a hawkers affair. The old folks traded stories and conversations lilted gently behind larges spreads of goods ranging from cheap socks and underwear to meat cleavers and fingernail clippers. One outfit rented motorized cars for children while another let kids try to catch fish to take home.

Of course, these are all distant placeholders to the real stars of any night market. Yes, the food vendors. In all, food vendors took up at least half the market and they sizzled in the night. From prawn noodles to street meat, the mouth-watering aromas emanated from all corners. We were helpless. Within minutes we were pounding the puffed rice available for free at our table to satiate our whetted appetites. Of course, it didn’t take long for my friend Cheng to break. I’m sure she loves food more than anyone I know, which is impossible to understand when you see her petite frame. But her stomach, eye for cuisine and Mandarin skills instantly paid off as I found myself slurping up a bowl of noodle broth. But it was all appetizer to me as I walked directly to the king of it all, the street meat man.

One grilled squid, some chicken liver, another grilled squid, some bacon and a piece of pork later, I basked in the greatness. After 4 months of a fairly disciplined vegetarian diet, I had entered the land of the non-veg grill. I savored every last marinated morsel.

As the market dwindled, we grabbed the last of the cake (okay, we had only sold three pieces in two hours; which led to the obvious conclusion that the cake was a weekly [if not delicious] cover to hang out with the townspeople) and traveled with our product. Behind the power of some good-looking women, a little background guitar, a nice product and bit of peer pressure, we managed to unload about 15 pieces in 15 minutes, emptying the tray and putting a smile on everyone’s face. Elated, we packed up our gear and walked down the street.

Every week, the men head to the same noodle man for some post market chill time. It’s tradition and as such, it instantly took me. It reminded me of days back in Plainsboro, eating McDonald’s after Young Life. Eating fries and milkshakes and playing out a million high school dramas. Minus the theatre and hormones, the weekly noodle run brought a smile to my face.

We sat down with the chef and owner as we ate. He always waits for the brothers before closing up shop on Tuesdays. They chow and talk and laugh and listen. Tonight it was a lovely scene with the French brothers and their Chinese friends taking in a group of foreigners at the long table, sipping black red-tea-coffee and slurping soup. As we finished up, we snapped a photo out front with the owner and his son. A more memorable night in small town Taiwan.