"Haven't toasted me for a long time, you!"

The audience stood and applauded. Almost non-stop for 15 minutes. An encore, followed by another, and another. The performers seemed embarrassed by the warm and unexpected reception, and joked that they had no more songs to sing. Even the conductor of the National Symphony Orchestra stood in the back of the podium and momentarily seemed lost.

Music of the mountains, of the sea, of the rain, of the creatures of nature need to be integrated with the land. Can it still have the same meaning in the National Concert Hall? That was perhaps the most important rhetorical question in the epic blend of movie, music and theatre titled "On the Road" (很久沒有敬我了你 / literally, "Haven't toasted me for a long time, you!").

Bringing together great musicians and stage artists, children and elders of the Puyama (卑南族 Beinan) aboriginal tribe of eastern Taiwan, the two hour spectacular revolves around the gradual realisation of an aboriginal village's dream to bring the tribe's musical and cultural heritage to the nation's foremost performance hall. Through a documentary film that follows this long, and oftentimes humurous, journey, regular intervals of live song and dance make the story comes alive. The narration unfolds on a projection in the heavens, while on the ground the story unfolds before and between the rows and rows of audience. Scenes of cotton clouds, of soaring eagles, of trees dancing in the wind, of sunbeams against the dark, brooding backs of towering mountain ridges, and of the blue, blue ocean appear as gentle reminders of the natural, untainted beauty that this little island still holds. A meandering stream wanes and brightens with the passage of time, trailing the hardships, set-backs, arduous training and finally achievements of the aboriginal troupe. You could feel their excitement, their anxiety and expectations as they eventually leave their village in the mountains, and board that slow train to the capital.

"On the road" premiered as supposedly the world's first aboriginal movie-musical at the Taiwan International Festival this evening, and there are two more performances on 27 and 28 February 2010. Despite the very last-minute decision to go see it, and rush to get a ticket, it was definitely worth it. Colourful dresses, nimble movements and the clear, pure voices of the singers added to magical and moving atmosphere that filled the packed concert hall. I watched them in awe, and marvelled at their dark, sun-toned skin, their natural, unspoiled features, and their warm, jolly-hearted, freewilling ways. Most of all, I was moved by what radiated from the depths of their throats and lungs, moved by the soft notes and melodies which, like a dragonfly dipping on the surface of a clear pond, oscillated between pitches high and low.

What did they sing about? About the ancient tradition of decapitating enemies (since, outlawed by the government...), about old grandmas weaving by the river, about lovers who live beneath a mysterious lake, about the sleeping mountains and a lonely shepherd who slowly, slowly grows up. And about the aboriginal love for "White Rice wine":

White rice wine, I love you. No one can love you more than I do.
I'm obsessed with you, I craze for you. You allow people to be so mesmerised.

One cup, one cup, I don't mind. No one can stop me.
I am drunk, drunk. Nobody bothers me.
A thousand cups, ten thousand cups. Another cup!

The spirit of the ancient ways continue through the songs, accompanied by a classical orchestra, and showcase the very human and energetic ways of the Puyama tribe, who coexist with their natural surroundings, with the earth and its abundant resources. In a mixture of their local tongue, of Mandarin and Taiwanese, they sang with their souls, which touched and connected with the souls of so many others. Through a blend of tribal music, church hymns (as most aboriginals are Christian converts), guitars and a rearrangement of Smetana's Moldau, a rich and vibrant account of the continued existence and survival of modernday aboriginals is colourfully and playfully portrayed. Renowned and award-winning Kimbo (胡德夫, De-fu Hu), composed many of the songs, which weaved in the folk songs from various aboriginal tribes in eastern Taiwan. One, titled "Standing on my land", is a piece of blues sung in Kimbo's iconic deep, soulful voice lamenting the predicaments facing many aboriginals today:

Standing on my land I feel like a stranger
I hope you know how
I feel now while I' m singing this blues

You know that I' m strong yes I am
But I don't have the power
Hope become to my mountain forest
And on riversides

At the breaks of day I fall down like the timbers
And I'm afraid not any more Wake to see the horizon
Neath the rainbow bridge

Well I roared Oh yes
I'd been roaring out loud thunders
And what I really need is lightening
To light the road to the mountain mama
And the old-old heart

Hai ya o hai yo yan Ho wai ya o ho I ye yan
Ho wai ya o hai yo in hoi yan

Ha hen hen Hoin hoin hai yo yan
Ho u wa in hai yo yan Hoin hoin hai ye yan hi yan
Hi ya o haiyan

I stood and applauded, my heart filled with the echoes of their songs, my mind awash with the images of clouds rolling down steep mountain faces and vanishing into the vastness of the Pacific. On stage, these Puyama people had succeeded in bringing their music, heritage and story to the big city, to the hearts and minds of people like me, who have grown up in the thick of the urban sprawl and have forgotten the ways of the ancestors.

In the moments when the chantings, songs and lyrics filled my ears and senses, I connected with my part of roots, and was proud to be Formosan.

Gem in the mountains

I put it into my mouth, and though only a tiny fleck, I immediately felt the dry bitterness spread on the tip of my tongue. I cringed as I eyed the red, bark-textured piece of mushroom on the table. A small piece, not more than 100 grams easily fetches up to NT$20,000 ($660;EUR 440).

We had driven almost an hour, escaped the urban jungle and surburban sprawl and come to a green, wooded area outside of Taoyuan. A classmate of mum's is into buying and selling foodstuff, and since she found out that mum has cancer, he has kindly offered to drive mum to the remote area to a vendor who stocks this bitter mushroom. "Not everyone has the luck to come across it," he said as we wound our way up mountain roads caressing lush valleys with streams and lakes

The mushroom may easily be dismissed as any normal fungus that grows where it is damp and dark. But the Antrodia Camphorata (牛樟芝) is commonly known as the "Red Ruby of the Forest" due to its rarity and almost mystical healing potentials. Formosan Aboriginals have since time memorial used the mushroom to heal wounds, and only they where these rare plants indigenous to the island can be found. In recent years, scientists have done research into the medicinal qualities of the Antrodia Camphorata, and there is proof that the spores of these aged mushrooms have anti-oxidants that can prevent early phases of cancer, or at the very least slow down the spread of cancer cells. The plant is especially potent for those with liver disease, and aboriginals, many who are prone to heavy drinking, often chew on a little piece of the plant and the next morning are free from effects of a hang-over.

The plant grows inside the trunks of camphor trees high in the mountains of Taiwan, and due to high demand for it, the plant is considered an endangered species. There are lots of imitation ones on the market too, ones that are just plain fungus dyed with chemical red, but the redness rubs off easily and can poison rather than heal the body. The real thing is hard and difficult to break like wood, sometimes covered with soil, and in complete darkness the red texture reflects white light and even glows. When I heard that, I immediately thought of the sacred spores of the mother tree of the Narvi people in the movie Avataar.

We bargained hard, as the fungus really has kept mum's liver and immune system healthy despie all the drugs and chemo that she must take regularly. She usually slices bits of the mushroom and boils it in water to make a light brownish liquid which she takes in. The vendor was reluctant at first, but at one point I said I am willing to pay for a little. Perhaps seeing my 'kindness' and perhaps moved by my care for my mum, she agreed to a price that was still high, but much lower than the initial offer.

With the mushrooms stored in an iced package, I carefully put it into my bag, and carried it home. I stared out, at the eagles soaring above jagged and rough mountain tops, at the green vegetation and bamboos that swooned in the warm sun, and imagined where underneath it all this magical fungus hid.

Inside, I was grateful to mother nature, and to this little island, for the precious gift in my bag.

很久沒有敬我了你 "On the Road"

I saw an ad on the Taipei Metro this morning. Aboriginal music in the background, and the faces of award-winning aboriginal singer-song writers. A story about people from the east coast of Formosa, traveling with their music, and this time, for the first time ever, they are bringing their traditional songs and dances into the grand settings of National Concert Hall in Taipei.

The advertising promotes the show as the first aboriginal movie musical which integrates songs and tunes of the Beinan tribe with classical music. Among the performers is Kimbo (De-Fu Hu; 胡德夫), who is often credited as the Father of Taiwanese Folksong, and a pioneer in the Fromosan Aboriginal rights movements.

I was immediately hooked, and went out to buy tickets almost immediately at the local convenient store. With a few clicks, I got tickets, and was super excited.

The concert is in three hours!

"他們來自花東海岸
帶著部落的歌謠
走進古典音樂的殿堂
與交響樂團攜手呼喚遠方的記憶與脈動
這是一個圍繞在原住民古調，有關於原住民歌手音樂夢想實

現歷程，以及指揮尋找音樂記憶"

Endoscopy

I could feel it then, and can almost still feel it now. How the long, long black tube wriggled down my throat, and wormed its way into the stomach. I leaned on my side, breathed deeply like the physician asked me to, and felt a tear in the corner of my eye.

I stared blankly at the wall, at a 3D diagram of the gastronintestinal tract, but could feel the tube push against the walls of my esophagus, and the ends of the fiberscope poke around in the inside of my stomach. It was as if there was something alive in me, and the sickening sensation made me shiver. Were it not for a shot of some drug that calmed all stomach activity, I would have easily thrown up there and then. And even if I were to throw up, there would not have been much, as I was told not to consume anything, not even water, 12 hours before the check up.

My mum and brother both told me that the procedure would be very uncomfortable, but that it would only take one or two minutes. I lay there, bit hard on a white piece of plastic that inducted the endoscope into my mouth, and wondered how long had already passed. Each time the doctor inserted the tube further inward, it was as if I could feel and see it wriggle, feel and see it slide and slither like a black snake inside me.
Every few seconds, a Windows warning alarm would suddenly sound on the hi-tech computer behind me, which I presumed was the doctor taking stills of my digestive system. I felt like gagging, but the anaesthetic sprayed into my mouth before the whole procedure made it difficult to swallow or gargle. The aftertaste of a cocktail that was both sweet and chemical seemed to burn my tongue, and numbed my throat for almost a good hour afterwards.

Just as quickly and smoothly as the doctor had inserted the endoscope, he retracted it. Again, I could feel the tube wriggle out, brush against the walls of the my throat, then finally touch my already numb tongue and out of my mouth. I saw the tube in front of me, flexible and bendy, its head round and made of glass, with a bright, glowing LED light. For a few seconds I lay on the bed, still on my side, feet curled up like a baby, and suddenly felt very vulnerable, very alone and wanted the warmth and comfort of something familiar. And I finally understood. Understood why mum had wanted to accompany me to the hospital (and which I resisted), even though an hour earlier she had just had her invitro-chemo needle removed. I thought of mum, of my brother, and of my dad, who had all undergone the very intrusive procedure, and it was as if I could feel their fear, their suffering and longing for company while they underwent endoscopy checkup. Later I would learn that mum prayed and thought of me and was worried sick about how I was doing.

Thanks to the efficient health care system, within half an hour of being admitted for the check-up, I received the results. All good, no ulcer as feared, just a little inflammation of the stomach, most likely due to stress, which makes it difficult for the stomach to properly digest food, especially when you eat too quickly and too inattentively. Avoid tea, coffee, milk, Yakult, cheese, yoghurt and the like, the doctor suggested, and see how things go. I even received some prescription medication which are to last for about two weeks. I thanked the doctor and the nurse, again and again and again before I left the ward.

I was relieved, especially as for the last couple of months I have been getting a bloated sensation in the bowels often after I finish eating. Sometimes the sensation would las for hours, and would be aggrevated when I eat more, and it made me wonder whether something was seriously wrong. Especially given my parent's history with digestive problems.

I walked out of the hospital, and felt the warm sun against my face. I hurried past patients and their relatives in wheelchairs sunbathing in the garden. I felt light, like I was given a renewed chance to live, to go on with my life, to pursue my wishes and plans, and realised once again how very important good health and living really is.

Ward 121

I had a few moments before it was my turn to undergo the gastrointestinal-endoscopy. It was depressing to see all these patients sitting there int he waiting room, and the air was stale, so I ventured out of the ward into the corridors. Even ornate fresh flower arrangements and cheerfully colourful paintings made by children do not make hospital waiting rooms less depressing.

Earlier, as soon as I received the appointment form that indicated the procedure would be on the twelfth floor of the hospital, memories were triggered. And as I ventured around the floor, more and more memories started to flood back... the walls, the floors, the decorations, the health advisory and anti-smoking campaign posters. It all seemed so familiar.

I thought I had forgotten where, but as soon as I turned a corner I saw the orange door entrance to the ward. Ward 121. The ward where dad was sent to, where he spent his final days, and where he had gradually passed away in my hands.

At the entrance to Ward 121 I peeked in. A group of elderly men and women sat talking in Taiwanese in the corner. Nurses and doctors talked inaudibly with their heads down to one another. The ward was lit brightly, and shaped like a star, so that every corner of the ward extended into private rooms. I looked into one end of the ward, and knew that there, in that one room was where it all happened.

I saw dad being wheeled out, and us, the family, trailing behind him... I saw myself kneeling on the floor, whispering by his ear... I remembered that rush to the room when I received the final phone call...

I turned and walked away.

Fight

I simply cannot understand how anyone can make someone upset over the smallest thing.

It is even more ridiculous that it is my brother shouting at my own mother, who is already weak and upset by her chemo... All she murmured was a slight comment while he was on the phone. And that was enough to lure out the rude and aggressive beast inside.

Wig

It was hard to conceal my laughter, and I had to seal my lips tightly to stop myself from grinning. Mum sat in front of a big mirror, one of those mirrors lit with lights on the side found in the backstage room of a big celebrity. The friendly saleslady stood behind her and complimented her on the new look. I was reminded of the big and puffy hairdos of the 70s.

On glass shelves all around us were heads of mannequins, male and female, each with different cuts, colours and lengths of hair. At first glance, the heads looked creepily lifelike, as if I was surrounded by the severed heads of poor souls who had been freshly guillotined. But on second thoughts I realised again that looking lifelike was the very purpose of wearing a wig: to give the outside world a semblance of normality.

Mum put on a number of wigs, which ranged from thousands to tens of thousands of New Taiwan dollars. Before we walked into that boutique, I did not know there were so many kinds. Some made completely with real human hair, others are a blend of synthetic and real hair, and there are yet others (of poor quality, which the store did not sell) which are completely made of cheap synethetic materials. The difference is in the weight, naturalness and feel of the hair, and also of the "scalp", as there are different stichings which make the "scalp" look and feel like the top of someone's head.

At first, mum avoided the "c-" word. She said a 'friend' had introduced her to the store, but I knew deep down that this 'friend' was a nurse at the oncology ward earlier today. Mum sat on the chair as she put on wig after wig, and with wig she became more and more down.

"Losing hair, I constantly find it difficult to accept," said mumas she looked at her new self in the mirror, "I think I will not go out anymore." The lady at the store tried to encourage her and assure her that not all hair will fall out and that the hair will grow back, that it is more and more common these days, that having cancer is like the common flu, and chemo is just a treatment so that it will make you better in the end.

I was not sure if mum was comforted and I said nothing, even though I wanted to say something to add to the words of encouragement. But the bursting grin moments earlier almost instantaneously became moisture at the corners of my eyes.

In the back of the boutique was a hair parlour, with all the tools and equipments of a hairdresser. As the lady said, the wig can be fashioned to whatever style mum wanted, and every now and then it can be washed and cleaned. Just like you do with real hair. There was one wig mum seemed particularly satisfied with, but it cost a lot. "Comfort and making you feel better is more important," I said, and quietly thought about going to withdraw the money for her to buy the wig.

We left the store empty handed, but I was sure we would be back again soon. Though mum still has her hair, that may not be the case in a few months, or even weeks...

The Help

I saw her waiting by our doorstep, and she smiled as soon as we approached. "Don't run! No need to hurry!", she said, even though we had kept her waiting for over half an hour. Mum's chemo session at the hospital took longer than expected.

Since her last treatment, mum has asked g a cleaning lady at her office to come to the house for a few hours a day while mum is doing her treatment. Little things, like housework, cooking and cleaning... things that may appear simple and ordinary, but to someone under the influence of chemo may become a challenge. Mum said the lady has been a caregiver at the hospital for a long time, and is now retired but doing odd jobs here and there to keep herself busy. The lady has worked with cancer patients, so she knows what to eat and cook, especially during those first few dreadful days of chemo.

Since she stepped through the door, she's been busying around, cleaning, tidying, sweeping, and occasionally telling mum to go and rest. She's around my mum's age, perhaps older, but she is extremely healthy. She says she has been lucky and blessed with a body that's still working well. She wants to devote the remainder of her life to helping people, servicing people in need. She even showed me a picture of her fluffy Persian cat, and her donor card. She said that when she dies, she wants her organs to continue to help others. Whenever she smiles, her eyes squint to a sliver, and her rosy cheeks curl up kindly. A few teeth are missing, revealing a gaping black against a row of white.

Watching her work from a distance, I feel comforted that mum has help and someone to keep her company when I am not here...

At the chemo ward

I pressed my palms against mum's back. In the background the intrusive beeping of a machine, the muffled chatter of others, and the sound of a nurse repeatedly calling out a patient's name.

"Your hands are so warm," she said. "Really?" I asked. I never knew my touch could be warm, or that the warmth would be able to penetrate her woolly sweater and undergarment and reach her skin. I could feel her breathing, and the vibrations of her voice seep through my fingers.

For a few moments, I closed my eyes and imagined... Imagined that I had the ability to heal, that through my palms I could absorb those deadly cancer cells and slowly suck them out of mum's colon, lymph and lungs... Imagined that the warmth of my hands could charge mum with the comfort and the support that she needs and wants, but that she can only sporadically receive when I am back home... Imagined that that warmth mum felt and was talking about was the warmth of love and affection from a small child to his beloved mother...

I opened my eyes, and stared down the top of mum's scalp, which with each passing day is increasingly more visible. I looked at the thin strands of her hair, some still healthy and pitch black, some already gray and clinging onto her head but could easily fall off with a slight stroke or blow of the wind. I pressed against her back even harder, till my arms were trembling.

And I looked around me, at the sad eyes, lonesome faces, heavy gazes and it was as if I could hear the silent, almost inaudible moan of frustration and fear. Later, in the hallway of the great, big hospital, I would come across many, many more men, women and children. Some able bodied, others being carted around in a wheelchairs. Some alone, other surrounded by friends and family or in the company of a foreign caretaker. Some Hakka and Taiwanese, others Chinese veterans who had fled to Taiwan with the Nationalist government so many decades ago. There were the young and the old, some aged with bitterness and pain, with wrinkles of time and freckles of passing years, other still radiant with youth and childhood innocence, in spite of the long knots and transfusion tubes plugged into their smooth skins... Everyone so different, everyone hailing a different place, and from different times, yet all united in suffering, pain, and by the fragility of life.

A pair of eyes caught mine, and for a few fleeting moments we read one another. I did the only thing I, a complete and random stranger who perchance was passing by in the corridor, thought I could offer as a show of support, and as a sign that I care and tried to share his burden.

I smiled.

Birthday

I was with people I care about and love, and that was enough for my birthday. I did not need grand gifts or trips to exciting, exotic places. Just a little gathering of family and friends at a monastery in the mountains of central Taiwan was more than enough.

I did not want to let people know, and wanted to keep it very quiet. In fact, I had removed my birthday from my Facebook profile a month earlier so that people who not realise it's my birthday and start scribbling en masse on my wall. Even the fact that I was born 26 years ago had escaped mum (to be fair, she only remembers my birthday according to the lunar calendar, which is the same date as her birth mother and usually one or two weeks later...). But at breakfast at 8.30 in the morning (the time I was conceived born), I toasted her and thanked her for giving birth to me and raising me. She was embarrassed to have forgotten, and started to spread the word, making me the embarrassed one.

There was a cake, a huge chocolate cake that someone had coincidentally bought and brought to the monastery a day earlier to offer to the monk. But he brought it out and offered it to me instead, and lit three candles. Later he would quickly improvise and joke that the three candles represented the Triple Gem, he joked, referring to the Buddha, Dharma and Sanghathat all Buddhist seek refuge in. I received big hugs, and just before blowing out the candles made my wishes. Nothing grand or luxurious, nothing personal that I desired or wanted... just good health and happiness to all and for all, especially mum who was standing next to me. (I hope I haven't jinxed things by revealing this...)

I really didn't do anything special that day, and spend the day with mostly mum and brother. Later that evening was the real 'surprise', and it came soon after we sat down to eat Asian fondue and barbque at a restaurant.

Ever since I landed in Taiwan around two weeks ago, the skin on the back of my neck and on both my arms have become very irritated and itchy. If I scratch, then it becomes so red as if I had scalded myself with boiling water. The itch is really unbearable, and made even worse when I am around warmth or moisture. So sitting in front of a boiling pot of fondue and burning charcoal did not help, but instead aggrevate my itchiness.

It was so unbearable not scratching, even though I wanted to scratch more than anything else. I tried to simply stroke the irritated parts with my hands to soothe the itching, but that did not help. I tried to bend my neck sideways violently to see if it would stop the itching, but it did not... Never have I ever felt so uncomfortable, and my mood was so sour and dampened that I could not enjoy the food or company I had. It felt like my skin had millions of cuts, and that fiery ants were crawling and nibbling on the inside trying to escape. The severe itchiness and burning pain was so unberable that at times I felt I was going to pass out from dizziness. I tried everything, even to 'watch' the pain as meditation taught me, but it would not go away...

In the end, I was rushed to the emergency ward of the Puli Christian Hospital, even though I had resisted going to the hospital for fear that I was wasting valuable medical resources for something as trivial as a skin irritation. But I really had to go, because I felt myself losing control of my mood and mind from the constant itch and pain.

Within 10 minutes I was registered, attended to by a doctor who examined and diagnosed the problem, had a nurse inject something to calm the irritation, and received medication and salves to soothe the redness and bumpy, peeling skin. Apparently, I (may) have atopic dematitis, which is a reoccuring inflamatory skin disease, which though not contageous, makes the skin very itchy, flaky and red. Wintry and damp climate can cause my skin to flare up, as it did almost as soon as I arrived in Taiwan, and the level of air pollution in a big city like Taipei does not help at all. And apparently, a sudden change in temperature, such as the shift from -20C in Canada to 10C in Taiwan can also be the cause.

I left the hospital with the itching and irritation slowly, slowly fading. Of all days, on my birthday...