Nightsafari

We tread carefully through the night, the spotlight of our guide leading the way. The clouds shielded the stars and full moon from a terrace high up in the mountains of Taroko. But the darkness was alive with the croaking of toads, creaking of insects, and odd shrieks and shrills of creatures that will forever remain mysterious and hidden to me.

We were on a night safari in search of the Formosan flying squirrel. Three species are indigenous to and found only on the island of Taiwan. A member of the rodent family, this furry little creature looks like a squirrel, except from its ankles to its tiny wrists is a membrane that allows it to 'glide' (not really 'fly', as the name misleading suggests) from tree to tree. Its long, fluffy tail acts like a sort of airfoil which allows the little creature to control its direction, and allows it to 'brake' upon landing on branches. Only active at night, the squirrels glide down from higher altitudes in search of food, which consists of fungi, fruits and sometimes even bird eggs.

Our aboriginal guide-- a short, dark skinned man, who earlier had performed a moving solo singing act-- told us that the flying squirrel is not extinct, and that they are have been hunted by local Truku tribe members as food. "Fragrant", he commented in response to what the flying squirrel tastes like. The flying squirrel is easy prey, for if you shine a bright light at the creature, its eyes reflect back brightly like cat-eyes, and the animal freezes like stone. And so it was, after searching in the tree tops, the guide finally found no less than three pairs of glowing eyes which just stared back and stayed there like stars.

The nightsafari continued onto a trail through a bamboo forest. The guide led the way, and little by little unveiled what wonders this island, despite its small size, has to offer in terms of the range and variety of fauna and flora present. Due to the vast differences in elevation and the location of the island straddling the tropics and temperature climate zones, at last count, there are no less than 700 species of ferns, 400 species of butterflies, and some 4000 different species of insects on the island alone. In the crack of a boulder, a gigantic banyan tree has managed to take root and grow like a gigantic umbrella to shelter the earth all around it. Ferns, figs, and vines grow and coil together their branches and bodies in an unseprable tangled, wild mass. The bamboos that stand tall and thin and sway at the slightest wind provide wood for the aboriginals to build their huts and tools. When split open, the hollow insides of a bamboo can be filled with rice and cooked slowly over an open fire to produce delicious "bamboo rice", a staple in the local diet.

We looked down at where our guide shone the flashlight, and a grayish green creature lept and lept. A toad, he explained, and where there are toads, there are snakes. Suddenly, it seemed we all became very afraid and very aware of our surroundings. Unlike common misconception, snakes do not hibernate in winter in Taiwan. Maybe higher up in the mountains, but where we were, merely eight hundred or so metres above the sea, they are very much alive and slithering around. We walked on further, wary of where our feet were stepping on, for every few steps the sound and vibrations of our feet would trigger toads to leap out of our paths and into the dark, dense bushes all around us.

"There!" the guide exlaimed and shown light on a thick branch that was covered with dangling foilage, roots and vines. Looking more closely, my skin crawled. There on the branch, resting and not moving was a snake. Long, thin, slimy and scaly, brown with black markings along the length of its entire body. I could not see its tail end or figure out where its head was. Perhaps it was angrily slithering and staring at us for disturbing its prowl on some unknowing prey on the ground. The next day, early morning around eight, we would see even more snakes coiled and camouflaged in the dense foliage.

Out of the woods we went, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I cleared the bushes into an open field surrounding by wood cabins. The village which used to be situated on the terrace is called Bulowan, after the Truku word meaning "echo". It is said that if you shout into the mountains, you can hear your echo bounce back and reverberate in the valley below. It was here that the ancestors of the Truku people lived and hunted for decennia, if not millennia. For generations, like all the 14 (officially recognised) aboriginal peoples of Formosa, the Truku went about their traditional and ancient ways until the Han and the Japanese people appeared and gradually forced the aboriginals to move down into the plains. Many traditions have been lost, and through the decades aboriginal children have been assimilated into 'mainstream' society through education and migration into the cities looking for work. In one word, the traditions are dying. Thanks to efforts of people like our guide, and others who continue to perform their traditional songs and dance to curious foreigners like ourselves, the lifeline and cultural uniqueness continues to flow on like the creek that has flowed through the gorge since time immemorial.

We shouted as loud as we could, and eventually could indeed hear our echo. Hear our echo come back at us, and for a moment, recall the echoes and past voices of the Truku people who once roamed this land freely.

Hualien

I could feel her. Her low rumbling through my bare feet, her gentle tickle on my soles and toes. And I could hear her. Her boisterous laughter, her suppressed cries blowing, blowing through the messenger wind into my ears.

The sea melted into different shades of blue as it spread and greeted the sky. Closer to shore was a light, almost see-through tone which gradually darkened on the horizon. The waves hurried ashore in a flow of confused foam and white, but almost as quickly retreated, each time advancing further and further, trying to grab and lure me in. I stood tall on top of a boulder, its surface cut and smoothed by the constant bombardment of the sea, wind, and passage of time. Lonely crops of rock bravely peaked out of the ocean, fearlessly bearing the brutal brunt of the Pacific that constantly collided against their determined bodies. Behind me, were the solemn-looking scarred faces of mountains that soared into the skies until their heads played hide and seek with passing cotton clouds.

I breathed deep and absorbed her breath. Pure and salted, slightly moist with a scent of wood soaking. In my open palms I felt her warm handshake, and sprinkles of dews against my exposed arms. She stroked my hair, and brushed against my cheeks. I grew goosebumps and ever fond of her welcoming and embracing presence all around me. In the ocean, in the wind, in the sun, in the sand beneath my feet, and in the air that warmly wrapped around me in a comforting bubble that shielded away all the noise and troubles of the world.

For a moment, I was all alone with nature, and absorbed in her unblemished innocence and beauty.

Remember 228

The moon was fully round, bright and hanging low. All around us, the explosion and cracking of fireworks that momentarily dazzle the skies and fill the air with smoke. People with happy faces wander the streets, while children bounce around with lanterns dangling from their ha nds. The first full moon after the lunar new year marks the end of the season of festivities, and is celebrate with fireworks and eating glutinous rice balls (湯圓) filled with sesame or peanut paste.

This year, this big festival happens to fall on February 28 (228), a momentous day and turning point in Taiwan's modern political history. Next the celebrations and joyous ceremonies at crowded temples, for many, this day is a reminder of Taiwan's dark totalitarian past. For it was on this day in 1947 that the beginnings of the White Terror era began. To those who have lost family and friends, 228 brings back painful memories. To others, it is a day to be free from work, as it is also Peace Memorial Day. Perhaps not without reason.

Walking around the streets of Taiwan, you can feel the prosperity and abundant vibrant life and culture that people enjoy today. Today's Taiwan is a democracy, founded on the rule of law that defends the rights of its many peoples of different origins. Taiwanese, Hakka, Mainland Chinese, Aboriginals and New Immigrants, such as Filipinos, Vietnamese, Indonesians and other South East Asians, live on this tiny piece of land. Despite random acts of fist-fighting in parliament, and the seemingly ominous murders and rampant disasters that the media love to focus on, Taiwan today is a harmonious society.

But it was not always so. 228 in 1947 marked the beginning of a brutal crackdown against influential Taiwanese people by the invading Chiang Kai-Shek regime.

...troops from the mainland arrived ... and indulged in three days
of indiscriminate killing and looting.  For a time everyone seen on the
streets was shot at, homes were broken into and occupants killed.  In the
poorer sections the streets were said to have been littered with dead.
       There were instances of beheadings and mutilation of bodies, and
women were raped, the American said.
       Two foreign women, who were near at Pingtung near Takao, called the
actions of the Chinese soldiers there a "massacre."  They said unarmed
Formosans took over the administration of the town peacefully on March 4
and used the local radio station to caution against violence.
       Chinese were well received and invited to lunch with the Formosan
leaders.  Later a bigger group of soldiers came and launched a sweep through
the streets.
       The people were machine gunned.  Groups were rounded up and
executed.

What began as a peaceful demonstration against the corruption and ineptitude of the Nationalist Chinese government turned into a bloody massacre that in the following decades would cost the lives and tears of tens, if not hundreds of, thousands of Taiwanese. Many were imprisoned for opposing the government (see: Green Island Serenade), and the longest Martial Law in modern history, which lasted almost four decades, was imposed by the Nationalist Chinese regime in order to oppress Taiwanese people and consciousness.

But that is all in the past now, and the Taiwan of today is much different from the Taiwan of yesteryears. Cuts seal themselves, memories fade, but the truth of what happened and the responsibility of those who gave ruled the island and its people with an iron fist cannot be denied, cannot be whitewashed or downplayed (as the Nationalist Chinese Party is attempting to do now that it is back in power...) cannot be forgotten.

On this day, I can only wish for the peace and prosperity that Taiwan has eventually managed to find to forever embrace this country and its people. May old wounds scar and heal, may people's pain and suffering be lightened with time, and may all who live and enjoy the freedoms and rights that they take for granted everyday remember those who had none but gave everything to secure them.

"A flower on a rainy night
A flower on a rainy night
Fell on the ground in wind and rain
Out of everyone's sight
It sighs day and night
It has fallen not to return again.

A flower on the ground
A flower on the ground
Who pays attention to it?
Merciless rain, merciless rain
It has no concern for our future
It is not mindful for ou...r frailty
Covering our destiny with darkness
Causing us to fall from the branch
Out of everyone's sight

Raindrops, raindrops
Lead us into the pool of suffering
Not mindful of our frailty
Covering our destiny with darkness
Causing us to fall from the branch
Out of everyone's sight"

"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...

Being frank

We sat down to lunch at a rather posh restaurant. Mum has been insisting that we go out to eat together and savour the many delights Taiwan has to offer. To me, just the fact that we are together is enough. The food and whatever that comes with the food are just extras.

Brother began the conversation, at a time which was poorly chosen and which dampened the whole atmosphere of eating out. But then again, it has to be done sometime, somewhere. It was a bit blunt, but basically came down to asking mum what the exact extent of her illness is. Both brother and I have a slight suspicion that mum is not telling us some things for fear of influencing our lives too much if we worry about her her condition.

Mum was quiet, then said that she really isn't hiding anything. " I sometimes don't even know myself," she said, looking down and averting our eyes. "I am also torn between whether I should do chemo or not. I really am..." And I know it... I can see it in those moments when she is alone, sitting and staring into blank space. I can see it in the way she looks tired and worn, even though she has not been doing much.

A few moments later, mum admitted she didn't want us to know too much, that she can take care of herself and that we should go off and do whatever we have to do. Go build a career, go live our lives, go be successful.

"That's the problem," I said, "Because I know so little I am not at ease. I've been putting a lot of things on hold, been afraid to commit to anything because I don't know how you are. Finishing my thesis, starting a career, applying for Canadian residence... How can I do anything if I don't know what will happen next?"

Perhaps they are harsh words, and I did not want to place blame on mum, but it felt necessary that I tell her how I feel, and what predicament I am in. I really do not want to push her, do not want to give her more pressure than she already must bear, but I feel I am buckling and breaking...

There was no conclusion, no decision made, no new development, and we eventually continued eating as we had planned to down.

But at least things have been said.

Call

I'm not sure why I'm so reluctant or afraid to pick up the phone and just call. I know that this friend of mine is unwell, and she would be very happy to hear from me. But I just don''t know what I could say to make her feel "better"... Again, like with my own mother, what could one possibly say to make someone who is undergoing terrible chemo therapy feel better?

She is a dear person. When I was growing up alone in the Netherlands, she would call or visit me to see how I was doing. Not only that, she has always been ready to lend a hand when my brother needs help, and every time I would go back to Europe, she is one of the few people that I still keep in touch with and visit.

A few months back, brother told me that she discovered she has ovarian cancer, and she has since then undergone surgery and chemo. All her hair is gone, her voice is weak when she speaks... so I have heard from third parties.

I have written to her, cards, emails, sms, to encourage her, to let her know that my thoughts are with her, but I dare not call for some strange reason... Maybe I'm afraid to hear again that yet another person dear to my life has been struck down by cancer... maybe I'm just afraid to face reality and the suffering of someone close, after having just lost a friend recently, and now seeing my mum tormented by her illness...

I know I should call, because I know how much a voice on the phone can mean to someone. But why do I not have the courage to...?

Truth about the Dalai Lama

China's propoganda mouthpiece the People's Daily offers this interesting account of the "truth" about the Dalai Lama.

Actually, the fact is quite simple. The Dalai Lama always pretends to be a religious, learned and merciful Buddhist leader who has experienced a lot of hardships but has strong will.

So the fact the Dalai Lama and millions of Tibetans were forced to flee Tibet after the Chinese invasion is all pretentious play-acting. China claims that it has tried to talk peace and tried to reconciliate with the Dalai Lama and his representatives, but in fact the Tibetans are "double faced":

Our patience and sincerity have become bargaining chips for him to continue his tricks in international communities, and has allowed him to create a false impression: as long as he can maintain contact with the Central Government, he will always be able to possess his "magic ability" for hurting China.

Therefore, the Dalai Lama has become much crazier and more insane. The collusion between the Dalai Lama and the U.S. government during the "Dalai Round" was nothing but another futile effort. For the Dalai Lama, it also exposed once again his plot of splitting the motherland and his true intention of selling the interests of China.

The role the Dalai Lama plays in the international community not only disappoints the Chinese, but also will bore people worldwide. The "political market" gained at the expense of ethnic groups and the nation will become more and more lonely and dangerous. Luckily, the current condition in Tibet gives the lie to the Dalai Lama's lack of imagination, and China and the world will learn the history and future of Tibet in a more realistic and objective way.

China however remains hopeful and conciliatory and offers an olive branch:

[...] we wish the Dalai Lama who is drifting away from his country can find his way back while he is still alive.

And in yet another "childish" bully-tactic, China has removed official accreditation of the University of Calgary after the Canadian university granted the exiled Tibetan leader an honours degree:

The Canada Tibet Committee (CTC) has denounced the delisting, saying the Chinese regime “chooses to bully rather than reason in order to resolve differences.”

“That a foreign power should be so out of touch as to believe that they can intimidate a Canadian university through such tactics would be even more astonishing if it were not the Chinese government doing the intimidating,” said CTC Executive Director Dermod Travis in a statement.

The decision to delist the University of Calgary is only the latest illustration of the authoritarian measures that the Chinese government will attempt to export to Western democracies unless we make it abundantly clear that we will not be bullied by authoritarian regimes in our own countries"

Ridiculous that a dictatorship and self-acclaimed world-power thinks it can behave in such a manner. I wonder why China does not de-recognise Canada or boycott the city of Paris for giving the Dalai Lama honarary citizenship....

Strands

It was so shiny and fine it looked like a thread of the most precious silver. I held nimbly the strand of mum's fallen hair between my finger and thumb and examined it closely. The dim daylight reflected on it and the hair seemed to glow.

On the floor I often see strands of mum's hair. Sometimes, there is but a single strand, at other times, there are a few strands crisscrossing one another in random patterns on the beige tiling. I'd try to quickly kick the hairs aside to a corner, and, whenever mum is not watching, frantically try to pick up as many strands of hair as I can. Even so, there is simply too many to pick up, and the worst region is around her pillow after she wakes up in the morning. It pains me a little every time I try to pick up the strands, and wonder to myself whether hair grows quicker than it falls.

Maybe it's an utterly pathetic and pointless endeavour. But this way, however few hairs I quickly throw away, I can save mum the disappointment and hurt whenever she sees that more of her hair has fallen. She told me that she feels afraid and ashamed of her hair loss, that other people will look at her with strange eyes. Unsure whether it was meaningless words of comfort, I told her that nobody would think less of her. The monk in the mountains has no hair and nobody looks at him in a funny way, I said. On the shelf lies a bandanna that she bought recently, should that day come.

If she eventually sheds all her hair I may well do the same.

New year's visit

The letter singed, curled up like a crumpled leaf, then charcoaled. From the large open fireplace, smoke and soot rose skyward like an aboriginal smoke signal, mixing with the constant fall of rain and the fast-moving blanket of mist that swept down from the mountain top. The normally blue, blue Pacific hid behind the dense, dense cover of the fog.

Next to the letter was a box full of paper money, gold coins and bank notes, as well as a pack of Marlboro's, which at my urging, brother had thrown in to offer to the ancestors and dad. I stood there for a while, listening to the fire crack and pop, sensing the scent of burning paper sticking to my clothes and skin, and feeling warmth of the fierce flame against my cheeks. Dad must be happy to receive word from you, mum had said earlier. "He will feel proud of you, and of the fact that you spent so much time writing to him".

Other people gathered around the burning heap and poured in stacks and stacks of paper money to offer to the deceased. For a moment I thought perhaps I had offered too little compared to what they were giving. But then again, they did not seem to have a letter with heart-felt words of gratitude and expressions of love.

Letter to dad...

Asked why I am spending a few hours handwriting a letter to dad, I said because it is something I　want to do, something that I feel I must do.

Whether dad will ever receive it, will ever read it, or whether dad even exists in the afterlife, does not really matter. In my mind, he is still around, he is still there when I think about him, when I recall his smile, his words, his smell. He is still alive in the way that I write so beautifully (...if I may say so myself...), in the way I am introverted, in the way I care about others but have a hard time sometimes expressing directly. He is me in many ways, and I continue to live and carry on living because of dad.

When the letter incinerates in the fire together, maybe the words, ink and paper will just vanish into ash and dust, and maybe all the time and thought I put into writing will have literally gone up in flames. Maybe dad will "receive" it, and be happy to receive news from me.

But I am glad that I managed to write down my thoughts, my feelings, and my worries.

Beany

On the news was a report about a seven year old with leukemia. His name is Dou-dou (Beany), and has to spend new year's in the hospital for chemo treatment. His hair is shaven, but he is smiling. He says he does not want to cry because he does not want to make his parents sad. Even through the pain of chemo he only sheds a few drops of tears. He is a strong boy, his mum says.

His dad sells candy on the streets, and could not be with him on new year's eve. The dad must work hard to earn money for the expensive treatment. A bone marrow transplant and electro-therapy easily costs over one million Taiwan dollars (EUR 20,000). Every candy he sells, he is closer to achieving his goal of getting the best treatment for his son. In his pocket, he carries an amulet bearing the picture of his son. That shaven head, that beautiful smile and mischievous eyes.

I think I can understand what they must feel...

New Year's Eve

Just had dinner together. It felt warm to be together, to eat together, and to be joking and laughing together. As a family. Mum, brother, and me. There was a spare chair, spare bowl and chopsticks. For a few moments we were silent. Dad's portrait sat on the counter next to the dining table.

New year's eve. The night when family are together.

Even those who are more often than not apart.

Do the best you can

In the face of something you cannot change, you cannot come to grips with, what can you do?

"Do the best you can..." But what if the best is not enough? "Whatever will happen will happen."
Accept. Let go. Do not worry.

It is hard. But it is the best one can do.

Smile

What can you do but smile? So smile is what I did. A weak smile I managed to muster. One that you make when you want to let the other person know that I understood what was being said. A smile that is supposed to say "I'm OK, go on with whatever you have to say". A smile that hides the trauma and hurt that cannot be described, that is hidden and waiting to pour out.

I sat in front of the doctor, mum by my side. He spoke to me, looking at me intensely as he spoke of mum's condition. "You know what your mum's condition is, right?" I said yes, then added quickly at least I knew as much as she would tell me. Everything else is a mystery, and I said perhaps a lot of information has been withheld. For me own sake perhaps.

"There are two worries". I braced for the news, though it was not really new, except what came was worse than I had expected. "The cancer is spreading. To the lungs". I smiled. A weak, frail smile to show I understood, and nodded slightly to confirm that I had heard what was just said. I did not know what to say. What could one say? What could I say? What do I have to say, if anything?

"The more chemo she does, the more it will be a strain on the kidneys. She will have to undergo dialysis soon." I nodded again, afraid to look away. My mind was blank, save for the image of a machine plugged into a patient plugged with all sorts of tubes. Dialysis... isn't that painful? Didn't grandma have to undergo that ordeal? There was a silent shatter in my mind. Hopes, dreams, plans...

"She has a lot of stress, and it is not good for her. You must know she has a lot of weight on her mind." He said that and looked at me as if to tell me, to warn me that I am the one responsible for her stress... I swallowed. What have I done to cause my mum grief? What have I done or said that made her condition worse? What can I do to make things better? It is not me... it cannot be me...

I was silent and said only that I understood, and I thanked the doctor as I left the room. For a few moments I was quiet as we walked away from the clinic. Though we went to a fancy restaurant, my appetite was low, and I ate without even tasting the food. Chewing, swallowing, but my mind wandering away to a distant place of disappoint and fear, of broken memories and tears. My stomach was upset, and the digestion problems I have not had for a long time appears to be returning.

I was exhausted.
I am exhausted.
And this is only the third day back home...

Smile, smile. Because it is the simplest thing to do in the circumstances.

Back home

I looked at mum as she was excitedly talking. She's been smiling and laughing almost continuously since I got back yesterday. Underneath the layer of dyed black hair she was grey and thinning. On her shoulder was a few strands of hair which had fallen. She bemoaned earlier that since she started taking the chemo medication again, her hair has been falling out. So potent and powerful is the drug, and it has only been one session out of a total of seven more to go. Strands, tufts, and fingerfull at a time. She said she did not dare to dry her hair with a cloth after washing it. More might come off.

I have had a few deep moments with brother since I got back. What to do, what to decide in the coming period. Should I stay on, leave all the things in Canada undone, or return as scheduled and return in May again when I am in the region for a conference? I'm not closer to a conclusion as yet. But watching those temporary moments of grief and worry on mum's face between her smiles, I am once more caught and lost in confusion.

Mum's office

I looked around the room, filled with twenty, thirty people all sitting at round tables, eating , laughing, chitchatting and enjoying one another's company. It's only been around ten hours since I arrived home, I could barely keep my lids open, and I kep on rubbing my eyes to stay awake. But it mum decided to throw a 'going away' dinner for her colleagues, and I wanted to be there.

She's not really going away, at least not yet. But since it's the end of the (lunar) year, and she wants to take a break till the summer to continue her treatment, it was a good occasion to get people together and thank them. Later, they would all come to visit mum's new apartment, for a house-warming. As Taiwanese tradition goes, it's auspicious to have lots of people gather around a new house to furnish the place with more "yang" ("good") energy. I don't think I have ever seen so many pairs of shoes huddled together, and it was overwhelming to be in the apartment with be surrounded by the noise of so many people chattering all at once.

They were a simple, and warm bunch of people. Mostly women, married with children, but some men too. I looked at their faces, and silently wanted to get up to thank them all for being so considerate and understanding of mum's situation, and being supportive and being there for her when I am not around. But of course I was too embarassed and shy to do so. I think I'll write a card instead... as it were, writing says more.

Seeing them, watching their laughter, their banter, their gossip, I think I understand now why mum enjoys work so much, and why she gets up every morning in a hurry to get to work. It gives her a sense of belonging, a place where she feels at ease and where she is surrounded by friends and company.

En route to TPE

Approximately an hour to go before landing. I can already see the island on the satellite map, resembling a fish with a gaping, waiting mouth in the ocean. Outside, flashes of lightning betray the presence of a violent storm brewing in the East China Sea. The plane rocks lightly as the wing shudders.

Faint on the horizon, I can just make out the first glimmer of dawn, pale, pale orange on dark, dark purple. The thin, thin sliver of the moon, like a bright, shiny scythe, hangs lonelily in the sky.

Mum must be just stirring from her sleep now. Can I imagine her excitement, the extent and depth of a mother’s longing for the return of a far away son? Our family soon to be reunited, to usher in the new year, and together face and share whatever joys and difficulties it has to offer.

The long, long journey home is almost over.

En route to ANC

I look out the window, and see thousands of bright and dim eyes looking back at me against the dark black canvas of night. A flash of red periodically lights up the bottom portion of the massive GE-90 engine which thrusts the plane forward at close to a thousand kilometres an hour. A smooth, smooth flight so far, almost 5 hours on our way to Alaska over the frozen prairies of Canada.

Occasionally, the pale, orangey glow of a settlement or village appears scattered over the land below like diamonds in the dark. It is hard to tell the sky apart from the land. Where do they meet, where does one end and another begin?

Through my little window I can only see a small part of the great big world out there. A world that is shrinking and passing quickly by as the plane speeds toward its destination.

At EWR

Airports are exciting places. Places where people come and go, where people cry and smile, where people part and reunite.

In the sky, a row of lights lined up along the path of the runway, each bright speck a plane waiting for its clearance to land, each plane filled with hundreds of passengers energized or anxious with the final approach. As the car quietly circled the massive terminal buildings of Newark Liberty International (EWR), I was again filled with that excitement and thrill of being able to board a plane and end up somewhere far, far away a few (…or in this case, almost 20) hours later. It is a great privilege that I enjoy, and that I know many can only dream of.

The EWR has got to be the most hideous and run-down I have ever been to. Strangely so, because numerous four and five star international airlines fly to and from here. The terminal building is poorly lit, the shops and restaurants are few and repetitive, and the security check area—with tired looking staff, simple X-ray machines and metal detectors— resembled something from the pre-911 era. The Underwear Bomber would have had a field day here.

But I am not here to scrutinise the security of one of the US’ important entry points, nor am I here to shop and stuff my bags with even more souvenirs for family, relatives and friends.

I am here to board my plane and begin my long, long journey home. Again.

Snow walk

It has been a pretty uneventful few days staying with my aunt. They are extremely hospitable and kind, but a lot of the time we spent walking around big supermarkets shopping and then eating. Meat. A lot of red meat, which meant out of politeness I had to quit as a part-time vegetarian. Even if the smell of pork and beef boiling in the fondue was at times nauseating.

I wanted to talk, bond and share life as family usually do. Instead, almost constantly my cousin insisted that we play video games, while my aunt and uncle watched crappy soap series and online talk shows. The snow storm and cold over the weekend didn’t really help, and at some point I was actually counting the hours till I leave.

So this afternoon, I strode in the snow and went exploring behind their property, which spans some 2 acres into a wooded area. Seeing the serene nature and beauty made me wonder why they spend most of the time cooped up inside, instead of savouring the gift of fresh, open air and spaces that nature has to offer.

I followed the trail, which became a track that led into the woods. Droppings of deer littered the fresh coat of snow, black pellets against a smooth, fine white. It was cold, but the afternoon sun felt graceful against my cheeks. The wind blew strong at first, and almost as if it was too embarassed to disturb the quietness of nature, stopped breathing altogether. I looked around, at the frozen landscape of barren trees, shrubs, and unspoiled wilderness. A winding brook silently and gently carved its way into the distance.

I could live here, I thought to myself. I could lose myself in this great big world, away from the noises, away from the haunting memories of the past, away from uncertainties of the future, away from the troubles and worries, and surround myself with the humility and preciousness of each and every moment. One day I want to live here, out here, and be with nature.

I stood still, my eyes adjusting to the golden glow of the sun pouring over the soft, white blanket all around. With a stick I started to draw and write. Words, short, sweet sentences, hopes and wishes...

On my way back, the words and messages I had written in the snow had faded. The wind, like a naughty invisible finger, had smudged the writing, and soon all I had written will be lost.

Except, I know what I wrote. And the earth could read what I wrote. If only for a little while.

Oh, David...

... why do you need to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders?