Our Time with the Tribe: Luan Shan Forest Museum Tour – 鸞山森林博物館

by Charles DeBenedetto

View from the top of Luan Shan. Photo Credit: K.H.

I have never bought betelnuts before, and I feel nervous. They are known as east Asia’s chewing tobacco, and are famous for being sold by sexy “betelnut girls” who wear bikinis and sit behind glass windows in roadside shacks. Although betelnuts and rice wine are the only things officially on the menu, stories are often told of them selling other things too, for an extra price.

 

We stop the car by the shack, keep the engine on, and roll the windows down tentatively.

 

Instead of a “betelnut girl,” we are greeted by a small middle-aged woman with a bright smile. When we ask for some betelnuts, she asks, “rice wine, too? You’re part of the forest tour, aren’t you?” She is as hospitable as an auntie, and I want to laugh at how tense my girlfriend and I were.

 

In a little red plastic bag, she places a small bottle of rice wine and a tiny re-sealable bag of betelnuts, which are wrapped with spiced leaves to give her brand its unique flavor. She charges us one-hundred Taiwanese dollars, or about three US dollars. We drive off, and she waves and smiles before returning to her shack to sit and wait for more customers (she is wearing a short-sleeved shirt and shorts, not a bikini, by the way).

 

* * *

 

We are on the east coast of Taiwan, where two extremes meet: mountains many times taller than the Appalachians meet the infinite vastness of the Pacific Ocean. We drive across wide river valleys which are mostly rocky now, as the monsoon and typhoon rains have not come yet, but when they do, the rivers will expand exponentially. Eventually, we make our way to a small mountain village called Luan Shan. Many cars have parked along the dirt road, and a small crowd has gathered around a dark man in a cowboy hat. He coughs before beginning his introduction.

 

“Hello, everyone. In my mother tongue, my name is Ah-Li-Ung, but you can call me Ah-Liang. Today, you are here to participate in the Luan Shan Forest Museum Tour. But it’s not the kind of museum that you would normally imagine. This museum is entirely outdoors, and was made by Mother Nature.”

 

He continues with pride in his voice.

 

“This museum exists thanks to my teacher. He saw the other indigenous areas in Taiwan, like Alishan, and Zhi Ben Hot Springs, and he realized that sacred lands were being completely bought up by Han Chinese people to build fancy hotels and resorts. The tribes were losing their lands, and the wealth being accrued at those hotels and resorts were going into the pockets of the Han Chinese, and not the indigenous peoples. So my teacher shouldered tremendous financial debt, in order to purchase all of the land of Luan Shan, so that this land would always belong to our people: The Bu Nong Tribe. So to him we say, “Thank you!” In the Bu Nong language, it is “Wu Ni Nang!”

 

We echo his words, “Wu Ni Nang!”

 

With that, our tour begins. Ah-Liang saddles his metal horse (an ancient, half-dilapidated, smoke-spitting moped), and in our cars we follow him up and up the steep slope of Luan Shan. Trees with tiny white plum blossoms flank the road, and we can see well beyond the valley we came from to the Central Mountain Range. Stopping abruptly on a steep road, we reach our first destination, called “Trees That Can Walk.”

 

Our guide stands on a rock in front of the tree. It has roots that shoot high up into the air, taller than me, and in all directions. It looks as though it can walk on many tentacles, like a giant wooden octopus. Ah-Liang speaks again.

 

“The Bu Nong people did not always live on the rough terrain of Luan Shan. We used to live in the much more habitable and cultivable flatlands, until the Japanese colonial era, when our Japanese overlords “invited” us to live on the mountain and work as lumberjacks.” As an aside, he says, “I use the word ‘invited’ because it is the nicest way to put it…Anyway. This tree here is sacred to us, and we don’t actually know how old it is, because it does not have rings.”

 

Trees that can walk. Photo Credit: K.H.

I try to appreciate the strange beauty of the tree, but the people trying to take pictures of and with it distract me. My girlfriend and I wait until everyone else has gone before taking our own picture, and then jump back in the car.

 

Finally, we drive to the top of the mountain, where the Bu Nong tribe still resides today. Their houses are open-air, with thatch roofs, clay ovens, and wooden furniture. Upon walking into the village, we are given a pointed bamboo shank with a large chunk of raw boar meat pierced through it. Ah-Liang points to some seats by a fireplace, and we roast the meat over the fire. While I am watching the fat bubble on the boar meat, rice wine and ginger tea is served, and the children giggle at having the opportunity to take a sip from their parents’ cup of alcohol.

 

Roasting boar meat. Photo Credit: K.H.

Ah-Liang, in his cowboy hat, serving rice wine. Photo Credit: K.H.

 After our snack, we walk beyond the little tribe, to the entrance of a forest trail.

Ah-Liang speaks again. “I’m sure you have all brought your gifts. Before our people go to the woods to hunt, we leave an offering for our ancestors, to protect us, and help us to come home safely. I invite the men to come forward to leave their offerings.”

 

Carrying our rice wine and betelnuts, I walk over to a shrine of sorts, which is a large rock with small candles in the middle, and skulls of wild boars purposefully placed on a taller rock behind it. Another aside by Ah-Liang, “in the past we might have put some human skulls there, too, but today we’d probably be arrested for that!” Nobody laughs, but I kind of do.

I am a little bit reminded of Lord of the Flies. Photo Credit: erv-nsa.gov.tw

 I place my offerings with the others, and we then spend an hour walking around the woods, climbing through massive boulders that were seemingly karate-chopped in half by gods, and up trees that look like they belong in James Cameron’s “Avatar.” In the end, we safely return right by the shrine, having been protected by the ancestors who must have really enjoyed those bottles of rice wine and bags of betelnuts.

 

Casual tree climb. Photo Credit: K.H.

After our hike, we gather in a large, open air hut for lunch. “Our tribe members have been working hard all morning to prepare lunch for you. In the early morning, they wore head-lamps and picked wild plants to cook, and have been preparing a variety of traditional dishes. In our culture, the men always help with setting the table, so now I invite all of you useful men to get the dishes, place them on our table, and serve some food for the lovely ladies!”

 

He really emphasizes “useful,” which I think is hilarious. In Taiwan’s still rather patriarchal society, men are not often very useful at doing anything in the kitchen.

 

Serving food is no big deal for me, so I get up right away, but other men are slower to get going. Some of them grumble, while the women giggle and whisper things to their girlfriends like, “Take a picture! This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience!”

Lunch is served. Photo Credit: K.H.

Some of the food is familiar, like broccoli and bamboo shoots, while others I have never tried before, like wild fern and sushi rolls made with millet. After lunch, Ah-Liang brings out two long, heavy poles, and a large wooden goblet to make mochi, a sweet and chewy rice-based dessert.

 

To make mochi, the rice must be crushed repeatedly until it becomes an amorphous glob, which can then be broken into bite-sized pieces and coated with peanut powder or sesame powder. Two people, each with one of the long poles, must develop a rhythm where one pole smashes down into the rice at the exact moment that the other person’s pole comes up. This becomes difficult as the rice becomes globular and sticky, because the pole gets stuck in the rice and you need to exert extra force to get it back up again.

 

Ah-Liang and his indigenous friend demonstrate, and for them it looks effortless. After a while, he asks if any of the useful men would like to take a turn. “Useful” is still dripping with sarcasm.

 

I wait for many other people to try before finally picking up the massive mochi stick. My arms are twigs compared to my more muscular running legs, so with every downward lunge, I bend my knees, and with every pulling motion up, I stand up straight again. Ah-Liang laughs hysterically and says, “I’ve seen many people try to make mochi before, but I’ve never seen anyone use a squatting method!”

 

In Mandarin, to describe how that comment makes me feel, the correct phrase would be to say that “my face fell off.”

 

After all the men, women and children have all had a turn, Ah-Liang, in his dead-pan way, says “Wow, you were all pretty terrible at making mochi. That’s okay though, my friend and I were actually done making it before we even let you try.” God, I love this man, I think as I take a bite of the chewy, sweet mochi that I did not help to make at all.

I am not very useful. Photo Credit: K.H.

It doesn't look appetizing, but it is delicious. Photo Credit: K.H.

* * *

 

We have other activities after lunch as well, such as planting a tree, which might be in acknowledgement of all of the trees that the Japanese “invited” the Bu Nong people to cut down. Later, Ah-Liang teaches us how to sing “Eight Part Harmony,” a famous Bu Nong technique that is often performed in front of large crowds in Taipei City and internationally.

 

Finally, it is time to “share our hearts.” 

He asks, "What did you think of everything that we experienced today?"

 

At first, there is silence.

 

A little girl pipes up. “I just want to say that rice wine is delicious!”

 

Silence again.

 

A woman speaks next, saying something about environmental protection, but it sounds large and not very specific to Luan Shan.

 

Silence again.

 

Ah-Liang coughs. “Actually, I’d really like to hear a foreigner’s perspective.”

 

I cannot refuse. A little nervous to be publicly speaking in Mandarin, I say something like, “It’s difficult in Taiwan to find such a naturally beautiful place, and we must work together to preserve this place for the next generation.”

 

It's okay, but all I think about for the rest of the day and that night was what I should have said, or could have said, if I had more time to think.

Now I know. Here is what I wish I could have said to Ah-Liang, and to everyone else there that day:

 

I am from the northeast of America. My homeland is also a land that was sacred to indigenous peoples. But, long ago, they were also “invited” to move away, to faraway lands, and today, I have never even seen an indigenous person in my home state of New Hampshire. To learn about what their lives were like, you must go to a real museum, where the things they left behind are on display. I am so happy that here, at Luan Shan, there is no real museum. Instead, you are here. The forest museum is here, where the Bu Nong Tribe still lives, and passes on their culture. My country failed our indigenous peoples, but in Taiwan, the indigenous have hope.

 

But I cannot say that. My opportunity has passed. I hope Ah-Liang can forgive me.

 

* * *

 

In the end, Ah-Liang says, “Why do we have this tour? Part of it is to share our story with you. But part of it is also to give our next generation an opportunity to stay and work here. I may look old, but I am only twenty-four, and my first child was only just born recently. I need to be here, to help my tribe, so that our culture will never die out. And to everyone, I say ‘Wu Ni Nang!’”

 

A chorus replies, “Wu Ni Nang!”

 

“Do you still remember what ‘Wu Ni Nang’ means in the Bu Nong language?”

 

We all eagerly reply, “It means ‘thank you!’”

 

A sly smile crosses his face.

 

“Exactly! Well, I already said ‘thank you,’ so why are you all still here?”

Wu Ni Nang, Ah-Liang. Photo Credit: K.H.

The Dragon and the Plum Blossom: Ping Pong Politics – 奧運桌球四強賽

by Charles DeBenedetto

This is not a game. Photo Credit: AP

Spotlights shine down on an empty stadium. No fans are there to applaud. There is nothing but a long table in the middle of a vast emptiness.

 

Two men emerge from opposite corners of the arena. One man is older, larger, scarier, with a bright yellow dragon swirling around his deep red shirt. The other is younger, softer, slimmer, and gentler. His shirt is deep blue, with small polka dots and a plum blossom on it.

 

The men, or rather, the man and the boy, walk to the table at the middle of the arena, and choose their weapons. They look into each other’s eyes. The dragon man is ranked number one in the world, but the young boy meets his gaze with calmness, not fear. The world expects the boy to be pummeled. But the boy is determined.

 

This is the men’s semi-final Olympics table tennis match. The dragon man is twenty-four year old Fan Zhen-dong(樊振東) , from the People’s Republic of (Communist) China. The young boy is nineteen year-old Lin Yun-ju (林昀儒), from “Chinese Taipei,” the pseudonym for Taiwan that is used at the Olympics. Taiwan is an independent and democratic country, but it cannot freely participate at the Olympics directly because of China’s bullying, and also indirectly because the world is too afraid of China to call them out for suppressing a country that has a similar population to Australia.

 

Fan Zhen-dong is not responsible for China’s wrongs. He is just a table tennis athlete. But he benefits from the self-confidence that comes from being a citizen of such a strong and aggressive country. He knows he is going to win, because China has taught him that the Chinese always win.

 

Playing against a person from the country that China bullies most often must heighten his self-confidence many times over.

 

For Lin Yun-ju, the opposite is most likely true. Taiwan has been bullied and threatened by China for decades, which probably gives the Taiwanese athletes feelings of inferiority. Maybe Lin Yun-ju feels inferior, too, but I cannot read any emotion on his face.

 

Or maybe they are good friends, as they have both trained in China’s table tennis league, and have faced each other before. But at the Olympics, nobody sees them as friends. They are the symbolic representation of the China/Taiwan conflict.

 

* * *

 

The match begins. In table tennis, there are seven games in a match, but you only play until one player has won four games. Each game is for eleven points, unless it is tied ten to ten, in which case you would keep playing until one player earns a two point lead.

 

I realize that I am supposed to “show” you the match and not “tell” it to you, but how could I? I don’t know how to capture the rocket fast serves and instantaneous counters. I don’t understand how they put spin on the ball, or the different ways they hold the paddle or hit. But I can tell you that the first game flies by in just seven minutes. Lin Yun-ju earns eleven points, while Fan Zhen-dong only earns six.

 

All of China is shocked. Fan’s hand begins to visibly shake while he plays. Lin remains cool.

 

The rest of the games are all extremely close. Fan wins game two 11-9, then he wins game three 14-12. Lin takes game four 15-13, and then they have both won two games.

 

This was supposed to be easy, but Lin is a pest that won’t go away, and he is the little engine that will. He knows he can. He knows he can.

 

Fan’s nervousness shows in the battle cry that erupts from his throat every time he wins a point. Lin just makes a fist and holds it up to his chest in self-congratulation. His fans call him “The Silent Assassin.”

 

Fan takes game five 11-9. He just needs one more game to win.

 

Game six is not looking good. Fan is taking the lead. He is learning Lin’s serves, and responding to them quicker. Sometimes, he even predicts the serves, getting ready before Lin even hits the ball. Lin is down by four points. I am beginning to lose faith in him, but slowly, one point at a time, he is closing the gap. He won’t stop fighting. Miraculously, he takes game six 11-9.

 

They are tied, three games each. The final game will decide who goes to the Olympics final round.

 

This is not supposed to happen. Sure, the Chinese can and do earn gold medals in many sports, but table tennis is their sport. They do not lose, and when they do, it is earth-shattering. To lose to Taiwan would be Universe-shattering.

 

All of China is terrified. They are sweating. Their self-confidence has been critically damaged.

 

All of Taiwan is cheering their boy on. They are inaudibly praying for the silent assassin. They are feeling braver, prouder, and more hopeful.

 

It is game seven, and it’s close. It’s tied 3-3, then Fan starts to take the lead. They’re both tired, and they both cannot lose. Fan is shaking more, his face is pale, and he shouts even louder when he gets a point. It’s 10-6, and Fan has four chances to win the match. I lose faith in Lin again, but he doesn’t lose faith in himself.

 

Then, it is 10-7. Then, it is 10-8.

 

Still, Lin is the calm one, and still, Fan is scared.

 

Finally, it is 11-8, and Fan Zhen-dong has earned his spot in the Olympics final round. Lin Yun-ju has lost the match, and all of Taiwan sighs a heavy, sad sigh.

 

* * *

 

Even though Lin Yun-ju lost, it is obvious when watching footage of the game that he is always the one in control. Seeing statistics about the game, it is painful how equal they are.

 

Points won:                             Fan – 75             Lin – 75

Biggest lead:                           Fan – 5               Lin – 5

Serve points won:                   Fan – 38             Lin – 37

Serve points lost:                    Fan – 38             Lin – 37

Most consecutive points:        Fan – 5               Lin – 6

Biggest deficit overcome:       Fan – 2               Lin – 4

 

Lin Yun-ju lost the match, but the Chinese are still recovering from the blow to their ego. They may have won this time, but they are no longer clearly the table tennis champions.

 

* * *

 

It’s just a game, but it’s also not just a game.

 

China has been bullying Taiwan for decades. They regularly fly fighter jets over our heads. They constantly threaten us with invasion and conquest. They have missiles permanently pointed at us. They forcibly prevent us from being acknowledged by the world as the country that we so clearly are. They make us compete at the Olympics as “Chinese Taipei,” even though everyone, including the Chinese, know that we are “Taiwan.”

 

They are always in a position of power, and Taiwan is always in a position of weakness.

 

And yet, a nineteen year-old boy from Taiwan made China nervous. He made them blink. He made them unsure of their ability to win. He showed them that a fight with Taiwan is a fight among equals, where victory is not assured.

 

Lin Yun-ju may be “The Silent Assassin,” but he spoke for all of Taiwan with his performance that day, and he said “Taiwan does not go down without a fight.”

It is (Almost) Enough: Whale Watching on the East Coast - 東岸賞鯨

by Charles DeBenedetto

(Hualien Harbor. Photo Credit: K.H.)

Even through my medical mask, I can smell the salt in the air. We begin to walk with umbrellas up to protect against the heat, but the swift winds force us to bring them down and endure. After a few hundred meters through a relatively empty parking lot, we find shade under a large tent. We look around, and see mostly young married couples holding their children in their arms, as well as some grandpas and grandmas, too. Some children run around us, get too close to the water, and then get reeled in like a fish by their parents’ hollering.

 

A few minutes later, our guide approaches us. She is a young Taiwanese woman, probably a recent college graduate, and she speaks so softly that, even with a microphone, she sounds like see is whispering in everyone’s ears. She stalls for time while the crew gets ready, first by showing us how to properly put on our safety vests, and then by asking us questions, like “Has anyone been whale watching before?” or “What are you most excited to see?” Eventually she gets a cue from a crew member, and she announces that it is time to go. We line up for temperature checks, then make our way to the small ship.

 

(Time to go! Photo Credit: K.H.)

We all file in line on the dock, and as we step on board, one of the crew members is there to help us get on safely. As I step onto the boat, he holds my hand for a moment. It is just for a second, but it feels very powerful. Maybe it’s because of covid, or maybe it’s because this is almost certainly the only moment in our two lives that will ever intersect. Whatever the reason, holding this stranger’s hand feels…human.

 

Shortly after, I use some hand sanitizer.

 

My girlfriend and I take our seats at the back of the boat on the second floor, which smells of exhaust at first but is fine once the boat begins to move. The water in the harbor is smooth as an ice rink after a Zamboni drives over it, and I’m sure everybody is thinking “This isn’t as bad as I thought it would be!” But once we reach the open Pacific, we are immediately rocked back and forth violently, so much so that I wonder if we are going to capsize.

 

We sail straight out into the Pacific for a long while, and we all look straight ahead, as though we are all playing co-captain. But finally, I decide to look backward, back at Taiwan. This is what I see:

 

(Hualien as seen from the Pacific. Photo Credit: K.H.)

 

From our vantage point in the middle of the Pacific, all of Hualien City appears miniature, each building a mere speck, dwarfed hundreds of times over by the mighty mountains behind them. The mountains are a faded green, and playful clouds dance all over them. The trail that the clouds leave behind look like something that a child would make if given a can of whipped cream and no parental supervision. 

Everyone is still looking out into the open Pacific, and I seem to be the only one to notice the value of looking back.

 

* * *

 

When I wrote about Shi Ti Ping last year, the small village in Hualien’s countryside, I wrote that the people lived in “the small space between gods” – where the mountain god meets the ocean god, with a tiny dot of land between them leftover for human life. But looking at Taiwan from the Pacific, I realize that everywhere in Taiwan, from the remotest village to the Taipei metropolis – it is all the small space between gods.

 

Part of the Taiwanese story is the continuing fight to survive despite all of the ways that both nature and humans try to thwart them. Everything from typhoons and earthquakes to authoritarianism and the One China Policy threaten. But the Taiwanese are the people who took a chance on a perilous boat ride across the Taiwan Strait to get here. Then, when they arrived and saw the menacing mountains and lack of fertile land, they thought, “We’re not turning back. We’ll make it work.”

 

But the view is not just menacing. It is stunningly beautiful. Enough so to have made many over the centuries decide to dock their boats here and attempt to carve out a life. Thinking of all this, I feel a bit like I am a part of that story too, as I also took a chance to come here and try to make a good life. And Taiwan has proven to be worth the risk.

 

* * *

 

My thoughts are interrupted by our guide, whispering into the microphone again. “Everyone, if you look from ten o’clock to two o’clock, you can see some dolphins have come to catch a ride on the waves that our boat is making.”

 

At first we see just one, then two, then four. Soon, there are dozens surfing on our waves, not for any real purpose other than for joy’s sake. They cut in front of each other, jump over our waves, then quickly race around to get back in line. They remind me of children at the fair with a lot of tickets to redeem on the rides. I smile widely, enjoying the fun vicariously.

 

(One of the dolphins near our boat. Photo Credit: K.H.)

Our guide whispers, “I don’t know what you feel, but when I see dolphins I always think about how much fun they seem to be having. In that moment, I wish that I could be a dolphin and swim with them. I also always feel surprised at how close they are to Taiwan. We often think of them as living very far away from us, but really, they are our neighbors.”

 

I agree with her, and I also find it so admirable that they speed up when the boat does, trying to rise to the challenge the captain is presenting them. They must be having even more fun as the game increases in difficulty, like a video game moving from level one to level two. But eventually, we are too fast even for the most determined dolphins, and they swim away to continue their fun somewhere else.

 

* * *

 

We never did see any whales on our whale watching trip, but that’s okay, because the dolphins and the views of Taiwan are already well worth the price. As we sail back to Hualien City, the Sun begins to set into the mountains, and half of a rainbow appears over the Pacific. Our guide, always the sentimentalist, whispers, “if you look to nine o’clock, you can see a rainbow. It seems to be blessing us at the end of a wonderful and safe voyage.”

 

I know that sounds really cheesy, but she is not wrong. Seeing the rainbow does make me feel that way too, and makes me feel like the gods sent it as one last miracle on top of the beauty of the mountains, clouds, sunset, and the sparkling Pacific, as if to say, “is this enough for you yet?”

 

It all reminds me of a quote by Toni Morrison, that goes:

 

At some point in life the world’s beauty becomes enough. You don’t need to photograph, paint, or even remember it. It is enough.

 

I want to say, “Yes, it is enough,” and yet, here are my pictures for you to see, and my story which is written just as much to remember as it is to share.

 

As our boat glides into Hualien Harbor, I think of all the boats throughout history that have come here, and of all of the people who have seen the views that I have seen today. From the first indigenous people to have rowed canoes here up from southeast Asia thousands of years ago, to the Portuguese sailors who allegedly passed by and shouted “Ilha Formosa!” meaning “beautiful island,” which today is a common nickname for Taiwan.

 

Of course when they saw this island they had to say “Formosa.” What else could they say?

 

* * *

 

As we walk off the boat, we take one last look at the darkening ocean before getting into our car. Driving back to our hotel, the mountains and the ocean slowly disappear along with the Sun. Nothing seems to exist except for us and the short stretch of illuminated road ahead of us. But I know that it is all still there, and that it deserves to be called “Formosa.”

 

(The Sun beginning to set into the mountains. Photo Credit: K.H.)